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)!

Infinite Jest in Budapest

This season, on the downhill slide from late winter into early spring, I have chosen to delve into a dense novel that has been called both "a daunting task" as well as "one of the best English language novels since 1923".  Not sure which novel marks the 1923 milestone.  It was, indeed, a great year for literature.
  Infinite Jest  is the magnum opus of the late, tragically brilliant writer, David Foster Wallace.  It is a thick read, one thousand seventy nine pages of small print, which begins with the group vetting of young tennis prodigy, Hal Incandenza. Thus far, the stream of consciousness, highly descriptive and dense prose has kept me in the bathtub each night for an hour.  I'm hooked, but the bait is proving to be a mighty wad to swallow.
  Why am I reading a Great American Novel here in Hungary when I should be reading the works of local literary luminaries such as Krúdy Gyula, Móricz Zsigmond, or Molnár Ferenc?  Indeed, Mólnar's A Pál Utcai Fiúk (The Paul Street Boys) is a must read for book lovers anywhere, as it is often touted as the most famous Hungarian Novel in the world.  I'll get to it.
  Infinite Jest  has been on my mind since the author committed suicide in 2008. Since I ordered it three weeks ago, it has been particularly heavy in my heart, for reasons unknown.  I just have to go with the jones. The heart wants what it wants.
  David Foster Wallace, although not Hungarian, seemed to possess a bit of the Magyar sensibility.  Serious, intellectual, sincere, depressed, and free of bullshit, he may have fit right into this culture and may have admired its fellow, suicidal literary heroes (Atilla Josef, I'm thinking of you and your train tracks).
  Ah, David, "this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you".
  Play by play reviews of this novel will be appearing on this blog.  I will attempt to tie what unfolds to life here in Budapest.  A dystopian novel with themes that range from addiction, terrorism, separatism and tennis should give me plenty of latitude. Stay tuned, my pretties. x

  

My Expensive One

                                                                      "Sárika, Drágám", 1970

  Don't let anyone tell you that Hungarian is an ugly language.  Challenging, yes.  Very much so.  Trying  to pronounce this language, attempting to speak it with at least a fascimile of accuracy, makes me very thirsty.  The English speaking mouth and tongue get a rigorous workout when pronouncing Magyar and the production of saliva seems to increase dramatically.

  Before hearing Magyar spoken with any regularity, I thought it sounded like the language of Mordor, with its "ok", "unk" and "ak" endings, tacked onto nouns and verbs that looked harsh and clipped in print.

  After hearing the language spoken everyday for six months now, listening to conversation, laughter, anger, gossip, pleading, and every other human verbal expression there is, I've come to realize that Magyar, wrapped in impenetrable, Finno-Ugric mystery, is as sensual, expressive, and beautiful as any Indo-European  language could be.

  My favorite Hungarian word of the moment demonstrates the language's rich, sultry sound.  "Drágám" (roll that "r" or it is not correct) might be translated directly into English as "my expensive one" but is understood as "darling or "sweetheart".  

  When that word is spoken to you, regardless of whose face it tumbles out of, the sound wraps you up in its warmth and affection, caressing your ears lovingly.  It feels so sincere.

  And if a Hungarian is anything, a Hungarian is sincere. x

  

  

Water Monkey Theory

  I once saw and episode of Star Trek in which most of the crew members regress to their pre-evolutionary states.  One woman transformed into an amphibious creature, cold-blooded and water dwelling. In her wildness, she sought refuge in a bathtub filled with warm water, peeking from time to time over the edge of the tub with yellow, newt-like eyes.
  Given my own visceral tendency to seek refuge and comfort in a bath of warm water, it would be easy for me to be persuaded into believing that I had evolved from some primordial salamander.  Oh, the exquisite feeling of that first dip into a sultry, bubbly bath, the transition from cool air to steamy water.  Skin orgasm.  My receded gills quiver with gratification. I slide down into the shallows and peer warily over the edge of the tub at homo sapiens, content inside my amphibious confines. My brain cooks up all kinds of euphorically ridiculous schemes. I feel cozy and utterly safe.

  I noticed on facebook recently a status update in the form of a question, asking if women needed rituals and rites as much as men do.  And while I shrink away at the idea of any kind of dogmatic group ritual (i.e. celebrating one's menstrual cycle), especially a ritual exclusive of any particular gender, I'm forced to admit that my daily bath is indeed a sort of ritual I absolutely require, even as it may annoy the rest of the household.

I have been teased, admonished, scolded for loitering in the bath tub for extended periods. Many times this is completely justified, it's true.  I'm sure the whole thing is simply viewed as a waste of time in this wash and wear, in and out, burnin' daylight world we live in. Surely, time is a precious commodity but its value to me is defined much differently than the ol' time is money chestnut.
  My bathroom, wherever it may be....the big, decadent one I enjoy here in Budapest to the tiny, mold prone Portland hovel I shut myself into... will forever be my sanctuary.  Be it ever so humble and all.

 


Bathroom as chapel.  Is it so far fetched?  Inside this relatively small room, we are alone with ourselves or, if you prefer, our gods, away from the influence of the world at large. Something about the nudity and the tending of basic needs that forces unabashed honesty....the warmth and seclusion of the bathroom buffers us from the harshness of that rectitude. How many times have you been on the toilet and come to a final, crucial decision while sitting (and shitting)? How often, have you spilled a confession of any sort, to yourself and by yourself, within the solitude and privacy of your powder room? How many times, as you submerge your naked body into warm, fragrant water, have you felt a fleeting millisecond of sharp euphoria that softens into a delicious sense of contentment? Kind of like heroin for the soul.
  Perhaps everyone's day would be mellower, easier, less hectic if more people would allow themselves this simple joy.  Showers offer their own benefits; great spells of thinking and problem solving can occur while standing under an invigorating spray, but the bath alone gives you the time to contemplate and commiserate with yourself.  Let's face it, we all need a good talking to, and we might as well have honest conversations with ourselves when we can.  Here, in this city of public baths, among a population convinced of their healing properties, I feel justified and emboldened to express my love for them and to indulge in this therapy, daily, in the privacy of my own home. I save at least 2000 forint this way and I don't have to put my hair up in a rubber band.

  I think it is good for humans to revert to a slightly animal state on a daily basis.  Keeps us tied to the earth (and water) from whence we came. Being naked and alone in the bath is an excellent way to ensure this.  No need for sacraments, liturgy, or shame.  When the powers that be finally ask me for advice as to what to do about this gnarly fuck up or that, I will tell them what I read, in the bathtub, years ago from the pages of that snarky, tub- friendly rag, the New York Observer.
 I will look them straight in the eye, armed with oils of eucalyptus and coconut, offer these treasures with outstretched arms and state emphatically, "Good God, man, go take a bath!" x

Men Who Hate Women

  Young Lisbeth Salander is beautiful, damaged, brilliant, socially awkward.  I love her. She may be a mere invention, a sylph, a flawed yet idealized projection of cruelly interrupted womanhood, but her presence forces its way from the pages of Stieg Larsson's "Millenium Series", like a soul searching for  corporeal station.  As a grown woman, I wish to hold her (she would hate that), comfort her (she would snarl at the thought of needing comfort), remind her how remarkable she is (she would stare blankly and suspect cheap flattery), and cook her a nice, hot, fatty meal (this she would devour while chain smoking). If I were a teenager, she would be my heroine, my role model.  She is one of the most well-developed, fascinating, and sympathetic characters in all of  modern fiction.
  Lisbeth is a character so appealing, so powerful, that she all but carries what many consider a slightly above par piece of fiction.  The Millenium Series is an undeniably addictive trilogy (abruptly cut short by the untimely death of author Stieg Larsson).  I  voraciously devoured all three books during my first three months here in Budapest, momentarily put off by Larsson's sometimes awkward writing style, contrived dialogue, and tendency toward pages of seemingly pointless details (he describes every piece of IKEA  furniture that Lisbeth purchases, in some chapters, everything she eats).
  The hook is Salander herself.  She stands out among the book's many characters not just because she is  humbly yet  frighteningly exceptional and complicated, but because most of the others are not.  Many of the other women in the novels seem to be to be little more than alpha-female feminist fantasies, overachieving bores despite their active sex lives and high powered careers.  Not that they are  unlikeable....indeed Erika Berger, editor of  Millenium, the magazine which gives the series its name, is exactly the kind of woman I would want to work for: smart, thoughtful but decisive, a woman who recognizes the strengths in her employees and uses them to her magazine's ultimate advantage. She just seems much too perfect and her life, which includes a devoted, bisexual husband who accepts her decades long affair with the story's lead protagonist, Mikael Blomkvist, seems like a contrived fantasy.  The other female characters, except Salander, seem like similar spin-offs of Berger, with slighty different names and circumstances.
  Stieg Larsson loved women....not just sexually, but he was also enchanted by them as fellow human beings. When he was alive, he identified as a feminist and often wrote about the fate of women suffering under oppressively patriarchal societies. Therefore his books, the first of which was originally titled Men Who Hate Women, portray women with a kind of amazonian sheen, (with the exception of one or two bitchy, needy, minor characters) without much depth, seemingly unwilling to delve into what makes them human, flaws and all.
  Salander is the exception.  She skulks her way through the streets of Stockholm like a little black cloud, a lovably toxic imp, an arresting but tiny package of lethal and heartbreaking surprises.  The reader follows her, almost like a voyeur, through her life, her jobs, her harrowing experiences.  She is the reason we put up with the noble yet slightly selfish obsessions of Blomkvist, the dithering, enlightened yuppie concerns of Berger, and the cold, maddening ignorance of much of the Stockholm police force (there are a couple of exceptions to this criticism, of course). The reader finds he or she needs to know what becomes of Salander and wants to understand why she is the way she is.
  Aside from my love for Lisbeth, reading The Millenium Series  taught me a smidgen about honest human relations.  All of the "good" characters in the books are refreshingly honest with each other, about their abilities and emotions (which is probably why much of it seems so unrealistic).  I love that Berger knows she's a shitty writer and happily relies on Blomkvist's journalistic talent.  I respect the fact that Berger and Blomkvist genuinely like each other, sometimes fuck like rabbits, and yet admit to not being in love with each other.  I like the clarity with which Blomkvist enters his sexual dalliances, which, again, makes the stories all to unrealistic on a human level.  The personal relationships are highly idealized...but that doesn't mean we should not strive to emulate them, right?  They make me want to be more honest with myself and with those I love, about myself and about other people. That is one tall order, I tell you.
  These reasons alone are enough to begin, fall in love with, and finish "The Millenium Series."  This is one massively popular bandwagon I'm so glad I hitched my side-cart to.  Blessings to St. Stieg and his delightful, deceptively powerful, earth bound demon, the girl with the dragon tattoo. x

Life is a Thrice Baked Potato

It's all a crusty shell with the vague promise of something tender and tasty inside, only I discover it is really just a wrinkly, rattling husk.  So, I need a potion, a lotion, a pomade, a poultice. I need lots of butter and sour cream. I need a trusty method with which to restore and maintain hope.

  We are all planets orbiting our own, self absorbed solar systems.  A thousand and one misunderstandings occur every day, throwing harmony out of whack.  And it's no one's fault and everyone's fault.  Some one simply must be to blame...it always feel much better when we have someone, anyone, upon whom to focus our displeasure. Straw men and scapegoats are the real heroes in this never-ending tragicomedy.

  I'm feeling philosophical again.  Someone shut me up before I raise my voice. x