Squares and Ters

The often bizarre and ever evolving legacy of Elvis Presley just took a load off  here in Budapest.  

  Back in 1956, Elvis, performing on the Ed Sullivan Show, dedicated the hymn "Peace In The Valley" to the revolution here in Hungary, urging viewers to donate to the passionate but short lived Hungarian cause. 

  Fifty-odd years later, mayor of Budapest, Tárlos István, has declared that Presley will become a "posthumous, honorary citizen" of the city, and will heretofore christen, in the name of the King of Rock n Roll, a new, if postage stamp sized, city park.

  One of the sites which may be chosen is at the western foot of the Margit Bridge, right next to The Hid (a popular, centralized rendezvous site favored by a pod of American and British expats I kind of know), where the magical Number 17 tram takes on a Hogwart's Express persona at its end of the line, right in front of The Hid (and perhaps, soonish, right in front of the future Elvis Presley Ter).  The 17 looks as if it should be entering a wormhole at the point of its termination...every time I see it I half expect the serpentine cars to get swallowed up by a vortex of unknown origin,  a secret tram passage to Quantum Budapest (wait, maybe I am in Quantum Budapest).   It never does, though, sadly.  After a five or ten minute smoke break, the conductor simply walks up to the other end of the tram, hops back aboard,  the yellow trolley slithers, squeaking, back through the second and third district.

  My tutoring student, Bénce, declared the other day, however, that the likelihood of that particular site  becoming Elvis Presley Tér is quite slim, as there are existing, unnamed térs all over the city which are much more, um, deserving of such an honor.
  The decision for the site will be put to a vote and the Hungarians who bother to cast a ballot will follow their hearts as opposed to their heads, much as they do on the very popular X Faktor, a show on which the biggest sob story paired with the most saccharine of voices will win hands down over genuine talent.
Because of this, the chances for Elvis Presley Tér manifesting in front of The Hid might be quite good.
  I would like to think that the confluence of the 17's terminus and the spirit of Elvis Presley could conjure up some excellent mojo, maybe unplugging that wormhole to a secret Budapest that I just know is hovering there, somewhere, beneath the Margit Bridge.  x
 
  

"We Have Lied By Night...."

I've discovered the Hungarian prince of the absurd, one Örkény István. There he was, featured on the back page of my well worn issue of Time Out Budapest, staring at me with a face worn by the kind of experience only a Hungarian of a certain age could withstand.  Boone mentioned reading about him a while ago...his name slipped my mind.  Dean spoke briefly of his One Minute Stories....briefly intrigued, I forgot him once again.  I rediscovered him and became obsessed in a bathtub full of coconut bubbles. I guess that's just my way.
  It has been said that if one wishes to understand what it means to be Hungarian, to come close to understanding the Hungarian experience, one need only to read the works of Mr. Örkény. Through his writing, and I have yet to delve in as deeply as I want to, I feel as if I am beginning to understand certain cultural quirks...what seems to be numbing slackerdom might really be inertia  as a result of an abyssmal fear of the Next, Big, Devastating Change. And one does feel more change is indeed a comin'.  What seems to be pointless and ineffective bureaucracy might truly be a residual attempt to hold on tightly to some kind of progressive order.  I dunno.  But I'm seeing things in a bit of a different light, one which helps me relate to the Hungarians more than I have these past eight months.
  If reading the absurdly, darkly delightful works of Örkény István effectively describes what it is to be Hungarian, then this flies in the face of the Fidesz party's recent rewriting of the Hungarian constitution, which now proclaims the country a Christian one, whose symbol is the "Holy Crown of St. István" (no relation to Mr. Örkény).  The author/playwright/philospher/pharmacist/military officer/prisoner of war was Jewish, socialist, and remains a national treasure, with a namesake theatre in the seventh district of Pest (my current favorite).
  Do read a bit of Örkény for yourself....his works, translated into English, read like a thrilling, disturbing harmony of Franz Kafka and Flannery O' Connor.
  Remember to "Stand with your legs apart.  Bend forward all the way.  Look back between your legs.  Thank you."

http://orkenyistvan.hu/the_grotesque

Sweet Thangs

Howling girls at the cukraszda....smirking everytime I or my boys come in for meggyes rétes or malna fogylalt, ....then begrudgingly taking our time and money....you are not the best your country has to offer.  It seems those folks lie mainly east of the river.
  Instead, you are too much like the worst my country has to offer.
Simple and elegant lesson learned:  do not judge a country by its lowest common denominator.  Also, those who have very little power over their lives wield that power like a spiked mace, when they can. x

This One Goes Out To.....

  I'm a failed American.  I have no ambition, I cannot fasten dogged loyalty to any professional sports team, and I despise huge expanses of artificially fertilized lawn, stretched out like in front of massive garages like an endless crew cut. I also refuse to identify with any Judeo-Christian credo.  "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine". 

  These days I'm feeling more American than I thought possible.  Natch, right?

   Davis Foster Wallace suggested that Americans have a need to give themselves up to something, anything, and that this can be indulged privately.  I've wrestled for the past couple of weeks as to what this means and whether or not I agree. I'm still wracking my brain for examples. 

  Wallace also proposes that everything practiced in the life of a young European, sports, education, creativity, is simply a manner with which to glorify the community at large.  "Okay, the State," he observes.  Not such a bad thing until you realize the kind of conformity that this ideal requires and the unquestioned leap of faith in one's government it demands. Let's face it, conformity and unquestioned faith in government  has not been so good for Europe, particularly eastern and central Europe.

  I do see that this attitude winds through Hungarian thought, evident particularly  among the privileged class. As much as they hated Communism, it simply was not the kind of  conformity they were seeking. Consensus building is not a cultural strong suit in Hungary, and the privileged simply wanted their kind of conformity, one spiked with nationalistic tang.  For instance.....

  Zsuzsa is troubled by the fact that more young women are choosing to either not get married and have kids or are waiting too long to have children.  She is fearful for The Hungarian Family at large. She loves Orban Viktor, the center right prime minister of Hungary, who champions Family (specifically, the Christian, Hungarian Family) above all else. She never questions his party's (Fidesz) intentions to rewrite the Hungarian constitution or the new, favorable- to- Fidesz media laws.

  "I worry about the Hungarian family."  She gently shakes her pretty, blonde head. "Girls are placing more importance on their careers and having fun. They are going to wake up one day, sad, alone, and bored." 

  Oy.  I'm having, at this point, a "well, in America..." moment, which I avoid expressing at all costs because it is simply obnoxious. 

  This is what I do say, "Well, I have several friends who are not married, have no intention of getting married or bearing children and they are quite happy and productive.  Not lonely either."

  Zsuzsa shakes her head.  "It seems boring.  And no children.  Isn't that selfish?"

  I've heard this one before, in the States.

"How is it selfish?"

  "Well...they are not giving their parents grandkids.  They are not replacing themselves. The family is important. It is good for the society."

  In a country whose brain drain is alarming and whose population is actually dwindling, the fear of not replacing oneself is not altogether ridiculous.  Zsuzsa herself has the Hungarian standard, three children, two to replace herself and her husband, plus one more to add to the population.  The Holy Trinity in Hungary is not only The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, but also those three kids you push out for the survival of your people.

  "I guess I think there is not just one definition of a family.  My single friends are part of my family. And many women feel as if they can benefit society more effectively by remaining single.  Besides, just because you can have kids doesn't mean you should."

  "Hmmm...how do you mean?"

  "I mean, pretty much anyone can make a child, unless there is some medical reason for that not being possible. But not everyone can be a good parent.  You are a good parent.  You love your kids and they are thriving.  Not everyone can or should do that, even if they want to. Bad parenting is a generational curse."

  Zsuzsa looks at me intently for a moment.  She is considering these words. I think she gets it, but her own situation is so ideal, she still can't relate.

"This is true, but...." She narrows her eyes and shakes her head. "Seems sad and lonely.  And I want grandkids."

  Next topic.  

  To me, it is selfish to expect everyone to live up to one, limited ideal, the one that may work for you, but not necessarily for me.  This seems to ensure depression and ultimate failure.

  I see evidence of the Hungarian Ideal all around me.  Most of the married couples I know have exactly three children.  Most of couples I see strolling on Margit Sziget are wrangling three little ones who roll around on their tiny scooters (a must have for the under four set) or sucking rhythmically on their passies,  like tiny Buddhas in their prams.  Currently, The Family rules...but only this narrow definition of family. At least, within the currently dominant paradigm. 

  I realize that marriage and family is virtually fetishized in the United States as well.  But there definitely seems to be more room for new and different descriptions of what a family actually is. Americans are beginning to accept the idea that gay people have the right to marry their loved ones. Many of these couples have children.  I can't help but think that this idea would be overwhelming to mainstream Hungarians. Procreation, to this thick stratum of society, is the reason God gave us sex, and to stray from that is deviant.  Of course, there are many Americans who hold fast to this drab and depressing definition but these people are increasingly being forced to accept that which is different from their strict world view.

  I am forced to admit that I have been lucky.  Yes, lucky.  Lucky to have lived among progressive minds in a part of my country where people value the things I do.  I have existed within an moveable, liberal bubble. I am willing to admit, since being away from Portland, U.S.A. that I may be guilty of viewing the entire country through a liberal lense. I may also be guilty of assuming that my way of viewing the world is good for everyone. And yet I recognize that Portland is just as American as Oklahoma City, and has become what it is because it exists in the U.S.

  I love America because we do place value on the individual.  The U.S. has shown that what is good for the individual and what is good for society are often the very same thing.  For example, the young woman who decides to reject the expected track of marriage and motherhood, who sets different goals for herself because she knows her strengths lie outside those confines.  Her happiness, her success, is good for our society. You know, "free your mind and your ass will follow....the kingdom of heaven is within."  Happy and healthy people are vital to society, not strict adherence to some authority figure's idea of how things should be. Hungary, with its ridiculously affordable, top notch healthcare system gets it right when it comes to the "healthy" part of this equation. If we could combine the best of the two countries, we might just have an ideal society on our hands.  

  I thank my country for giving me my tendency to question everything, to consider the many facets of an idea or argument, and, regardless of my pessimism, the constant feeling that things will get better and that change can and will be a good thing. I've learned a lot about myself here in Budapest, and I will be forever grateful to her for forcing the mirror in front of my face, insisting that I re-examine my desires, my assumptions, my abilities, etc.  She has shared some great food and good times in the process. That said, I can't help but long for the day when I can bring all of this back to the U.S., to Portland, where I hope I will continue to flourish and become a better human being. How fucking American is that? I have given myself up to that desire! xxx

  

  

                                                                    

                                                        

   

Ebb And Flow

  I'm risking being accused of wearing my heart on my sleeve, over-sharing, seeking attention, whatthefuckever.  Maybe I'm guilty of all or none of those things.
  I can feel the chemicals sloshing around in my brain...those hormones, endorphins....dopamine flows (ahh, suddenly I feel thankfully hopeful) dopamine ebbs (ugh, what was I thinking? there is no hope), so I know my moods are mostly chemical and that there is nothing I can wrestle with and overcome realistically.
  Leslie, stop being so sensitive.
  Well, that's impossible.  the best I can do is curl up and wait for it to subside.  The mood, that is.
  The problem with these chemicals surging in my brain is that when they finally settle, what's left is stasis.  It's as if something inside of me is afraid to move lest the surging begin again.
  Well, you'd better do something, you're burning daylight.  If I were you...
  There they are.  The four words, placed together, into a phrase I hate with a seething passion.  I would like to say to the next person who says this to me, "Firstly, you are not me.  We should both be thankful for that.  Secondly, when you preface any sentence with those words, you are telling me you think I give a shit what you would do and that you think I am seeking your so-called wisdom.  You insult me with those words.  Fuck off until you can stop inserting yourself into my trip and vice versa."
  I realize I have failed to grow up in many areas of my life.  I'm a failed American.  A failed person of faith (thank Dog for that one).  A rejected member of the so-called "productive class" and a failure at pulling myself out of this miserable, mental, chemical stew.  The only words I wish to utter are "fuck off" and at no one in particular.
  My moods piss people off.  Inevitably I get so wrapped up in the sharp pangs of memory and shame, the bottomed -out gut, the uncomfortable rush of blood to the face, that I for all practical purposes crawl into myself and forget my loved ones.  I'm really sorry, you all, I love you incredibly but am still not comfortable expressing it without fear.  I'm trying to recognize it before it happens.  Again, another fail.
  Anyway, this post is supposed to serve as cheap therapy.  I had to get it all out....the flow was too much, had to spill it somewhere else.  I'll try to keep it to myself in the future. x
  

Cats From The Interzone

                                                                              Starfish


My dear friend Dean (residing now and forever in bonnie San Francisco) sent me an intuitively apropos and enchanting gift.  It arrived last Friday, an exquisitive surprise, a gift from home, across the pond and the plains,West Coast, USA.
  Honestly, almost any scrap of paper sent from the States will entertain me for a long while.  You could send me the classified section from your local weekly and I would be thrilled to read every single "I Saw U" listing.
  But this slim package contained a humble literary treasure, along with a charming black and white postcard of MFK Fisher and her cat (Consider The Oyster?). It was a brief novella I'd never heard of previously....both of these embellished with loving care in Dean's elegant, artful script.
  Not only does it offer a brief diversion from the intriguingly semi-penetrable "Infinite Jest", this book of short essays also eases the pain of a void I've been suffering since moving to Budapest.
 The only creature who could fill that void is my stout and proud kitty, Zissou, whom we left in Portland in an effort to preserve his sanity.  He is, of course, in the best of hands with our pal Stacey Diane Mitchell.  William Burroughs book, The Cat Inside, helps me honor my far away friend, offers validation of my intense feelings for cats.  I love cats. I love this novel.

                                                                                    Zissou in neon grass




      
   This chance rehappening with William Burroughs has been  quietly sublime.  I have always liked his writing (his essays in particular), his persona as junkie wise man, his occasional cameos on film.  I took a stab at reading Naked Lunch in high school, couldn't quite handle its random, dream-reality flow, picked it up again as a sophomore in college and enjoyed it very much, however long it took me to finish.  The whole thing seemed to have been conceived at that middle moment between being awake and being asleep, and I quickly learned to love that about Burroughs.
  The Cat Inside preserves the illusory appeal of Burroughs writing...the distillation (maturation, perhaps) of his style perfumes the air of this much less surreal novel, while Burroughs discusses cat relations, offers mesmerizing testimony as to his becoming a "cat person", denouncing humanity's thoughtless cruelty towards them and all other animals, real and imagined (there is brief mention of Bigfoot).

 "Man is a bad animal!" Brion Gysin, The Cat Inside

                                                                    Zissou catching ZZZZZZZZZZs
  

  William Burroughs took in many cats after converting to Cat-atonia.  He describes a recurring, teenage sensation, one of "cuddling some creature against my chest".  He later interpreted this sensation as an indication that he was to be a Guardian (his captitalization) of something "as yet unimagineable", something that is part cat, part human that has not evolved yet.  He felt his cats were his familiars and treated them as such.
  Several of the essays feature a white cat.  A large, white tom cat first greets Burroughs when he moves into a house outside of Lawrence, Kansas.  This cat, Ed, turns out to be a sort of diplomat for the other cats who eventually glide in and out of the rental home.  Just as I seem to attract and be attracted to black cats, Burroughs received wisdom and love from a bevy of white ones.
  But now I'm on the other side of the world and things have changed dramatically.  My black cat stayed put,  patiently waiting my eventual return, and now a white cat is speaking to me with her slinky charms.  Love the one you're with, right? She's the neighbors' cat, Hípo, but I call her Starfish.  She comes to the back door, dancing for food and a little affection and then she is on her way.  Poor, sweet little thing has worms and mites, but damn, she wears it well.

                                              Cosmo and Starfish: a Cold War and a Separate Peace

                                                                                that's "macska" to you, külföldi


  Starfish has been a great little visitor.  Hungarian cats, for the most part, seem terrified of human beings (I've driven this point home many times) and indeed, Starfish's cat housemates are definitely so.  My little girlfriend learned nothing from her older companions and approached Aidan and I one day with undecidedly un-Hungarian enthusiasm and optimism, purring and chirping, ready to leap into our arms if we did not pick her up right this instant.  During that first meeting, we must have spent forty-five minutes outside our gate with this little flirt.  Since then, she has visited a couple of times a week, just to say hi, roll around fetchingly on the floor asking for food, and to offer and accept warmth and affection.

  "The white cat symbolizes the silvery moon prying into corners and cleansing the sky for the day to follow.  The white cat is "the cleaner" or "the animal that cleans itself", described by the Sanskrit word "Margaras",  which means "the hunter that follows the track; the investigator, the skip-tracer." The white cat is the hunter and the killer, his path lighted by the silvery moon.  All dark, hidden places and beings are revealed in that inexorably gentle light.  You can't shake your white cat because your white cat is you. You can't hide from your white cat because your white cat hides with you." The Cat Inside

  Animals are unconditionally grateful when a kind human takes them in, rescues them from certain hardship. We bonded very quickly with  Zissou after we found him, wailing with a howl a hundred times as big as he was, small, puffy, discarded, underneath the bushes outside the side doors of Amity Creek Elementary School. I remember peeking under the bush to find the little face from which the noise was issuing forth...our eyes met and his tiny black head at once became all mouth as he let out a final cry.  I scooped him out from underneath the low branches and he looked up at me, purring thankfully, with crusty blue eyes.  He closed them faithfully, still holding his head up, as I gently wiped the goop away.  I loved him immediately.  He became our second black cat, a bully to my dear, departed girl cat Beast (her friendship with me is another saga in itself), a spiky, devilish playmate for our dog pal, Cosmo. That summer, spent mostly outside with black animals, was a sweet one.

                                                                  Zissou loves gardens


  
"The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter.  You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical. To understand an ancient question,  bring it into present time.  My meeting with Ruski and my conversion to a cat man reenacts the relation between the first house cats and their protectors." The Cat Inside

  I'm always on the look out for cat friends here in Hungary.  A few have been very friendly but many more have run away, feral and terrified.   I find cats to be among the most beautiful of creatures (despite their ubiquity), even the frightened ones, and I snap pics of them whenever I can.  I can't open up my Budapest home completely to a cat but I can offer respect and friendship, a few moments of kindness. Hungarian cats may for the most part be suspicious and unavailable but the friendly, mellow ones are as sweet as dobos torta.

                                                            two friendly felines from Vác
 


  "Ginger was Ruski's old lady, always around.  So I started feeding her and hoping she would go away.  How American of me...'Who's that at the door? Give her some money, send her away.'" The Cat Inside


  I think the main appeal this novel holds, for me, is the communal feeling the stories describe collectively.  It's idyllic...an artist living in a large country house, with a massive porch, sharing it, in mutual respect, with several cats. The artist feeds them, has the time to observe them and relate to them. The time Burroughs spent in the house outside of Lawrence, Kansas, was perhaps a golden respite from his otherwise rather extreme lifestyle. Not extreme so much as unconventional...and there was something endearingly conventional (punctuated, of course, with sessions of shooting-up heroin) about his relationship with his beloved familiars. Cats seemed to have taught Burroughs so much about himself as he cared for and loved them.  His experiences served as little allegories for American life in general.  He discovered certain truths, enacted through little cat vignettes with cat actors. They gave everything to him, they gave themselves.  Of course he became their Guardian.

  

Sour Puss

I do not drink booze that much.  Alcohol has been unkind to me, too much makes me feel as if I am embalming myself alive.  And, alas, too much comes too soon.

  Sparkling wine (champagne, if I'm lucky), however, tends to treat me quite well, particularly if I chug plenty of water before, during, and after partaking.  I'm willing to do that to feel the fizzy buzz I get when enjoying a flute or two.

  My favorite sparkler right now is blue label Hungaria. It's a nutty, lemony quaff whose flavors are  equal to and sometimes surpassing any of the cheap but tasty cavas available in the states.  Hungaria costs about 1400 forint, seven bucks, which is a mighty nice price for the quality....crisp, dry, and refreshing.

   Adding juice to a bubbling, pale gold flute of Hungaria is further insurance that I will not wake up wishing I could saw off my own head.  Orange is an obvious choice for a mimosa, and the peach juice available in these parts makes for a splendid bellini. 

Hmmm...what would happen if I added my favorite sour cherry juice to this pale blonde Hungarian bubbler?  The Sour Puss is born.  Try it, you'll like it, although you state siders might have a hard time finding a cherry juice worth the effort.  Try the German markets if you got 'em, otherwise, opt for the dankest, richest sour cherry juice you can find.

  Fill a flute or wine glass 2/3 full of cava (I don't think Hungaria is readily available in the U.S.).  Add sour cherry juice to taste...cheers and Egészségedre (to your health)!