So I passed the milestone. Half time here in Trabzon, the referee blows his whistle. Shaken and tired I want to withdraw. But ain't no break for the broken.
I lost my everything in a month. It wasn't easy. I could have suffered less but I made it more unbearable. It's like a perverted hobby of mine. Deep inside, that's how I like myself maybe.
There is no bitter taste. No lingering on the moments I screwed up, the memories I demolished. Just fear, plain fear. The fear of not finding her again. Anymore. Because eventually, finding the right person is the goal. To hell with arts! With politics, with job and everything else. To hell with my life...
She is my only aim. My only desire. And if found, never leaving.. never hurting her. Never letting my child see us separating. May I die under the veil of animosity; the cover of mediocrity; but I'd be buried as a happy man. The man who saw his son and daughter grow up and find their own ways. The man whose hand is held until the last moment.
Loneliness is the thing this man fights against the most but he doesn't have the tools. He blows himself in the wrong direction.
Now is forever...
So where am I now?
Trabzon. Surrounded by love and care taking but blinded by the lens of self-loathing and pity.
Second half: the referee blows his whistle...
2012. december 23., vasárnap
2012. december 19., szerda
god.
Which was going to be a short intermezzo has become a lenghty break in the blog's history: not counting the Rosetta videos, I haven't written a word since... well, since a long time.
Reason (a): I broke my laptop. Literally. It's in pieces.
Reason (b): Besides working, the only things filling up my free time: drawing, taking photos (ordered a new lens, ridiculously cheap), and -sigh- sleeping.
Reason (c): No clue what to write about. Two great persons in my life taught me the following lines:
The amateur's motivation is inspiration, the professional's is the deadline.
AND
If you don't have anything to write about, don't force it. Don't publish every shitty thought you have, or the real treasure will be lost. (ok, I modified it a bit)
Keeping these in mind, now it seems plausible enough that I hadn't been writing anything recently. Until now.
I'm just quarter way through the book 'The God Delusion' by Richard Dawkins but my brain is already crowded with all the ideas about the topic. The matter of God has always been a supreme issue in my life (special thanks to New Acropolis, the philosophy school I attended when I was 18), though since August I kinda dropped the topic. Now the book just resurrected the enthusiasm: little summary of what I've read.
First of all, the hardest thing is to be a scientist. As long as you are a believer (creationist, moslim, christian etc.), all you do is following without questioning. When you hit the brick wall, when logic just can't describe the world and your experiences, the ultimate answer solving your riddle: it's God.
Now, the believer can easily question the evolution theory, Darwin, Newton and all the guys who revolutionized our world.
For instance, the believer may say, the evolution theory is nonsense, how can you believe that we are coming from little unicellular entities? The main issue is that while asking these questions are really easy, answering them -if we are taking them serious- needs time and well-supported reasoning. The difference between the believer and the non-believer (I'm not using the term 'atheist' on purpose) is explained brilliantly by Dawkins, as follows (modified, again a bit).
Our knowledge of world is a huge blanket, let's say. It has tons of holes on it: the questions we can't answer. Now, the believer has an infinite resource of patches called 'God'. He covers and fills the holes with this mighty God-stuffing. Meanwhile, the non-believer finds himself in a real mess at each hole. But he stops and examines, and after a lengthy process he chooses the most appropriate filling for the hole.
Christianity calls this stuff as (otherwise utter nonsense) Bible, Jesus, Holy Trinity etc, moslims identify this with Allah, and so on.
So what is my opinion? The stuff I fill the holes with?
I call it god. Without capitals.
I do believe that all the great accomplishments and discoveries, feats in arts etc. humankind has done are due to one sole thing: the god who dwells in all of us. This intangible thing is the voice in your head that never lets you down. It can leave you for weeks and months, but as long as your faith in yourself stays alive, this god will be there. It will help you, push you to your very limits, when you realize that nothing is really beyond your grasp.
So, even scientists can't fill in those gaps with science without the very base of motivation, of trusting themselves. That's the god I mean, the god I'm always talking about. For me, I find this inner god while I'm walking in the nature, when I look out the window and the sun illuminates a dirty sidewall, highlighting a woman cleaning the carpet... and so on. All these small thing, around me are crying to be noticed. And then, it's up to me whether I make an attempt on immortalizing it somehow.
Luckily, the number of these tiny phenomenons is infinite or at least, vast enough that all of us can enjoy them. Well, as long as we are walking eyes wide open.
Why force god in the temple or the mosque? Why pretend it's a privilege for the followers of the religion? It's like selling oxygen. It's all around us but some act as if god and faith were special things, that doesn't really entitle to all of us.
God!
I already wrote a lot and I'm far from finished. What's worse, I don't feel that I'm even halfway through... Anyways, take care people, try to survive without the far-from-amazing Rosetta videos until the next time!
Reason (a): I broke my laptop. Literally. It's in pieces.
Reason (b): Besides working, the only things filling up my free time: drawing, taking photos (ordered a new lens, ridiculously cheap), and -sigh- sleeping.
Reason (c): No clue what to write about. Two great persons in my life taught me the following lines:
The amateur's motivation is inspiration, the professional's is the deadline.
AND
If you don't have anything to write about, don't force it. Don't publish every shitty thought you have, or the real treasure will be lost. (ok, I modified it a bit)
Keeping these in mind, now it seems plausible enough that I hadn't been writing anything recently. Until now.
I'm just quarter way through the book 'The God Delusion' by Richard Dawkins but my brain is already crowded with all the ideas about the topic. The matter of God has always been a supreme issue in my life (special thanks to New Acropolis, the philosophy school I attended when I was 18), though since August I kinda dropped the topic. Now the book just resurrected the enthusiasm: little summary of what I've read.
First of all, the hardest thing is to be a scientist. As long as you are a believer (creationist, moslim, christian etc.), all you do is following without questioning. When you hit the brick wall, when logic just can't describe the world and your experiences, the ultimate answer solving your riddle: it's God.
Now, the believer can easily question the evolution theory, Darwin, Newton and all the guys who revolutionized our world.
For instance, the believer may say, the evolution theory is nonsense, how can you believe that we are coming from little unicellular entities? The main issue is that while asking these questions are really easy, answering them -if we are taking them serious- needs time and well-supported reasoning. The difference between the believer and the non-believer (I'm not using the term 'atheist' on purpose) is explained brilliantly by Dawkins, as follows (modified, again a bit).
Our knowledge of world is a huge blanket, let's say. It has tons of holes on it: the questions we can't answer. Now, the believer has an infinite resource of patches called 'God'. He covers and fills the holes with this mighty God-stuffing. Meanwhile, the non-believer finds himself in a real mess at each hole. But he stops and examines, and after a lengthy process he chooses the most appropriate filling for the hole.
Christianity calls this stuff as (otherwise utter nonsense) Bible, Jesus, Holy Trinity etc, moslims identify this with Allah, and so on.
So what is my opinion? The stuff I fill the holes with?
I call it god. Without capitals.
I do believe that all the great accomplishments and discoveries, feats in arts etc. humankind has done are due to one sole thing: the god who dwells in all of us. This intangible thing is the voice in your head that never lets you down. It can leave you for weeks and months, but as long as your faith in yourself stays alive, this god will be there. It will help you, push you to your very limits, when you realize that nothing is really beyond your grasp.
So, even scientists can't fill in those gaps with science without the very base of motivation, of trusting themselves. That's the god I mean, the god I'm always talking about. For me, I find this inner god while I'm walking in the nature, when I look out the window and the sun illuminates a dirty sidewall, highlighting a woman cleaning the carpet... and so on. All these small thing, around me are crying to be noticed. And then, it's up to me whether I make an attempt on immortalizing it somehow.
Luckily, the number of these tiny phenomenons is infinite or at least, vast enough that all of us can enjoy them. Well, as long as we are walking eyes wide open.
Why force god in the temple or the mosque? Why pretend it's a privilege for the followers of the religion? It's like selling oxygen. It's all around us but some act as if god and faith were special things, that doesn't really entitle to all of us.
God!
I already wrote a lot and I'm far from finished. What's worse, I don't feel that I'm even halfway through... Anyways, take care people, try to survive without the far-from-amazing Rosetta videos until the next time!
2012. december 9., vasárnap
Rosetta Stone, chapter 3.
I'm really sorry for not updating the blog more often. No inspiration, no nothing... But here is episode three! Yeah!
2012. december 2., vasárnap
Rosetta, chapter 2.
Episode two. The screen capture thingy and the camera aren't in the same resolution so sometimes the screen is cut. Sorry for that.
Mu!
Mu!
2012. november 29., csütörtök
Rosetta stone, chapter 1. (video)
Me vs. Rosetta Stone, a language learning software.
Next episode: more lights, less tired Peter, more memory on card (best parts of the recording are gone).
Next episode: more lights, less tired Peter, more memory on card (best parts of the recording are gone).
2012. november 27., kedd
My little guide to Gangnam style
As it has just become the most popular video on youtube. It's impossible to ignore. A little summary of Gangnam Style, parodies, own experiences and more.
So the whole thing started like this. It wreaked havoc through the world, but somehow it managed to avoid my attention. Until September. By then I had to admit that it is probably the most popular thing since Thriller, Titanic and Las Ketchup song. Combined.
It's just impossible to survive a day without hearing it at least once as a ringtone on the phone, but after a month it has become a daily routine, such as going to the toilet, lamenting my life or going to bed after 2 am. However I felt that Gangnam Style should be a challenge to draw: at the end of some classes I play a drawing game at the board with the kids. Soon I had to realize that GS isn't anywhere near to the "very hard" category (where I put it earlier). Normally it takes 4 seconds for an average kid to figure it out, what's more, mostly the drawing looks like this:
Whose only talent is riding the waves of the PSY-tsunami. Enough to watch one video from her and we'll be sure Gangnam Style is a complicated masterpiece. Watch my brothers' reaction around 0.30:
So the whole thing started like this. It wreaked havoc through the world, but somehow it managed to avoid my attention. Until September. By then I had to admit that it is probably the most popular thing since Thriller, Titanic and Las Ketchup song. Combined.
It's just impossible to survive a day without hearing it at least once as a ringtone on the phone, but after a month it has become a daily routine, such as going to the toilet, lamenting my life or going to bed after 2 am. However I felt that Gangnam Style should be a challenge to draw: at the end of some classes I play a drawing game at the board with the kids. Soon I had to realize that GS isn't anywhere near to the "very hard" category (where I put it earlier). Normally it takes 4 seconds for an average kid to figure it out, what's more, mostly the drawing looks like this:
Until my most recent couchsurfing experience tho I didn't dig deeper to the depths of the meme of the decade. Juan (ARG) and Sonia (ITA) comitted the mistake: they admitted that they know nothing about Gangnam Style. After introducing the video, we got totally addicted to it with Juan: we were watching how to dance the gangnam style videos, parodies from our nations (bottom line: the Hungarian is the worst piece of shit), but above all, discovered Hyuna, the Pokémon with a humanoid body:
Whose only talent is riding the waves of the PSY-tsunami. Enough to watch one video from her and we'll be sure Gangnam Style is a complicated masterpiece. Watch my brothers' reaction around 0.30:
But PSY rolls on, after stealing the show at the annual EMI awards, appearing with several celebrities in The Glamorous West Side Of The Earth, and the world just can't get tired of it. See my favorite prank below:
Days passed and Juan forgot to dance the Gangnam Style. We never listened to Hyuna's Pikachu voice; the meme has left our everydays. But not the rest of the world. If you can't get enough of it, click from new IP addresses to accomplish the goal which apparently united humanity for the first ime. And make it up to a billion.
Oppa...
Update: The best gangnam video ever.
Oppa...
Update: The best gangnam video ever.
2012. november 21., szerda
About turkish men
There is something fascinating about Turkish men. No, not the amount of hair they generally possess, nor the endless number of tea and cigarette they consume. It's about the inexplicable change they go through during their childhood.
I always loved children but comparing them (who is more beautiful etc.) is just nonsense, they are all beautiful (just wait until mine rascals are born, I will change my mind). But I have to say Turkish little boys are the cutest on the planet. They are all small, fatty a bit, big eyes and curious nature, fooling around everywhere in the town, with or without parents. For turkish readers: the type of kid you say 'senin ağzını yerim' to.
But then something happens. While beautiful kids usually end up being beautiful adults, most turks lose their looks through puberty. It's seems impossible to me that those small white boys evolve into dark skinned, hairy and... well, something like this:
And please don't say this happens with all the kids. From around the age of 10 you can tell how an earthling will look like during his manhood, except for turks. Period.
Trabzon men (yes Turks in general but I have experience only with the first) have this nasty habit of walking together in groups of 5-10, all holding hands (arms, sorry). As I learnt it's just a sign of great friendship. My friend, Dovydas from Lithuania though committed a mistake during our erasmus and asked some of these guys whether they were gay or not, which they took as a great offense.
But let's get back to style. I have an ongoing mission during my stay: finding out why the heck do all men feel that they should all dress in suits. The answers I got so far:
- I don't know
- They want to look smart
But it's a real phenomena: from the shoe cleaner to the driver of the dolmuş, I'd say 80% of the city's male population wear suits. It's as traditional as wearing sombrero in Mexico, poncho in Peru, vodka in Russia, or women in Hungary (hope you understand the tricky composition here). My sole theory is that Atatürk was dressing smart all the time. It would make sense since the love towards the father of turks already explained the widespread rakı consumption, unkempt eyebrows and piercing looks amongst men.
Still, they are great friends and don't be surprised if after an hour they offer you things that you may never receive in Europe (any kind of help you need). So no matter how hairy they are, bushy their eyebrow is, or how often they cling on your arms, men of Turkey are reliable and excellent friends.
Except for the few motherfuckers I hate.
I always loved children but comparing them (who is more beautiful etc.) is just nonsense, they are all beautiful (just wait until mine rascals are born, I will change my mind). But I have to say Turkish little boys are the cutest on the planet. They are all small, fatty a bit, big eyes and curious nature, fooling around everywhere in the town, with or without parents. For turkish readers: the type of kid you say 'senin ağzını yerim' to.
But then something happens. While beautiful kids usually end up being beautiful adults, most turks lose their looks through puberty. It's seems impossible to me that those small white boys evolve into dark skinned, hairy and... well, something like this:
And please don't say this happens with all the kids. From around the age of 10 you can tell how an earthling will look like during his manhood, except for turks. Period.
Trabzon men (yes Turks in general but I have experience only with the first) have this nasty habit of walking together in groups of 5-10, all holding hands (arms, sorry). As I learnt it's just a sign of great friendship. My friend, Dovydas from Lithuania though committed a mistake during our erasmus and asked some of these guys whether they were gay or not, which they took as a great offense.
But let's get back to style. I have an ongoing mission during my stay: finding out why the heck do all men feel that they should all dress in suits. The answers I got so far:
- I don't know
- They want to look smart
But it's a real phenomena: from the shoe cleaner to the driver of the dolmuş, I'd say 80% of the city's male population wear suits. It's as traditional as wearing sombrero in Mexico, poncho in Peru, vodka in Russia, or women in Hungary (hope you understand the tricky composition here). My sole theory is that Atatürk was dressing smart all the time. It would make sense since the love towards the father of turks already explained the widespread rakı consumption, unkempt eyebrows and piercing looks amongst men.
Still, they are great friends and don't be surprised if after an hour they offer you things that you may never receive in Europe (any kind of help you need). So no matter how hairy they are, bushy their eyebrow is, or how often they cling on your arms, men of Turkey are reliable and excellent friends.
Except for the few motherfuckers I hate.
2012. november 9., péntek
I tried to have a good life...
(I brought you a song, check it out here, start before reading: http://www.melodycenta.com/flash_player/flash_black.php?type=1&id=7296 in italics, fragments of the lyrics can be read. Got some inspiration by some lines of it and the blues guitar; enjoy!)
I've tried it I swear. Fought back decay with my fear-driven actions. I've had enough.
I'm only saying that it won't work like this anymore. Quicksand it is, this decay pulls me faster and the grip tightens as I try to fight back.
Wondering through the rainy city that loves me, the one I hate back. Rain soaks my jacket. The cold wind blows right through me. I'm cold down to my bones. The faceless crowd flows on. I like to think I'm different; but I'm just one in a thousand. I look at the troubled faces and believe that I'm not like them. Then I realize I am. I realize the other thousands feel exactly the same. That they are special. That God has secret and unique plans with them. They all believe their lives will eventually turn upside down. They are in God's favor. They have to be in God's favor. No one else: the dull people of the street are just assisting to the grand plan, the plan where they play the main role. The messiah, the righteous and kind friend of God himself. They all dream the same role. To be unique. To be the only one.
I've tried it I swear. Fought back decay with my fear-driven actions. I've had enough.
I'm only saying that it won't work like this anymore. Quicksand it is, this decay pulls me faster and the grip tightens as I try to fight back.
I tried to have a good life...
But now I know that I was wrong.
Wondering through the rainy city that loves me, the one I hate back. Rain soaks my jacket. The cold wind blows right through me. I'm cold down to my bones. The faceless crowd flows on. I like to think I'm different; but I'm just one in a thousand. I look at the troubled faces and believe that I'm not like them. Then I realize I am. I realize the other thousands feel exactly the same. That they are special. That God has secret and unique plans with them. They all believe their lives will eventually turn upside down. They are in God's favor. They have to be in God's favor. No one else: the dull people of the street are just assisting to the grand plan, the plan where they play the main role. The messiah, the righteous and kind friend of God himself. They all dream the same role. To be unique. To be the only one.
Don't know the reason why I'm here...
What is better? To dream about glorious march towards eternal fame and righteousness but not do anything; or to live the good life but not dream anything special? Or with other words: to be a lazy dreamer or a busy, realistic person? Anyways, where does the dreamer go? The dreamer is a witch. Differs from others. Cannot share the dream so expelled from society. Often ran down and laughed at. Tortured. Eventually, slained.
A witch is hanging from a tree
Let the witch hang!
I stoop as drops of rain dribble down my neck. Shivering, I arrive at the seaside. Angry waves rumble as they bounce off the rocks of the coast again and again. Myriads of tiny stones cover the sand as I tumble through the beach. I'm a candle in the deep night, standing in the throat of the storm. The dreams I have and the happiness left, all united in a small candlelight now. Mighty waves come and go, and I feel fragile. No more dreams. I'm not God's favorite Peter anymore. The wrath of nature thus life is roaring all around me. Dreams cannot stay hidden now. Dreams never live long, the same way the candlelight dies in the storm in a second.
Crouching and still shivering, I fınd some dry paper. A few sticks of wood. I build a little tent out of it. The candle dwells in the middle. Fire spreads and flames born in the storm. Waves rumble in anger. But the fire gives warmth now. Orange sparks jump around me. I'm not cold anymore...
I tried to have a good life...
But now I know I am right.
2012. november 1., csütörtök
Sleeping habits
I owed the foreign audience with the translation of this post. Sleeping habits, how I imagine and how it really is.
Ideal relationship (0% probability)
Passionate love (10%, bed's others functions used)
Sad truth (99% probability)
After some hard nights from uni (100% probability)
Current phase just to ensure I receive enough pity (uninterpretable)
2012. október 26., péntek
Replay
I got a song.
A song, composed, written, and played after something that is definetely beyond words.
I always wished I could play an instrument so well that I can express my emotions. Well, I'd stick with the pen. Unlike my last guest from couchsurfing.
There is that weird feeling when you meet somebody for the first time, it happens rarely, but it does happen, so you just meet and there is something special in the air, in the eyes' contact (or just we imagine it); either ways, we were both on the same wave in that very moment.
The last evening was spent by listening to our countries' traditional music (see my examples here or here), drinking beer and weaving sweet and impossible dreams regarding... anything. As the night was gone I got a promise, which is now the reason of this post: a song about these days.
Words appear to be insufficient to describe what this song tells:
https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B325QjtRfBKwdldudlFNa09GNjg/edit
(You gotta download it, no virus but there was no other way to upload... )
There is nothing more pleasing for a troubled soul to be soothed and comforted by somebody who understands without asking. A person who, if you look into her eyes you just find deep and honest kindness and limitless understanding. An endless warehouse for every bad feeling you have, every doubt and every misfit you've done before. A place where, no matter how short the time is, you can withdraw to.
Soothing days, they were. However the magic, before it could arrive, was gone.
Love as such remains a toy of those who cannot handle it.
And amongst these people it looks like I'm in a promoted position...
Ps. God dammit I HATE writing in such an unequivocal way! Words should be all equivocal, understood in several ways... sorry for this post. Probably it was too much comprehensible. The only thing worths of posting is the song. Rape the replay button.
A song, composed, written, and played after something that is definetely beyond words.
I always wished I could play an instrument so well that I can express my emotions. Well, I'd stick with the pen. Unlike my last guest from couchsurfing.
There is that weird feeling when you meet somebody for the first time, it happens rarely, but it does happen, so you just meet and there is something special in the air, in the eyes' contact (or just we imagine it); either ways, we were both on the same wave in that very moment.
The last evening was spent by listening to our countries' traditional music (see my examples here or here), drinking beer and weaving sweet and impossible dreams regarding... anything. As the night was gone I got a promise, which is now the reason of this post: a song about these days.
Words appear to be insufficient to describe what this song tells:
https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B325QjtRfBKwdldudlFNa09GNjg/edit
(You gotta download it, no virus but there was no other way to upload... )
There is nothing more pleasing for a troubled soul to be soothed and comforted by somebody who understands without asking. A person who, if you look into her eyes you just find deep and honest kindness and limitless understanding. An endless warehouse for every bad feeling you have, every doubt and every misfit you've done before. A place where, no matter how short the time is, you can withdraw to.
Soothing days, they were. However the magic, before it could arrive, was gone.
Love as such remains a toy of those who cannot handle it.
And amongst these people it looks like I'm in a promoted position...
Ps. God dammit I HATE writing in such an unequivocal way! Words should be all equivocal, understood in several ways... sorry for this post. Probably it was too much comprehensible. The only thing worths of posting is the song. Rape the replay button.
2012. október 25., csütörtök
A man is nothing but...
Just a quick thought (half of it was written during work).
Arts are the only good excuse humanity has for existing.
Arts are like religion. It tries to reach the same amorph object and channel it's truth to everyone. Religion calls it God, art calls it beauty and many other thousand words. And as all religions are trying to support our struggle through our life with different methods, all believers are looking for a divine connection to this superior, untouchable thing. Meanwhile arts don't differ much. With various methods (call it writing, painting, composing music etc.) it also makes an attempt to set up a channel between us and something that is way beyond our imagination...
As I was trying to convince myself yesterday that art is a sort of religion, holidays and rain had arrived. The stromclouds from my dream eventually teamed up and defeated the sunny days. Things are back to normal...
I'm sitting in a naked room. Chilling melodies comfort me as I sit down in front of the wall. I hold a pencil as I stare at my own writings on the lavender paint. I raise my pencil and start to write...
As my troubled mind tries to focus on writing, as religion and arts battle in my head, and as day turns into evening again, one thought emerges from the others.
A man is nothing but the product of his thoughts.As I look in the mirror I see two big eyes. Big, purple circles enframe them. A constant frown. Messy hair. Sparse beard. Average body. Careless clothing. And vertigo.
As much as I'm starting to trust myself as she asked the day before in my dream, I can still break down if I look at myself and compare the mirror's image with the one half year earlier.
Back to the wall. One day I get famous and they are going to sell this wall on an auction. Way to go, Peter! A man is nothing but the product of his thoughts...
2012. október 23., kedd
Stormclouds gather
Dreams can change my mood. Dreams can affect my thinking. Dreams have that rare ability to raise my lowered head, my powerless body from the ground. Dreams make me cry or laugh in the mornings; they influence me greatly.
I had a dream yesterday...
Before beginning, start the music below. No, I'm not making it more emotional: this song was the background music of the whole dream (if the embed won't work, try it here, here or google Clint Mansell-Death is the road to awe):
I'm at home. Szentendre, Hungary. Stormclouds are gathering outside. I have a growing fear about the immense mass of clouds. As they slowly take over the last blue spots of the sky, light diminishes. Wind blows into my face as I close the windows. They are bringing the smell of something... that I'm afraid of. Misi, my brother (he is 12 now) helps me and apparently his happiness won't be bothered by my heavy thoughts on the coming storm. Nor Andris (now 9), who keeps fooling around as he always did. My mom though feels what I feel. We are looking through the window, as the darkness deepens. We are afraid. She says something like 'we can't run away'.
The scene changes. The blanket of the clouds painted by the colors of woe is appears to be broken a bit. Sunbeams punch holes on these massive, gray bodies. I'm looking at a great landscape as I roam through a vast green field. Mountains high as I saw in Georgia and grasslands green as in Hungary, this breathtaking view transforms swiftly, as I'm only a thought which travels through the land. I arrive on the top of a skyscraper. I see a small city below, people walking on the streets and cars passing on the roads. A friend from Eger sits atop, waiting for me. I'm concerned about the storm: the clouds are a mute danger of something none of us want to experience.
'Sit down' she says. My fear grows as I feel something is approaching: it's not the storm itself but something related to it. I know somehow that my brothers are dead now. I still see my mother, this time standing in the field next to our house, eyes full of tears but looking deep into the heart of the clouds. My friend continues. 'You know you gotta jump' she says 'That's the only way of escaping'. I'm heavily disagreeing as we are at a top of a 50 storey building. I throw down a rock which clatters and breaks to pieces as it reaches the ground.
'You never trust yourself, Peter. Jumping is not death. It's trusting yourself.' I'm on the verge of crying as this thing beyond words is approaching me, as it is coming obviously for me.
I jump.
Landing easily, my feet touches the grounds, and bending my knees I get enough power to jump again- but this time to the sky. Am I flying? I... can't. I'm almost reaching her, but I fall back. As my friend looks at my receding silhouette I hear her thoughts.
'You learnt how to fall Peter. Now you know how easy it is to survive. But you won't fly now. Stay on the ground and learn how to fly. That is the real road to awe.'
(...)
My eyes pop out. The music still plays in my head. My eyes are soaked with tears. What was this? My chosen road is sending me an approval message? Or tries to scare me away?
I'm not tired although I was for the previous two months for every morning. My mind is clean as if it was lyed with the liquid of true vision. I dry up my eyes. It has to be cold out there, I'm freezing...
I pull the curtain aside.
Stormclouds are gathering outside. I feel patient as I look at them. As they slowly take over the last blue spots of the sky, light diminishes...
I step to street and wind blows into my face.
I had a dream yesterday...
Before beginning, start the music below. No, I'm not making it more emotional: this song was the background music of the whole dream (if the embed won't work, try it here, here or google Clint Mansell-Death is the road to awe):
I'm at home. Szentendre, Hungary. Stormclouds are gathering outside. I have a growing fear about the immense mass of clouds. As they slowly take over the last blue spots of the sky, light diminishes. Wind blows into my face as I close the windows. They are bringing the smell of something... that I'm afraid of. Misi, my brother (he is 12 now) helps me and apparently his happiness won't be bothered by my heavy thoughts on the coming storm. Nor Andris (now 9), who keeps fooling around as he always did. My mom though feels what I feel. We are looking through the window, as the darkness deepens. We are afraid. She says something like 'we can't run away'.
The scene changes. The blanket of the clouds painted by the colors of woe is appears to be broken a bit. Sunbeams punch holes on these massive, gray bodies. I'm looking at a great landscape as I roam through a vast green field. Mountains high as I saw in Georgia and grasslands green as in Hungary, this breathtaking view transforms swiftly, as I'm only a thought which travels through the land. I arrive on the top of a skyscraper. I see a small city below, people walking on the streets and cars passing on the roads. A friend from Eger sits atop, waiting for me. I'm concerned about the storm: the clouds are a mute danger of something none of us want to experience.
'Sit down' she says. My fear grows as I feel something is approaching: it's not the storm itself but something related to it. I know somehow that my brothers are dead now. I still see my mother, this time standing in the field next to our house, eyes full of tears but looking deep into the heart of the clouds. My friend continues. 'You know you gotta jump' she says 'That's the only way of escaping'. I'm heavily disagreeing as we are at a top of a 50 storey building. I throw down a rock which clatters and breaks to pieces as it reaches the ground.
'You never trust yourself, Peter. Jumping is not death. It's trusting yourself.' I'm on the verge of crying as this thing beyond words is approaching me, as it is coming obviously for me.
I jump.
Landing easily, my feet touches the grounds, and bending my knees I get enough power to jump again- but this time to the sky. Am I flying? I... can't. I'm almost reaching her, but I fall back. As my friend looks at my receding silhouette I hear her thoughts.
'You learnt how to fall Peter. Now you know how easy it is to survive. But you won't fly now. Stay on the ground and learn how to fly. That is the real road to awe.'
(...)
My eyes pop out. The music still plays in my head. My eyes are soaked with tears. What was this? My chosen road is sending me an approval message? Or tries to scare me away?
I'm not tired although I was for the previous two months for every morning. My mind is clean as if it was lyed with the liquid of true vision. I dry up my eyes. It has to be cold out there, I'm freezing...
I pull the curtain aside.
Stormclouds are gathering outside. I feel patient as I look at them. As they slowly take over the last blue spots of the sky, light diminishes...
I step to street and wind blows into my face.
2012. október 21., vasárnap
Song to the fishermen of Trabzon
Sundays have been promoted recently to the 'only day I can sleep and do whatever I want' status. Since it's the only day off during the whole year, the pressure is so big to decide what valuable thing should I do that eventually I end up doing nothing.
Today was something similar. The pigeons in our balcony woke me up at 6 and chased me to the living room where I added an extra 6 hours of sleeping, so half of the day was fucked already. After some cleaning the awesome idea came: let's go out to the seaside and write! Sunshine, gentle wind, late-autumn but still enjoyable in a shirt. So, camera grabbed, book and pen check, 10 mins and I'm at the coast.
Found a great rock, stretch a bit, sunbath, ... ready.
'God has a good sense of humor' says my father always, and as I try to write down the first word ('Vertigo') the pen runs out of ink. Pulling this joke on my only free day, when the scenery is set is at least as mean as living through the previous two months.
But my newly acquired confidence shall not tremble by such a puny effort from chance. Clicking almost a full film roll, I'm strolling up and down on the coast, singing random bitter rock songs, and thinking, thinking,...
I always believed we are getting better and wiser persons by studying. Thanks to this view, when I failed in doing or learning something, the failure left a bitter taste in my mouth. One of these things is not learning French nor Spanish despite of the chances. But then it made me wonder: do we really have to learn everything? Does studying hard make us better persons?
I like to believe that it doesn't. After the compulsory education the only thing we should know which way we'll choose. And studying/ working may help us find the way, but as Hunter S. Thompson said, I believe that truth is not being taught during the normal work hours. Life is not happening during the daily routine. Life just flows in a comfortable pace, no excitement nor adventure.
But life gets crazy and unexpected once we dare to dream, once we dare to make a move...
After the previous post I just realized that since I'm not in the compulsory education (graduating from high school), the only thing I never gave up doing was my blog. I struggled learning the guitar, drawing with coal, paying attention in class, setting up my carreer as a journalist, loving women etc. But that stupid, discursive collection of my thoughts is just not willing to dry up. And as it bloats, it's just too big to ignore. Six years is a long time and as much as I hate my inconsistency in everything (love and studies were always in a promoted position), I just realized that there is a still point in my life.
As my best friend said, the way from here just getting harder. What was a not much serious thing, just levelled up and will face much rougher criticism, complaint and possibly extinction as well. And thus, as he added, from now on I shouldnt have doubts, just walk the straight line and never look back.
I really don't know where will I end up. May I starve for years, become homeless, face constant refusals regarding what I produce. But there won't be anything sweeter than walking the way I was secretly wishing for.
As my brainstorming was over, I just realized I'm still singing, and some fishermen look at me at a really weird way (imagine a hobo-looking guy taking pictures of you while singing with an extremely false voice). Laughing out loud, after months, honestly, looking at their dumb faces I turned back and whistled all the way.
Now, with my over-confidence I made a mistake I'm usually doing over and over. I start to expect people to be wiser, more open-minded etc. In general, I believe on a sunny sunday afternoon everyone should be outside, singing and taking photos of shocked fisherman. So as I enter Forum, looking for a bag for my camera, imagine the shock of seeing the horde of zombies, spending their only free hours by crowding themselves in a giant tin, doing the same turns, spending the money, and obviously, totally lacking the willingness for taking photos of shocked fishermen while singing in a false voice (yes I'm really evil and judging, eventually I was shopping also).
It's amazing how fast my endless compassionate towards all human beings can turn into fury and hatred. Anyways, got my bag, headed out of the suffocating tin of ordinary people, the selfish self-proclaimed writer arrives home.
The sun went down as he types the last words; and as he transforms back to the ordinary guy who they need from Monday to Saturday. No problem, maybe next time a better Sunday will come. And the fishermen will cheerfully sing the false songs with me.
Today was something similar. The pigeons in our balcony woke me up at 6 and chased me to the living room where I added an extra 6 hours of sleeping, so half of the day was fucked already. After some cleaning the awesome idea came: let's go out to the seaside and write! Sunshine, gentle wind, late-autumn but still enjoyable in a shirt. So, camera grabbed, book and pen check, 10 mins and I'm at the coast.
Found a great rock, stretch a bit, sunbath, ... ready.
'God has a good sense of humor' says my father always, and as I try to write down the first word ('Vertigo') the pen runs out of ink. Pulling this joke on my only free day, when the scenery is set is at least as mean as living through the previous two months.
But my newly acquired confidence shall not tremble by such a puny effort from chance. Clicking almost a full film roll, I'm strolling up and down on the coast, singing random bitter rock songs, and thinking, thinking,...
I always believed we are getting better and wiser persons by studying. Thanks to this view, when I failed in doing or learning something, the failure left a bitter taste in my mouth. One of these things is not learning French nor Spanish despite of the chances. But then it made me wonder: do we really have to learn everything? Does studying hard make us better persons?
I like to believe that it doesn't. After the compulsory education the only thing we should know which way we'll choose. And studying/ working may help us find the way, but as Hunter S. Thompson said, I believe that truth is not being taught during the normal work hours. Life is not happening during the daily routine. Life just flows in a comfortable pace, no excitement nor adventure.
But life gets crazy and unexpected once we dare to dream, once we dare to make a move...
After the previous post I just realized that since I'm not in the compulsory education (graduating from high school), the only thing I never gave up doing was my blog. I struggled learning the guitar, drawing with coal, paying attention in class, setting up my carreer as a journalist, loving women etc. But that stupid, discursive collection of my thoughts is just not willing to dry up. And as it bloats, it's just too big to ignore. Six years is a long time and as much as I hate my inconsistency in everything (love and studies were always in a promoted position), I just realized that there is a still point in my life.
As my best friend said, the way from here just getting harder. What was a not much serious thing, just levelled up and will face much rougher criticism, complaint and possibly extinction as well. And thus, as he added, from now on I shouldnt have doubts, just walk the straight line and never look back.
I really don't know where will I end up. May I starve for years, become homeless, face constant refusals regarding what I produce. But there won't be anything sweeter than walking the way I was secretly wishing for.
As my brainstorming was over, I just realized I'm still singing, and some fishermen look at me at a really weird way (imagine a hobo-looking guy taking pictures of you while singing with an extremely false voice). Laughing out loud, after months, honestly, looking at their dumb faces I turned back and whistled all the way.
Now, with my over-confidence I made a mistake I'm usually doing over and over. I start to expect people to be wiser, more open-minded etc. In general, I believe on a sunny sunday afternoon everyone should be outside, singing and taking photos of shocked fisherman. So as I enter Forum, looking for a bag for my camera, imagine the shock of seeing the horde of zombies, spending their only free hours by crowding themselves in a giant tin, doing the same turns, spending the money, and obviously, totally lacking the willingness for taking photos of shocked fishermen while singing in a false voice (yes I'm really evil and judging, eventually I was shopping also).
It's amazing how fast my endless compassionate towards all human beings can turn into fury and hatred. Anyways, got my bag, headed out of the suffocating tin of ordinary people, the selfish self-proclaimed writer arrives home.
The sun went down as he types the last words; and as he transforms back to the ordinary guy who they need from Monday to Saturday. No problem, maybe next time a better Sunday will come. And the fishermen will cheerfully sing the false songs with me.
2012. október 19., péntek
Lessons learnt, mission made.
The past two months were full with ups and downs (mostly downs,duh), and during these troubled days only the following worn-out sentence kept me going:
Well, as we'd expect it, there is no bottom end and shit can get worse. Before learning it on my own, my dearest recent surfer from New Zealand warned me that my theory was faulty. Now, admitting that I've crossed the 'hopeless' line in my downfall, I stopped for a second. What could be a man's last, desperate glimmer of hope? The straw that eventually proves itself strong enough to pull him out the mess he created? This post will make an attempt on answering the question.
I had my first adult speaking class this week. Roaming through various topics, we ended up at religion. Given that all my students were moslims, the conversation turned out to be a kind of 'convince Peter about his beliefs/make him forget about his disbeliefs'. But I made a shortcut and even surprsising myself, I ended the class with these words (give or take):
'No matter what we believe in, which God we support or ideas we fancy, there is always a moment in our lives when we are down. And life looks so grim that we can't see because of our sufferings. And we cry out for somebody, something, a superhuman being, a kind creature who listens to our pain and sooths us, placing it's hands gently on our shoulders, and whispering 'You can get up now'. And suddenly, things turn around and we get our confidence back, our motivation, our emotions and everything is fixed.'
Needless to say how selfish ending it was, but my own words rang a bell in my head. Are we strong enough to fight our way, even during a constant and obvious decline?
We have to be. It's not a choice we make. We gotta find a passion, a hobby, a love, a friend, a job, a god, anything, that keeps us focus and organized. Religion is not the only lighthouse in our world to guide us through the pitch black which we created by blowing out the candles.
I feel like the moment has come in my life when writing can't be a hobby anymore. I'm bare naked now, stripped from my family, love, friends, country, happiness; I put myself into the situation. This has to be the very moment when smudging my shit won't work anymore. When turning to the past, to the comfort, to the guided childhood would be a fool's errand.
Well, fuck it then.
It's time to play my game as I always wanted but as I never could, never dared. Clearly. No smudge, no blur anywhere: just the perfection of a diamond shall shine through. May this diamond be small, low-value; but it'd be true.
And being honest and true is beyond everything in this life. And from now on... so as writing.
When you reach the bottom end, there is nowhere to go. Shit can't get worse from a point.
Well, as we'd expect it, there is no bottom end and shit can get worse. Before learning it on my own, my dearest recent surfer from New Zealand warned me that my theory was faulty. Now, admitting that I've crossed the 'hopeless' line in my downfall, I stopped for a second. What could be a man's last, desperate glimmer of hope? The straw that eventually proves itself strong enough to pull him out the mess he created? This post will make an attempt on answering the question.
I had my first adult speaking class this week. Roaming through various topics, we ended up at religion. Given that all my students were moslims, the conversation turned out to be a kind of 'convince Peter about his beliefs/make him forget about his disbeliefs'. But I made a shortcut and even surprsising myself, I ended the class with these words (give or take):
'No matter what we believe in, which God we support or ideas we fancy, there is always a moment in our lives when we are down. And life looks so grim that we can't see because of our sufferings. And we cry out for somebody, something, a superhuman being, a kind creature who listens to our pain and sooths us, placing it's hands gently on our shoulders, and whispering 'You can get up now'. And suddenly, things turn around and we get our confidence back, our motivation, our emotions and everything is fixed.'
Needless to say how selfish ending it was, but my own words rang a bell in my head. Are we strong enough to fight our way, even during a constant and obvious decline?
We have to be. It's not a choice we make. We gotta find a passion, a hobby, a love, a friend, a job, a god, anything, that keeps us focus and organized. Religion is not the only lighthouse in our world to guide us through the pitch black which we created by blowing out the candles.
I feel like the moment has come in my life when writing can't be a hobby anymore. I'm bare naked now, stripped from my family, love, friends, country, happiness; I put myself into the situation. This has to be the very moment when smudging my shit won't work anymore. When turning to the past, to the comfort, to the guided childhood would be a fool's errand.
Well, fuck it then.
It's time to play my game as I always wanted but as I never could, never dared. Clearly. No smudge, no blur anywhere: just the perfection of a diamond shall shine through. May this diamond be small, low-value; but it'd be true.
And being honest and true is beyond everything in this life. And from now on... so as writing.
2012. október 9., kedd
Passage
It happened so many times before.
When I felt down upon myself, when there was no way out of the murky mass of woe. Or when it was just a rainy day. When things didn't work out as I'd like them to work. So, when I'm depressed enough, it just happens: a familiar tune, a melody that I've been listening to for almost two decades, happens to show me something new.
The world out there stops to look so fucking grim. The rain suddenly changes from showering sadness to an eery curtain. I don't want to hide from it anymore, but rush through to see what is behind. I hit the wall earlier so what would scare me?
These tunes and the smell of change in the air of Trabzon confirmed again the only truth I encounter in my life, over and over:
No matter how hard you try, study, work, to earn a better position, money, wife, family, stature, knowledge, etc. it's all in vain. People, in a long shot, won't give a shit about you. All your greatest accomplishments will fade, because they are typical, thousands and thousands want it as well. Your footstep is small and remains unnoticed as long as you are tracing the people in front of you. But eventhough your footstep can't be bigger, paving the new track makes it unique, but most importantly: eternal.
How many human beings born and die with following schemes and patterns, designed by society and the painful memory of history. And how few is the number of those who are breaking through. Who refuse to follow. Now,... this is the only thing we should live for. Give the world something that nobody can repeat. Give the example for the next generations by not following the examples...
And the curtain obediently stretches wide, as we pass through. That's why I love rain; that's why I love writing; and that's why I love this life.
When I felt down upon myself, when there was no way out of the murky mass of woe. Or when it was just a rainy day. When things didn't work out as I'd like them to work. So, when I'm depressed enough, it just happens: a familiar tune, a melody that I've been listening to for almost two decades, happens to show me something new.
The world out there stops to look so fucking grim. The rain suddenly changes from showering sadness to an eery curtain. I don't want to hide from it anymore, but rush through to see what is behind. I hit the wall earlier so what would scare me?
These tunes and the smell of change in the air of Trabzon confirmed again the only truth I encounter in my life, over and over:
No matter how hard you try, study, work, to earn a better position, money, wife, family, stature, knowledge, etc. it's all in vain. People, in a long shot, won't give a shit about you. All your greatest accomplishments will fade, because they are typical, thousands and thousands want it as well. Your footstep is small and remains unnoticed as long as you are tracing the people in front of you. But eventhough your footstep can't be bigger, paving the new track makes it unique, but most importantly: eternal.
How many human beings born and die with following schemes and patterns, designed by society and the painful memory of history. And how few is the number of those who are breaking through. Who refuse to follow. Now,... this is the only thing we should live for. Give the world something that nobody can repeat. Give the example for the next generations by not following the examples...
And the curtain obediently stretches wide, as we pass through. That's why I love rain; that's why I love writing; and that's why I love this life.
2012. augusztus 31., péntek
Remixes, for what?
It has happened with all of us. A familiar tune starts in the radio, something we always love to hear. But wait, it's not entirely the same... some stupid beat starts and a 21st century eunuch starts to sing. And your favorite song is ruined. Today, while getting a haircut (at the kuaför) I was inspired to write this post when I heard the following song:
What the fuck, really. Just raise the tempo and "spice" it with the typical countryside beat and your remix is done. Needless to say, Sting is the original artist performing:
Next one, please! During an erasmus party, somebody thought it's a cool idea to violate our ears with this shit:
It's tricky because if you're drunk enough you won't reckognize the difference so you just sing it in euphoria until the usual dance shit just destroys your night. Original:
Our next contester just slightly made it to this list since he had some acceptable pop songs. But why remake the original Let's Dance to a super gay, autotune rubbish? No idea really, but here you are:
And now your tainted brain needs purification. David Bowie, straight from the 80's!
However there is nothing more irritating than the following song. Usual disco, but the "artist" won't stop at the "regular redundant remix" milestone, but surpasses itself in shitness and creates the following title: Eric Prydz VS Pink Floyd. As if there was a fucking fight between the two. Not that the outcome of such fight has ever been a question. Anyways, here you are, kill your ears:
The original (ehm sorry, the only true one):
The que is definetely endless. To put the frosting on our tasteless cake, I bring you a no.1 artist (well, rapper, businessman, etc.), the mighty Kanye West himself. We all know that pop industry loves stealing but hip-hop (let's say: the commercialized one) is way in front of it. No, eventhough Kanye bought the license, left most of the King Crimson song unused. Just a fucking line, unedited. I imagine mighty Kanye brainstorming in the studio with the producer:
'Yo homie, ya know I wanna kinda cheer my new single up'
'Go back to the 60-70's, you always find something useful.Take King Crimson for instance.'
'That shit is crazy man! Let's make a fat beat and spice it up with their chorus. Or just a line from the chorus, ya know what I mean'
'Yes Kanye. A minute and it's done.'
Really, what's the point? No idea either, but check it out here (0:37):
Make haste! Here is the original version to lye your ears:
I swear next time I'll write a post about good remixes (oops, done that before), or just pray for the gods of the pop industry not to steal quality music in the future.
2012. augusztus 29., szerda
Turkish L.A.
So back to Turkey, back to Trabzon.
2011 May is the month when I left the "most boring city in Turkey" and I never really thought I'm gonna return once hence I never bothered thinking about the city of my angels.
It was two days before, deep night. As usually, I was walking home from Meydan (unlike turkish; I've been told recently, the most important part to become turkish is to respect rule no.1: never walk) through the infamous district (Çömlekçi) where whores (let's be local and adapt the noun "Natasa") gather around. 1:120 the chance for my phone playing the song that fits my mood, the city, the people, and Trabzon in general: it's RHCP- Under the bridge.
Popular it is but only the stupidest blogger would compare L.A. to Trabzon. But let's stop for a sec.
Sometimes I feel
Like my only friend
The city I live in
The city of Angels
This is something Eger was never able to satisfy. As much I loved it, not even my lightest depression could have been cured by it. Unlike Trabzon. But let's move on:
I walk through her hills
Cause she knows who I am
Yep, many hills indeed, and since no turkish walks them, she should really know, who the fuck is this lone wolf wandering every night.
She sees my good deeds and
She kisses me windy
If there are any good deeds, the few kisses I receive are truly windy. They blow the rain in my face and are gone in a second. Suppose that's what I deserve after the doubtful deeds of mine.
It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone
Do I have to explain this part? Right after continues:
At least I have her love
The city she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry
Do we really cry? Definetely. To wrap up:
Here I stay...
I do stay whatever happens. And to make a more obvious comparison. Trabzon has seaside as well, and most importantly, its own Hollywood sign:
Speaking of which, I cheated on my city with the most beautiful turkish woman who came finally for two days (undercover, needless to say). Happiest two days for a long time. However, Turkey is not Hungary and doubts probably will never be gone; but for all those nasty scruples and haters, please listen carefully:
2011 May is the month when I left the "most boring city in Turkey" and I never really thought I'm gonna return once hence I never bothered thinking about the city of my angels.
It was two days before, deep night. As usually, I was walking home from Meydan (unlike turkish; I've been told recently, the most important part to become turkish is to respect rule no.1: never walk) through the infamous district (Çömlekçi) where whores (let's be local and adapt the noun "Natasa") gather around. 1:120 the chance for my phone playing the song that fits my mood, the city, the people, and Trabzon in general: it's RHCP- Under the bridge.
Popular it is but only the stupidest blogger would compare L.A. to Trabzon. But let's stop for a sec.
Sometimes I feel
Like my only friend
The city I live in
The city of Angels
This is something Eger was never able to satisfy. As much I loved it, not even my lightest depression could have been cured by it. Unlike Trabzon. But let's move on:
I walk through her hills
Cause she knows who I am
Yep, many hills indeed, and since no turkish walks them, she should really know, who the fuck is this lone wolf wandering every night.
She sees my good deeds and
She kisses me windy
If there are any good deeds, the few kisses I receive are truly windy. They blow the rain in my face and are gone in a second. Suppose that's what I deserve after the doubtful deeds of mine.
It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone
Do I have to explain this part? Right after continues:
At least I have her love
The city she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry
Do we really cry? Definetely. To wrap up:
Here I stay...
I do stay whatever happens. And to make a more obvious comparison. Trabzon has seaside as well, and most importantly, its own Hollywood sign:
But platonic loves like this would never fulfill.
Speaking of which, I cheated on my city with the most beautiful turkish woman who came finally for two days (undercover, needless to say). Happiest two days for a long time. However, Turkey is not Hungary and doubts probably will never be gone; but for all those nasty scruples and haters, please listen carefully:
Nope, there was no cheesier. As my chosen love is gone again, the L.A. I deserve awaits me.
As she always does.
2012. augusztus 3., péntek
Es muss sein!
(For the enthusiasts, turn on the following concert video, especially from 37.30 to 42.00)
Did it happen to you before that someone recommended an album, a book, or an artist, but for some reason you didn't care much about it; however, a month, year, decade after somehow you discovered that it's a true masterpiece? Well, The Unbearable Lightness of Being from Franco-Czech novelist Milan Kundera was a birthday present I got a year ago. After 30 pages I dropped it, I didn't find it interesting. Maybe it was my internship at the tabloid Blikk, or the book about Al-Jazeera that I had to read for my thesis made me so indifferent, but whatever the reason was, I put in a box, and it remained untouched for a year.
It stayed there until last week when I visited my mom and brothers who finally returned from England for a few weeks. Our house in Szentendre will be occupied by some friends so I had to pack my stuff and empty my old room completely. Roaming through the mess, I stumbled upon (yes I love that expression) the book. Being embarassed that I didn't read anything for a month, and still being regretful that I threw my birthday present so deep down, I picked it out, and started reading it.
It sucked me in. Irresistibly.
What made it perfect from the first second is the main motif, the continous presence and duel of fate and coincidence. Tereza, who had to be sent down on the river in a balrush basket just as it happened with Moses makes it pretty sure we are all destinned in our lives. Soon enough Kundera starts debating when he states Tomas needed six coincidences to meet Tereza, who was meant to be his. As the plot goes on, we see the characters suffering and/ or depending on chance and fate as well, until the very last moment when the following conversation takes place between Tomas and Tereza:
'Haven't you noticed I've been happy here, Tereza? ' Tomas said.
'Surgery was your mission.' she said.
'Missions are stupid, Tereza. I have no mission. No one has. And it's a terrific relief to realize you're free, free of all missions.'
Amongst all the truth he wrote, probably the one above is the quote that withstands time and keep its meaning to the coming generations. How unbearably hard to realize that we are not ought to do anything! That we are not obliged to find a mission. We do whatever we want to do in our lives, and finding a profession or mission should be just a part of it; see the great example of Pyotr I. Tchaikovsky, Russian composer who was educated to become a civil servant, and settled down with music only around his forties (note that learning music in Russia in his life was almost impossible).
The idea of complete aimlessness is troubling indeed. We are obliged to study, to work something for a lifetime; nobody asks us to fight for something until the end of our lives. Who should demand it anyways? If I become a teacher, and die as one, would it be my mission? Hardly. I chose it as a possible way out of thousands of other choices; I devoted myself to educate, to raise the youngsters, to make sure their head is filled with valuable knowledge. Would it be a mission? Never. No one appointed me to do it, to achieve anything in it; I felt like doing it fits my personality, my demands about my own life.
Let me bring another example, which I was thinking while reading already. Jonas, whom I became good friends during his stay in Eger, is learning to be a professional guitar player. Truth be told he is already one, on the way to become one of the greatests (that's the opinion of a laic though). Once he told me 'But you know it kinda sucks I have to do this. I have no other choice because I devoted myself to it. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I could start it over; I'd choose football or anything (cooking I suppose). But I can't, no way I can quit now.' The mission he chose himself is envied by many (including myself). So how big the shock was when I heard him saying he is wondering what'd he do if he could start it over! I never dreamt anything but to find my mission; this guy has it, and imagines what if he could restart. And right after it, Kundera says there is no mission to find.
Lingering on these troubling thoughts, my dad came home yesterday from his walk and invited me for a glass of wine. Stargazing, I brought up the book and the idea of missions. He doesn't particularly likes Kundera ('The Joke is great and his writings are entertaining, but after some time it smells like a forced intellectual dissertation. He doesn't have topic, he just pushes his wisdom and sentences through until they team up to a shallow motif') but my topic definetely made him talk a lot.
We were talking about what did we regret in our past. I couldn't line up many things, and if I found anything, I said 'if I'm not making the wrong choice, this and that wouldn't have happened. So eventually the bad decisions turned out to be good'. But he snubbed me saying: 'That is bullshit. The wrong choice you made left you in a stupid situation, and even if you came out into a good one, you had a bad experience. You are making a mistake by thinking about the only varying one line of fate. But what if you make the good choice in time? You'd find happiness sooner probably.'
How true it is! When we make a bad decision, we try to sooth ourselves that eventually (after a month, or a year) we will come out of it with a positive balance. Stupid and coward we are, ignoring the possibility of making the right decision instead of mistaking, we just try to save ourselves.
As we see now, finding our mission is never obligatory, but making the good decisions is supreme to everything else. As we never know what happens with the "what if"-s (as Tereza would never know what would have happened if they stay in Zürich instead of moving back to the communist occupied Prague), the best (and only) thing we can do is to make the right decision. To apply for a job or to university, to quit it and start writing our own book, to start travelling, to learn to play the guitar, to learn a new language, to love, to cheat, to hate, to marry, to divorce, to give birth, to be a kitch, or to shit on the street; anything and everything is in our power. But under the weight of the lightness of our lives we just tremble, complain, suffer, crawl ahead, not admitting that standing up and walking with pride is ridiculously easy.
We will never know which of the four characters (I missed out talking about Sabina and Franz though) stood up eventually. When Franz dies, Kundera gives the slap in the face: when we already start to believe in the unbearable lightness of being, we got a punch by the unbelievable fragility of life.
Despite all the dark and grim events, book never lifted me so high, opened my eyes, blew through the swamp of my brain like a hurricane. Anyone who wants his grey matter working should read it, and at the end may find out why Karenin is the truest of all characters.
Did it happen to you before that someone recommended an album, a book, or an artist, but for some reason you didn't care much about it; however, a month, year, decade after somehow you discovered that it's a true masterpiece? Well, The Unbearable Lightness of Being from Franco-Czech novelist Milan Kundera was a birthday present I got a year ago. After 30 pages I dropped it, I didn't find it interesting. Maybe it was my internship at the tabloid Blikk, or the book about Al-Jazeera that I had to read for my thesis made me so indifferent, but whatever the reason was, I put in a box, and it remained untouched for a year.
It stayed there until last week when I visited my mom and brothers who finally returned from England for a few weeks. Our house in Szentendre will be occupied by some friends so I had to pack my stuff and empty my old room completely. Roaming through the mess, I stumbled upon (yes I love that expression) the book. Being embarassed that I didn't read anything for a month, and still being regretful that I threw my birthday present so deep down, I picked it out, and started reading it.
It sucked me in. Irresistibly.
What made it perfect from the first second is the main motif, the continous presence and duel of fate and coincidence. Tereza, who had to be sent down on the river in a balrush basket just as it happened with Moses makes it pretty sure we are all destinned in our lives. Soon enough Kundera starts debating when he states Tomas needed six coincidences to meet Tereza, who was meant to be his. As the plot goes on, we see the characters suffering and/ or depending on chance and fate as well, until the very last moment when the following conversation takes place between Tomas and Tereza:
'Haven't you noticed I've been happy here, Tereza? ' Tomas said.
'Surgery was your mission.' she said.
'Missions are stupid, Tereza. I have no mission. No one has. And it's a terrific relief to realize you're free, free of all missions.'
Amongst all the truth he wrote, probably the one above is the quote that withstands time and keep its meaning to the coming generations. How unbearably hard to realize that we are not ought to do anything! That we are not obliged to find a mission. We do whatever we want to do in our lives, and finding a profession or mission should be just a part of it; see the great example of Pyotr I. Tchaikovsky, Russian composer who was educated to become a civil servant, and settled down with music only around his forties (note that learning music in Russia in his life was almost impossible).
The idea of complete aimlessness is troubling indeed. We are obliged to study, to work something for a lifetime; nobody asks us to fight for something until the end of our lives. Who should demand it anyways? If I become a teacher, and die as one, would it be my mission? Hardly. I chose it as a possible way out of thousands of other choices; I devoted myself to educate, to raise the youngsters, to make sure their head is filled with valuable knowledge. Would it be a mission? Never. No one appointed me to do it, to achieve anything in it; I felt like doing it fits my personality, my demands about my own life.
Let me bring another example, which I was thinking while reading already. Jonas, whom I became good friends during his stay in Eger, is learning to be a professional guitar player. Truth be told he is already one, on the way to become one of the greatests (that's the opinion of a laic though). Once he told me 'But you know it kinda sucks I have to do this. I have no other choice because I devoted myself to it. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I could start it over; I'd choose football or anything (cooking I suppose). But I can't, no way I can quit now.' The mission he chose himself is envied by many (including myself). So how big the shock was when I heard him saying he is wondering what'd he do if he could start it over! I never dreamt anything but to find my mission; this guy has it, and imagines what if he could restart. And right after it, Kundera says there is no mission to find.
Lingering on these troubling thoughts, my dad came home yesterday from his walk and invited me for a glass of wine. Stargazing, I brought up the book and the idea of missions. He doesn't particularly likes Kundera ('The Joke is great and his writings are entertaining, but after some time it smells like a forced intellectual dissertation. He doesn't have topic, he just pushes his wisdom and sentences through until they team up to a shallow motif') but my topic definetely made him talk a lot.
We were talking about what did we regret in our past. I couldn't line up many things, and if I found anything, I said 'if I'm not making the wrong choice, this and that wouldn't have happened. So eventually the bad decisions turned out to be good'. But he snubbed me saying: 'That is bullshit. The wrong choice you made left you in a stupid situation, and even if you came out into a good one, you had a bad experience. You are making a mistake by thinking about the only varying one line of fate. But what if you make the good choice in time? You'd find happiness sooner probably.'
How true it is! When we make a bad decision, we try to sooth ourselves that eventually (after a month, or a year) we will come out of it with a positive balance. Stupid and coward we are, ignoring the possibility of making the right decision instead of mistaking, we just try to save ourselves.
As we see now, finding our mission is never obligatory, but making the good decisions is supreme to everything else. As we never know what happens with the "what if"-s (as Tereza would never know what would have happened if they stay in Zürich instead of moving back to the communist occupied Prague), the best (and only) thing we can do is to make the right decision. To apply for a job or to university, to quit it and start writing our own book, to start travelling, to learn to play the guitar, to learn a new language, to love, to cheat, to hate, to marry, to divorce, to give birth, to be a kitch, or to shit on the street; anything and everything is in our power. But under the weight of the lightness of our lives we just tremble, complain, suffer, crawl ahead, not admitting that standing up and walking with pride is ridiculously easy.
We will never know which of the four characters (I missed out talking about Sabina and Franz though) stood up eventually. When Franz dies, Kundera gives the slap in the face: when we already start to believe in the unbearable lightness of being, we got a punch by the unbelievable fragility of life.
Despite all the dark and grim events, book never lifted me so high, opened my eyes, blew through the swamp of my brain like a hurricane. Anyone who wants his grey matter working should read it, and at the end may find out why Karenin is the truest of all characters.
2012. augusztus 2., csütörtök
Three songs for the summer
The contrabasser strikes back
I recently had the chance to get to know Zaz, this once street jazz singer, nowadays popular artist touring the world. Once my enthusiasm was over, I realized how much the double bass player and guitarists are shaking up her performance (also it'd be unfair to call it her performance). Youtube was kind enough to guide me to a comment which was made by the double bass player (coincidence, huh Monika?). Fast enough I ended up at his myspace, and although couldn't find much, I was really proud to find something new that makes me listen to it over and over. Mathieu Verlot, ladies and gentlemen: click on the link and browse through his tracks, my fav is Bossa Dorado, which would surely fit a hot summer night.
Be cool
Each summer needs a song that immortalizes the image of beaches, girls, cocktails and relaxation (and all combined). The topic is weary enough, but let us admit we all need a chillin' song for the hangovers, for sitting by the pool, or just trying to survive during the dog days. I present you Poolside, which caught my attention thanks to my second couchsurfer, Matthieu (thanks again for it). It doesn't take to be a genius to realize they play exactly the genre described above: simple, groovy, simple, chilling, and simplicity again. Slow down, says the title and we obey: put it on repeat and beggin' the chillin'!
I recently had the chance to get to know Zaz, this once street jazz singer, nowadays popular artist touring the world. Once my enthusiasm was over, I realized how much the double bass player and guitarists are shaking up her performance (also it'd be unfair to call it her performance). Youtube was kind enough to guide me to a comment which was made by the double bass player (coincidence, huh Monika?). Fast enough I ended up at his myspace, and although couldn't find much, I was really proud to find something new that makes me listen to it over and over. Mathieu Verlot, ladies and gentlemen: click on the link and browse through his tracks, my fav is Bossa Dorado, which would surely fit a hot summer night.
Be cool
Each summer needs a song that immortalizes the image of beaches, girls, cocktails and relaxation (and all combined). The topic is weary enough, but let us admit we all need a chillin' song for the hangovers, for sitting by the pool, or just trying to survive during the dog days. I present you Poolside, which caught my attention thanks to my second couchsurfer, Matthieu (thanks again for it). It doesn't take to be a genius to realize they play exactly the genre described above: simple, groovy, simple, chilling, and simplicity again. Slow down, says the title and we obey: put it on repeat and beggin' the chillin'!
That bass!
Time after time I'm getting weakened and let r'n'b and rap flow into my days and weeks. Normally it only occurs while working out: nothing is better for one more push up then some beats brought by Dr. Dre. But sometimes it just happens that I hear a bass beat and I can't get it out of my head. The same happened with No Church in the Wild by Kanye West. I didn't want to like it, but it slipped through the barriers of my snobbery, and hit the bullseye. "Fat black beat" as we call it with friends; hope you like it.
Originally I wanted to write about the brand new Frusciante album, but I truly and desperately feel it's a disgrace. Maybe some other fans will educate me about it; looking forward to it. Until then, be good to each other, watch the Olympics, and read the blog! New posts are on the horizon, including a little phylosophical one on Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being which I lately finished reading. So prepare and enjoy the rest of the summer!
2012. július 26., csütörtök
Just a regular summer dusk
Many of you may wonder what makes shitty weather at Lake Balaton bearable. A little teaser of what is going on in our house during these days... (yeeees, bad sound quality)
Dad is practising for a little concert of his, and during his sessions windows are open so his music just flows across the surroundings. Pretty awesome.
2012. június 14., csütörtök
Few words about the german national football team
I never really liked the german football team. I don't know where are the origins of this feeling; maybe I was harrassed too many times during my childhood by some badass german kids next to Lake Balaton. Or maybe because long time ago when I was a die hard Real Madrid fan, I hated everytime Bayern Münich beated them.Still the biggest possibility is that I just don't like the way they play.
But I know one thing for sure: it's not because they are full of immigrants. The popular theory which says Germany wouldn't be so great without it's foreigner-origined players is a utterly bullshit. All who like football a bit, should quote Gary Lineker, former forward of Germany's archenemy, England:
France. It has been like this forever, but the '98 World Champion team had just a few "true" frenchmen amongst their ranks, many of them sitting on the bench. Without googleing: E.Petit, F.Barthez, D.Deschamps, L. Blanc, oops wanted to put Yuri Djorkaeff but he really doesn't fit, does he? Ever since, at least half of their team consists black african origined players, and let's say one quarter north-african (Tunisia, Morocco etc.).
England. The cultural melting pot of Europe. You just have to walk the streets of London, and you'd be completely lost- almost every second man speaks another language than English. Lately, the national football team boosted a great number of black african players, including the since-retired E. Heskey, one of the most expensive defenders in English club football, R. Ferdinand, or the young talent, T.Walcott.
Netherlands. Nobody says a word about them although more than half of them are black, and the new-age Dutch team relied on great players such as C.Seedorf, E.Davids, or all-time Dutch national team top scorer P. Kluivert.
(Spain should be a whole separate chapter, since they don't have many other ethnicity, but the catalonian-basque issues are a unique problem in their national team.)
Portugal. Some of the biggest dribblers of the national team are black: such as Nani, or base pillar of defense Miguel, not to mention Liedson..
I could bring up a lot of other national teams with players coming from other ethnicities or nations (Ibrahimovic from Sweden, Balotelli from Italy etc.), but that'd take too much time, so let's come to a stop at our main topic:
Germany. Probably the list of foreign-origin players would be as long as England's or France's. So why are still people taking it so serious? Because of their past? Their history? Because they shouldn't field any other players than pure-blooded Germans? These old-fashioned thoughts are so shameful, especially in Europe, especially with some basic knowledge of what happened before. And still there are plenty of those who really feel it's unfair that Germany has foreigners in their national team.
What everybody forgets is that maybe Germany makes those steps for 60 years from now on to make people forget their past. And for that, they deserve no racist judging, hate speech, but respect in all possible ways.
But I know one thing for sure: it's not because they are full of immigrants. The popular theory which says Germany wouldn't be so great without it's foreigner-origined players is a utterly bullshit. All who like football a bit, should quote Gary Lineker, former forward of Germany's archenemy, England:
"Football is a game for 22 people that run around, play the ball, and one referee who makes a slew of mistakes, and in the end Germany always wins."I won't list all the euro and world ch'ships they have won, the great players they had etc. I more like to emphasize how stupid is to judge a team because of the mixed ethnicity they have.
France. It has been like this forever, but the '98 World Champion team had just a few "true" frenchmen amongst their ranks, many of them sitting on the bench. Without googleing: E.Petit, F.Barthez, D.Deschamps, L. Blanc, oops wanted to put Yuri Djorkaeff but he really doesn't fit, does he? Ever since, at least half of their team consists black african origined players, and let's say one quarter north-african (Tunisia, Morocco etc.).
England. The cultural melting pot of Europe. You just have to walk the streets of London, and you'd be completely lost- almost every second man speaks another language than English. Lately, the national football team boosted a great number of black african players, including the since-retired E. Heskey, one of the most expensive defenders in English club football, R. Ferdinand, or the young talent, T.Walcott.
Netherlands. Nobody says a word about them although more than half of them are black, and the new-age Dutch team relied on great players such as C.Seedorf, E.Davids, or all-time Dutch national team top scorer P. Kluivert.
(Spain should be a whole separate chapter, since they don't have many other ethnicity, but the catalonian-basque issues are a unique problem in their national team.)
Portugal. Some of the biggest dribblers of the national team are black: such as Nani, or base pillar of defense Miguel, not to mention Liedson..
I could bring up a lot of other national teams with players coming from other ethnicities or nations (Ibrahimovic from Sweden, Balotelli from Italy etc.), but that'd take too much time, so let's come to a stop at our main topic:
Germany. Probably the list of foreign-origin players would be as long as England's or France's. So why are still people taking it so serious? Because of their past? Their history? Because they shouldn't field any other players than pure-blooded Germans? These old-fashioned thoughts are so shameful, especially in Europe, especially with some basic knowledge of what happened before. And still there are plenty of those who really feel it's unfair that Germany has foreigners in their national team.
What everybody forgets is that maybe Germany makes those steps for 60 years from now on to make people forget their past. And for that, they deserve no racist judging, hate speech, but respect in all possible ways.
2012. június 10., vasárnap
Coincidence
Yes I know I didnt update the blog for a long time, but I have my reasons (finals, if you ever heard about it). Today's post I wont make a big effort either. Just a short (10 mins) vid on coincidence, accidental happenings. Its a great little addition for the tattoo (die symbol) I have. I always tried to explain what do I think about accidentals, but this guy definetely brings more point, not to mention he is a native speaker so it's much easier to understand him. Destiny-believers, fate supporters, behold, because this video is gonna shock your world at the very foundation! :)
2012. május 14., hétfő
Little Laurens!
the final compulsory stuff during my media studies. special thanks to nalan for an above-school-quality camera.
2012. május 5., szombat
Hot trip to heaven
The title refers to this
Egle has to catch a train back to Eger, so we rub a few teardrops in the station, and plan our next move. This is how we do it, desperately waiting 4 hours to for our train to Arad (bank of river Kőrös):
Getting to Arad makes no difference when purchasing a map makes us realize there is no way we get to the Serbian border from there. So Timisoara (Temesvár) is our next stop. Hopes are low and concerns are high as we recognize: no train nor bus to the border, not even the day after. Making peace with the idea of hitchiking to the frontier on Thursday, renting a motel room is the last action of the day. My apologies, the last one is the moment of joy when (after a well-deserved and needed shower) we eat our dinner:
Our luck reaches another level when the fifth car stops and takes us to the border next morning. Things looks suspicious: no cars, no people there, but being convinced we are at the right place, we head towards the crossing. And here I make my biggest (and so far, only) violation against law:
In case you wonder, FYI: the picture immortalizes the moment when I already passed the Romanian, and about the cross the Serbian border. Illegaly. No surprises when on the Serbian side a sentry guard runs and shouts, and then takes us to the building, saying problema.
Our map lied, big time. The frontier is closed. After three hours of waiting in a room (from which we can't get out), they happily announce: we can go to Serbia. Hooray! Wait a second... Romanian patrol car rolls in, and takes us to their office. They make us write a declaration about why we violated the closed border, how we came here etc., telegram style but short novel length. After an hour of desperation, being questioned by officers, whose English is below-basic (and that's a compassionate assesment), the miracle happens: they let us go.
We don't even recognize walking three kms in the plains (that's a lie though), and crossing the border to Serbia is the biggest relief since Pál Schmitt's resignation.
Srspka Crnja is the first town we cross, without googleing or a native speaker this name is a definite tongue twister. Who cares, if an albanese moslim confectioner who speaks Hungarian takes you to Kikinda? No one, right? So our happiness is unmatched when we get on the bus that heads to Horgos, the closest Serbian town to the Hungarian border:
From here a taxi takes us to Szeged: we are finally at home. No bus nor train again, but it doesnt'bother any of us- we are in Hungary. Motel, and taking a bus in the dawn- we finally arrive to Eger 11 am., Friday.
The pleasant trip, designed for three days got and additional two; but the memories and adventure we got counts much more than any kind of difficulty we faced.
Next year, same time, same place?
Months after stepping out of Hungary, I eventually decided to leave the country for three days. The original plan was to hitchike until Oradea (or Nagyvárad in hungarian), Romania, spend a day there and catch a train back to Eger on Wednesday. As some of you may know, one of my fav quote is as follows:
The good traveller has no plans nor intention on arriving
Well, this time I had no intention not to arrive as it was planned. Guess what, nothing went according to my ideas.
The whole thing started a bit slow, getting rides in the hungarian plain Alföld (more precisely-Hortobágy) takes time. Not to mention the burning mid-July sun... with a stupid color invertion, here is how we looked like during these hours (Nalan-Egle-Me):
After 6 hours we reached Debrecen, east to Eger (normally it should be around 1,5 hrs on highway) on road 33 (secondary). Not much time left until sunset, so catching a ride towards the border and also a bus brought us just 10 kms short on reaching Romania. Monday's last car finally took us to Oradea, just before 20.00 (ROM time).
In order to keep attention, important sidenote: what do you get if you mix a turkish passport, an EU visa plus entering Romania, a non-Schengen country? Answer: going back to Hungary is only possible by visiting another country.
Couchsurfing is still awesome, our host is a cute, young couple. The flat makes us feel like we were at home, and their little baby boy, Peter is the icing on the cake:
Oradea is a busy, green town in Western Romania. People speak both Romanian and Hungarian, so the being abroad feeling is not complete for me. Not that it takes anything away from the values of the town, we have a great day strolling through the streets.
The schorching sun makes us run for shelter, Laktobar is definetely the place to hide in with its retro feeling and extravagant decoration:
After refreshments, the castle is our final destination. The little pond there makes the girls fully satisfied with the sightseeing:
Our day is complete with a few drinks in Moscow, an alternative bar situated in the centre; we all prepare for going back the next day. But Wednesday morning wakes us up with a shocking information (remember my sidenote): Nalan can't go back to Hungary directly. After a few calls to turkish embassies, the previous sentence is more than confirmed, we are obliged to visit another country before re-entering Hungary.
Egle has to catch a train back to Eger, so we rub a few teardrops in the station, and plan our next move. This is how we do it, desperately waiting 4 hours to for our train to Arad (bank of river Kőrös):
Getting to Arad makes no difference when purchasing a map makes us realize there is no way we get to the Serbian border from there. So Timisoara (Temesvár) is our next stop. Hopes are low and concerns are high as we recognize: no train nor bus to the border, not even the day after. Making peace with the idea of hitchiking to the frontier on Thursday, renting a motel room is the last action of the day. My apologies, the last one is the moment of joy when (after a well-deserved and needed shower) we eat our dinner:
Our map lied, big time. The frontier is closed. After three hours of waiting in a room (from which we can't get out), they happily announce: we can go to Serbia. Hooray! Wait a second... Romanian patrol car rolls in, and takes us to their office. They make us write a declaration about why we violated the closed border, how we came here etc., telegram style but short novel length. After an hour of desperation, being questioned by officers, whose English is below-basic (and that's a compassionate assesment), the miracle happens: they let us go.
We don't even recognize walking three kms in the plains (that's a lie though), and crossing the border to Serbia is the biggest relief since Pál Schmitt's resignation.
Srspka Crnja is the first town we cross, without googleing or a native speaker this name is a definite tongue twister. Who cares, if an albanese moslim confectioner who speaks Hungarian takes you to Kikinda? No one, right? So our happiness is unmatched when we get on the bus that heads to Horgos, the closest Serbian town to the Hungarian border:
The pleasant trip, designed for three days got and additional two; but the memories and adventure we got counts much more than any kind of difficulty we faced.
Next year, same time, same place?
2012. március 30., péntek
Atmosphere is the keyword
Sometimes when you wake up, and just feel that there is something in the air that ensures your day is gonna be perfect. Some silent music assists for washing out the sleepiness from your eyes.
Sitting at the table, preparing a bit for your lesson, reading the news when a slow motion from your side reminds you that you are not alone. Mild and calm, tired but sweet enough, the motion flows on and ends up in a gorgeuos smile.
Shy sunbeams are filtering through the clouds, cherishing the long black hair, exposing its brownish features. The motion decides to move on: eyelids are eventually opening up, repeating the smile the mouth did just a second ago.
The motion trembles and shakes as I can't stop myself intervening in it. The fragile phenomena is at my grasp, and I try not to let it go.
The motion is over but now the day is flowing on. It seems like the beauty of that motion in the morning was planted into the world. Bitter thoughts don't even bother with disturbing me. I spend hours sitting in the window, writing what I have to write, and thinking about...
Sitting at the table, preparing a bit for your lesson, reading the news when a slow motion from your side reminds you that you are not alone. Mild and calm, tired but sweet enough, the motion flows on and ends up in a gorgeuos smile.
Shy sunbeams are filtering through the clouds, cherishing the long black hair, exposing its brownish features. The motion decides to move on: eyelids are eventually opening up, repeating the smile the mouth did just a second ago.
The motion trembles and shakes as I can't stop myself intervening in it. The fragile phenomena is at my grasp, and I try not to let it go.
The motion is over but now the day is flowing on. It seems like the beauty of that motion in the morning was planted into the world. Bitter thoughts don't even bother with disturbing me. I spend hours sitting in the window, writing what I have to write, and thinking about...
What today looks like a tiny bit of happiness, will be regarded as one of my best moment tomorrow.
2012. március 28., szerda
Dirty west
no approval needed
dirty west?
does that exist? come on. matter of a point of view. still.
you thinka fucking solo, yes, guitar would fix all the shit that happened? wake upNEO this is the blog where you dont have to put commas, periods because the author doesnt give a shit
about the blog
bout life
bout
eh
who knows
still.
some ppl still wish he (me?) cares
what are you talking about again
sobriety and peter levay are not friends... actually they werent at all since one motherfucker created "time".
had to be jesus, no other ass could have done that sin...
anyway! you, dearest reader, did you know that you, yes, you, foreigner are more interested in this blog than my fellow hungarians? to be correct: fellow madafaca hungarians give less shit in my HUNGARIAN blog than you, dear foreigners give to my other one...
disgraceful...
who cares peter?
sink in the waves of common ppl. your fate is written in the book of ignorant people,... isnt it? haha
enjoy life
bastard
you know how it works
one problem is
that you cannot explain it in
this simple language
dirty west?
does that exist? come on. matter of a point of view. still.
you thinka fucking solo, yes, guitar would fix all the shit that happened? wake upNEO this is the blog where you dont have to put commas, periods because the author doesnt give a shit
about the blog
bout life
bout
eh
who knows
still.
some ppl still wish he (me?) cares
what are you talking about again
sobriety and peter levay are not friends... actually they werent at all since one motherfucker created "time".
had to be jesus, no other ass could have done that sin...
anyway! you, dearest reader, did you know that you, yes, you, foreigner are more interested in this blog than my fellow hungarians? to be correct: fellow madafaca hungarians give less shit in my HUNGARIAN blog than you, dear foreigners give to my other one...
disgraceful...
who cares peter?
sink in the waves of common ppl. your fate is written in the book of ignorant people,... isnt it? haha
enjoy life
bastard
you know how it works
one problem is
that you cannot explain it in
this simple language
2012. március 19., hétfő
O! principles of mine.
I always had a feeling that people are showing off if they write bout the following stuff:
sexual life
how interesting/ succesful/ valuable/ smart his/her personality is
new gf/bf/pet/whale/freshly baked cake
tattoo
Suppose you figured it out why did i make the list above. Bingo! its all about the tattoo. I have a theory that you can make as many you please as long it has a meaning. Not like putting a Nike logo on your ass, commercializing your most (?) precious part; you know what i mean.
So, as some of you may already know, i got a die (dice if the word is not familiar in singular), which stand for:
1. Philosophy. Fate is not shaping our lives. Coincidence and our decisions are forging it.Period.
What relatively new is that i came up with the following topics, that are gonna be drawn/ put on my lovely baby skin:
2. Love. Does that need any explanation?
3. Career. Eventhough I pretend I dont give a shit, I would LOVE to have my passion as my career. Way to go.
4. Family. Cos I wanna become a cute daddy. No argument here.
May noticed that three are not defined. its cos i have no clue about their place, size, symbol exactly. I guess i have time though. Im a man at my word, especially on my blog (thats irony right), so i ll do all of these!
oh wait...what did i say about showing off in the beginning? ah nevermind. im keep doing it since 2007.
sexual life
how interesting/ succesful/ valuable/ smart his/her personality is
new gf/bf/pet/whale/freshly baked cake
tattoo
Suppose you figured it out why did i make the list above. Bingo! its all about the tattoo. I have a theory that you can make as many you please as long it has a meaning. Not like putting a Nike logo on your ass, commercializing your most (?) precious part; you know what i mean.
So, as some of you may already know, i got a die (dice if the word is not familiar in singular), which stand for:
1. Philosophy. Fate is not shaping our lives. Coincidence and our decisions are forging it.Period.
What relatively new is that i came up with the following topics, that are gonna be drawn/ put on my lovely baby skin:
2. Love. Does that need any explanation?
3. Career. Eventhough I pretend I dont give a shit, I would LOVE to have my passion as my career. Way to go.
4. Family. Cos I wanna become a cute daddy. No argument here.
May noticed that three are not defined. its cos i have no clue about their place, size, symbol exactly. I guess i have time though. Im a man at my word, especially on my blog (thats irony right), so i ll do all of these!
oh wait...what did i say about showing off in the beginning? ah nevermind. im keep doing it since 2007.
2012. március 12., hétfő
Iyi geceler... eventually
any idea what is gonzo?
weellll
i pretend
this is is pure gonzo
nah this is actually pure peter. pure letters. pure fucked up words, one after another. sacmalama yaa! wise one would say. wise one would say.
do i really believe words are my future?
beto
you,spanish director genius. you said. im the gifted one. well... welll played, friend. if i EVER get an appreciation for my writer knowledge...or however you call it... you ll be the first one i mention. tamam mi?
whoever you are!
leave me
human beings
leave me...
attention is the thing i seek most and least...
please...
know me.. understand me
and
iyi geceler.
weellll
i pretend
this is is pure gonzo
nah this is actually pure peter. pure letters. pure fucked up words, one after another. sacmalama yaa! wise one would say. wise one would say.
do i really believe words are my future?
beto
you,spanish director genius. you said. im the gifted one. well... welll played, friend. if i EVER get an appreciation for my writer knowledge...or however you call it... you ll be the first one i mention. tamam mi?
whoever you are!
leave me
human beings
leave me...
attention is the thing i seek most and least...
please...
know me.. understand me
and
iyi geceler.
shitty thoughts of a monday dawn
no words here to say
if you know hunter s thompson
well
you kinda know what am i talking bout
if not
weeeellll you re pretty fucked here.
writing without having your mind fucked up, messed up, whatever... is just pointless
your wisest thoughts are coming right after you dream, you re drunk, you re high and so on.
your ego would never be higher ever.
so why bother with forcing yourself typing a letter while being sober?
no honesty there
i have it so guess what im affected. any complaints?
please... pretend you like your life... your studies...your job.. your whatever. and then, read my line here below:
you dont enjoy it.
quit whining
quit doing the shit you ve done before.
start...
whatever you would prefer.
if you know hunter s thompson
well
you kinda know what am i talking bout
if not
weeeellll you re pretty fucked here.
writing without having your mind fucked up, messed up, whatever... is just pointless
your wisest thoughts are coming right after you dream, you re drunk, you re high and so on.
your ego would never be higher ever.
so why bother with forcing yourself typing a letter while being sober?
no honesty there
i have it so guess what im affected. any complaints?
please... pretend you like your life... your studies...your job.. your whatever. and then, read my line here below:
you dont enjoy it.
quit whining
quit doing the shit you ve done before.
start...
whatever you would prefer.
2012. március 7., szerda
Quote of the day.
Lets put the person (whom I'm quoting) into the mysterious mist of ... hmm Turkey. And here is what I've been told:
Nothing else to say here
"i know.. but im taking tourism lessons.. because i like the teacher.. and i have enough credit because i took tourism lessons
and i love you because i love you..."
Nothing else to say here
2012. március 3., szombat
Little redundant thoughts of mine
those were great times, eh?
ground control to peter...
nothing to worry about, living our dream, not caring much about who we are or who are we supposed to be... time has ceased to exist, and we just smoked on the balcony, listening to great music, talking about women, life -basic things with a really philosophical approach though-, just the stuff those do who can really afford being careless.
just slightly over a dozen, those people succesfully created a pocket-sized universe of perfection.friendship were born out of nowhere, lifes were linked in a blink of an eye; and we didn't even recognize it. just now, sitting here, almost one year after it.
ground control to peter...
great memories should never make our job in the present harder, but now its a pretty hard pill to swallow...
the past years' milestones always ended with flights: leaving Trabzon in late May, Istanbul (Bourgas) in mid-June, not to mention the near past journeys. it was great, but it has to be released, huh?
ground control to peter...
just having a little shot of memories here... guess it happens with everyone. im back on earth, houston. with two feet standing.
ground control to peter...
nothing to worry about, living our dream, not caring much about who we are or who are we supposed to be... time has ceased to exist, and we just smoked on the balcony, listening to great music, talking about women, life -basic things with a really philosophical approach though-, just the stuff those do who can really afford being careless.
just slightly over a dozen, those people succesfully created a pocket-sized universe of perfection.friendship were born out of nowhere, lifes were linked in a blink of an eye; and we didn't even recognize it. just now, sitting here, almost one year after it.
ground control to peter...
great memories should never make our job in the present harder, but now its a pretty hard pill to swallow...
the past years' milestones always ended with flights: leaving Trabzon in late May, Istanbul (Bourgas) in mid-June, not to mention the near past journeys. it was great, but it has to be released, huh?
ground control to peter...
just having a little shot of memories here... guess it happens with everyone. im back on earth, houston. with two feet standing.
2012. február 16., csütörtök
The best remixes ever.
I always thought that making a cover of a song is the most blasphemous thing that man can do with music. Later on I had to realize that things aren't like as I thought, furthermore, a few of my favorite songs are remixes. To avoid any misunderstandings, rap, all kinds of electronic and generally the shit they are covering in every second week are excluded from the following top 5 fav's list.
1. Cure - Purple Haze
I was never a big fan of The Cure, let's say they have always been only a marginal matter of my music taste. Jesus what a sentence! So, nor Jimi is a frequent visitor in my playlists, but hey! just listen to this and it'll blow your mind. Here is the original.
I must confess I love Morcheeba. But I also have to say Skye's name was never familiar until I stumbled upon this lovely melody. The song of Gorillaz was transformed to something just barely cheesy, acoustic-unplugged style happiness song that makes you believe even the orcs of Mordor are adorable and humble creatures.
Cheesy mode: ON. There is no toplist without the RHCP nor without Frusciante (and my apologies but no way I'm putting the shitty Ramones cover here), but truth be told Donna Summer is kinda weird choice. Is it? No surprises for those who ever heard John's solo work. And Flea just makes it super funky.
Damon Albarn is genius of our time. So why shouldn't he re-compose one hit wonder group XX's Crystalized? Melancholy plus simple disco beat... but it's just perfect! Check out the original here.
Radiohead cover is compulsory. No doubt I found a gem here... evethough the first time I felt this a huge misfit, I had to realize it's pure genius, and even competes with the original in all levels.
+1 R.E.M. - Wicked Game
1. Cure - Purple Haze
I was never a big fan of The Cure, let's say they have always been only a marginal matter of my music taste. Jesus what a sentence! So, nor Jimi is a frequent visitor in my playlists, but hey! just listen to this and it'll blow your mind. Here is the original.
2. Skye- Feel Good Inc.
3. John Frusciante - I feel love
4. Gorillaz - Crystalized
5. Gnarls Barkley - Reckoner
+1 R.E.M. - Wicked Game
I feel so ashamed, now that I finished the list I just realized I forgot the song that is just perfect in the original as well as in the cover version... To represent my deep devotion towards these songs, both deserves an embed here. Ah, wait, what? Helena Christensen is also in the clip? Cannot be better...
2012. január 16., hétfő
panem et zephyros!
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