Afterlife. The promise of paradise. Fuck it, who needs paradise. Just afterlife. The word tells you everything. When you die, you do not actually die. You continue existing. You had so much fun that it has to become everlasting. Right?
Your carcass will be left on Earth; your soul, conveniently shaped just the way you looked liked during your life, will float to the eternal lands of Afterlife.
I am not describing any religious, whimsical archetype of heaven or paradise. I am proud enough to create my own little afterlife scenario. To demonstrate how admittance works, I present you a generic conversation. The protagonist walks up to a shiny, golden gate with a woman on guard; this woman should be the protagonist's mundane love.
I. Entrance
- Heaven seems prettier with you.
- Oh, shut up Abel.
- So what's the catch? I'm confessing my sins and you let me enter heaven?
- Right on the spot, as always. Well, if you want to enter, you gotta bend me over and take me from behind as you never did before.
- Ha! That doesn't sound appropriate, though I'm getting a sluggish boner here...
- So what are you waiting for? Take me and enter!
- No, wait a sec' hon'. This is a test. I knew it! Shit, you are the devil himself...
- Abel, your sexual need is encrypted in your DNA. Devil isn't. Heaven isn't.
- And yet I'm here at the gates of heaven.
- Well, I wouldn't say it's heaven...
- But I died. This is some kind of afterlife, and...
- Abel! These clouds floating around would never fuck me. Please, don't let me hanging here.
- I'm a bit disappointed with this afterlife thing. It's not like I don't appreciate the idea of having sex with you in order to enter, but still...
- So what the hell you expected? Saint Peter evaluating your life? Fanfares and angels accompanying on your way to heaven? Meeting your beloved ones? Chatting with Einstein about relativity? Bullshit! You just make that up down there. That life is nothing more than reproducing your species.
- Why on earth I would like entering heaven then? What's in for me?
- Actually, there is no option. You don't even have to fuck me... I'm just a little bored here. I have to let you in anyhow.
- Let me in, then.
- There you go.
- Oh! And what will I find?
- The transfer.
- The what?
- The transfer. Your performance will be evaluated, then you will receive a grade, and according to your total production, they send you back.
- What the hell? Did the Wachowski brothers write this shit? And what performance?
- Your performance regarding reproduction. I'm not familiar with your score, but I heard you weren't doing great...
- What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
- Well, you had no children, you slept with several women but failed to impregnate any. Probably you will be dropped somewhere in Europe. You know, ageing society and all...
- Okay just let me pass.
II. Transfer
Abel arrives at the transfer. His father welcomes him with a jolly smile.
- Father?
- Abel! You son of a bitch, you die and our lineage dries up as a puddle of semen on the carpet!
- I guess I wasn't expecting that, father...
- The hell cares, you whiny bastard! Now, you heard how it goes.
- What?
- The transfer.
- Oh, she told me something but...
- She knows it well enough. I'll pick you a country and a family. I hope you won't disappoint them!
- To hell with all this, father! I just died and you are sending me back to Earth just to reproduce?
- Right as you say.
- This is insane.
- Not being able to impregnate anyone is insane! When I got here I was transferred to fuckin' China! You know why? Birth control! They found out that I reproduced myself too frequently. So they barred me the next time by sending me to China! Ha, idiots! The next time I was here, they registered me as a unique predicament!
- That is downright wicked. Father, if life's sole meaning is to reproduce your genome, I would very much prefer to stay here and listen to your mighty saga on inseminating every country around the globe.
- Son, stop being a pussy. Life's sole meaning is indeed to reproduce your genom. But luckily our brains have evolved a lot, making us capable for doing a little tinkering between two intercourses. Science, arts, religion, politics, sports, some prefer fighting in wars; you are spoilt for choice when it comes to filling up your free time. Just keep in mind what your initial goal is.
- So where is the end of the cycle?
- Until our free time activities exterminate our species.
- And how will I remember my goal?
- You won't. Your memory is erased. You'll start over. Format C, if you know what I mean.
- Father... I'm disappointed.
- Oh quit griping, you miserable ass! You've always taken shit too serious. Okay, let's see where they send you...
- They? Who are they? Are they any similar to some deities?
- No time to explain that son. Your ticket has arrived.
- What does it say?
- I can't tell you that. Now, close your eyes and start spinning around...
- Really?
- Nope, I was joking. Stay put. I'll touch your forehead, and then everything will reset.
III. Arrival
Hospital corridor, young man is sitting on a fridge-like object. Nurse rushes out.
- Young man! You are a father now! He was born just a few minutes before!
- And my wife?
- She struggled a lot, but feels fine. Want to see them?
He wants, surely. He never knew how it will feel like. He rushes in the hospital room, his wife sleeping, and a tiny little package, neatly covered with blanket next to her.
- There you are!
- Sir? Sorry to bother... but what would be his name?
- The same as his father. The same as his father...
2014. december 27., szombat
2014. november 28., péntek
Purple haze
I don't know if it happened during daylight.
I don't even know which day it was.
It was just the moment that mattered. It was the haze of now that wove its loose yet impenetrable web around the two of us, even though dozens were in the very same room. It did not matter. It was the intagible entanglement of two; the undisputed beauty of a couple that would meet the first time.
That was me and you, with the web around, and the promise of intangible turning into tangible.
What a fucking failure.
Oh, I got no fancy words for that. You can't say it was solely a failure. You got to make it more vulgar. People don't care about failures; they only care about fucked up failures. And hell, we excelled in that!
Eventually there was something we excelled in.
Oh yeah, baby. We did. I'd love to blame only you, though. Yet, we did it. Oh, your name? You are saying I can't remember your name? That might be true, actually. I gave you names all the time, that was fun. But I can't recall your name. Were you one person? When did it happen? My first year in Eger? Second? Third? Has it happened every single damned year? It might be the case.
How pitiful.
Dear Reader! Don't blame me. As a sentimental creature, I do enjoy the seductive, elusive phenomena of the purple haze. And I'm surrendering for it over and over. Do you remember the story of Achilles? Upon his birth her mother, Tethis dipped the baby into river Styx which flows through the domain of the dead, granting his child invincibility. Well, she did forget to dip his son twice, thus his ankles were easily exposed to harm and which, eventually caused the hero's fall. Using a clumsy comparison, my mother (aka. Anna) dipped me into the unknown river of self pity, made me bath within the waves of frailty, threw me down the foams of insecurity, and then dried me above the geyser of tenacity. Big difference is, my mom didn't forget to exclude any body part while these moments of early-age child abuse, so practically I've become a life-size, walking and talking Achilles heel.
And then you were there, sensed this product of an unfortunate constellation of the stars, and without learning that his name is Peter, you already knew that your hypnotic gaze would be too much for him to handle. I mean, you could have even farted the purple haze, I'd have still fallen for you.
Oh, yes. So I did.
But the thing is- my mother must have concealed it-, I was also thrown into the ocean of obstinacy. Hell, I enjoyed it! And now, with all the woe and self-pity you induced,
I'm finding peace through stubbornness.
I'm finding Her through this mess.
Has it happened before? Is it happening again? The pattern repeats itself, so the labels don't matter; only the trajectory counts. And the direction is upward.
Leading out of the haze.
I don't even know which day it was.
It was just the moment that mattered. It was the haze of now that wove its loose yet impenetrable web around the two of us, even though dozens were in the very same room. It did not matter. It was the intagible entanglement of two; the undisputed beauty of a couple that would meet the first time.
That was me and you, with the web around, and the promise of intangible turning into tangible.
What a fucking failure.
Oh, I got no fancy words for that. You can't say it was solely a failure. You got to make it more vulgar. People don't care about failures; they only care about fucked up failures. And hell, we excelled in that!
Eventually there was something we excelled in.
Oh yeah, baby. We did. I'd love to blame only you, though. Yet, we did it. Oh, your name? You are saying I can't remember your name? That might be true, actually. I gave you names all the time, that was fun. But I can't recall your name. Were you one person? When did it happen? My first year in Eger? Second? Third? Has it happened every single damned year? It might be the case.
How pitiful.
Dear Reader! Don't blame me. As a sentimental creature, I do enjoy the seductive, elusive phenomena of the purple haze. And I'm surrendering for it over and over. Do you remember the story of Achilles? Upon his birth her mother, Tethis dipped the baby into river Styx which flows through the domain of the dead, granting his child invincibility. Well, she did forget to dip his son twice, thus his ankles were easily exposed to harm and which, eventually caused the hero's fall. Using a clumsy comparison, my mother (aka. Anna) dipped me into the unknown river of self pity, made me bath within the waves of frailty, threw me down the foams of insecurity, and then dried me above the geyser of tenacity. Big difference is, my mom didn't forget to exclude any body part while these moments of early-age child abuse, so practically I've become a life-size, walking and talking Achilles heel.
And then you were there, sensed this product of an unfortunate constellation of the stars, and without learning that his name is Peter, you already knew that your hypnotic gaze would be too much for him to handle. I mean, you could have even farted the purple haze, I'd have still fallen for you.
Oh, yes. So I did.
But the thing is- my mother must have concealed it-, I was also thrown into the ocean of obstinacy. Hell, I enjoyed it! And now, with all the woe and self-pity you induced,
I'm finding peace through stubbornness.
I'm finding Her through this mess.
Has it happened before? Is it happening again? The pattern repeats itself, so the labels don't matter; only the trajectory counts. And the direction is upward.
Leading out of the haze.
2014. november 16., vasárnap
Vacuum cleaner
Two guys sit on the balcony. Tenth floor, cold wind whistles through barely opened windowlids. Their appearance resembles a lot; one is smoking and heavily gesticulating with the cigarette, while the other quietly gazes at the sky.
'See, that's what I'm talking about! Hear that tune? That jaw-dropping guitar solo? I mean, it's like a lovechild of Mike Oldfield, Robert Fripp and Frusciante. Pure magic. I wish I could just suck in all the world out there. If you know what I mean. As if I was a giant vacuum cleaner that sorts out the good stuff. I aim, and then I just inhale all this fairy dust around me! The cigarette, the wind, the solo, and even you, apparently not giving a fuck about all this.'
He indeed appears to be not giving a fuck about all that, as he continues staring into the distance.
'You and your quiet wisdom! All you like is sitting and staring, as if silent thinking has ever made anyone smarter. Well, maybe it has, but you know what: I prefer doing it. My moments of silence are like this. Fine, I'm speaking, but meanwhile I'm turning on this giant vacuum cleaner. I eat up the useful stuff, suck up the knowledge that is out there for the taking.'
The other guy faintly smiles.
'Now that smirk confirms what I've just said. You really think you are smarter. Fuck off, dude.'
'I don't think I'm smart.'
He slowly raises his shoulders, stretches his back before continuing.
'I only think that you think you are smart. And that is mildly disturbing if you consider what we've reached in our lives so far.'
'Are we having that discussion again? The I've-done-more-than-you-have-ever-dreamt-of argument?'
'I'm simply pointing out that you prefer talking instead of acting.'
'Fuck off. I've traveled the globe. I've slept with so many women that not getting any STD is probably even more miraculous than the achievement itself. I've worked in dozens of countries, and I've written uncountable pages which will do perfect for my future memoir about these years. While you have gotten your diplomas and a comfortable life with a well-paid job an a caring wife. Come on, dude. Tell me you aren't bored and I shut my mouth.'
'I'm perfectly elated with my life, thank you. Though I'm slightly concerned about my friend's perspective about his own things.'
'You, sitting atop the throne of judgement. Tell me why I should do the same as you do. Tell me why it's so comfortable there.'
'First, I'm not up there, and you aren't lesser either. Second, you are a child. Dreaming is cool as long as you keep on making them real. You don't have to get any degree, if that doesn't satisfy you. Keep traveling! But then make good use of it.'
'I'm making good use of it, dude. Here I am, understanding everything with my vacuum cleaner, while you are comforting your ass in that tiny bubble you calle life.'
'All you have is experience. Without making use of it, you have some intangible mumbo-jumbo that definitely gets you the pussy but nothing more.'
'Pussies tell a life's story, bro. Oh wait, you've got to know just one! I'm so sorry for you.'
'You are being childish.'
'And you are just jealous.'
'Surely I am.'
'Fuck off, you arrogant prick! Why the hell would I expect any kind of understanding?'
'If understanding is what you expect, then coming here was in vain.'
'You really start to piss me off, dude. I came here to chill, and to exchange thoughts...'
'We did exactly that, until you...'
'Until I? You know what? I should be leaving now.'
Jumps on his feet and bursts out to the flat. As he storms through the dark room, a child starts crying. He freezes for a moment; another figure emerges from the darkness of the room.
'Are you already leaving?'
'Anna? Yes. It has been a long trip, and I need some rest.'
'Oh. Okay. Glad to have you back. He also missed you a lot.'
'Thanks. I must be on my way, Anna. Be good!'
'Bye!'
He leaves the flat. As he gets into the elevator, he stares at himself in the mirror. His mouth widens for a grin, with its corners so shaky that it's unclear how his grimace will look like.
The picture fades to black, and we hear two lengthy sob; as if a giant vacuum cleaner was trying to clean up what we've witnessed.
'See, that's what I'm talking about! Hear that tune? That jaw-dropping guitar solo? I mean, it's like a lovechild of Mike Oldfield, Robert Fripp and Frusciante. Pure magic. I wish I could just suck in all the world out there. If you know what I mean. As if I was a giant vacuum cleaner that sorts out the good stuff. I aim, and then I just inhale all this fairy dust around me! The cigarette, the wind, the solo, and even you, apparently not giving a fuck about all this.'
He indeed appears to be not giving a fuck about all that, as he continues staring into the distance.
'You and your quiet wisdom! All you like is sitting and staring, as if silent thinking has ever made anyone smarter. Well, maybe it has, but you know what: I prefer doing it. My moments of silence are like this. Fine, I'm speaking, but meanwhile I'm turning on this giant vacuum cleaner. I eat up the useful stuff, suck up the knowledge that is out there for the taking.'
The other guy faintly smiles.
'Now that smirk confirms what I've just said. You really think you are smarter. Fuck off, dude.'
'I don't think I'm smart.'
He slowly raises his shoulders, stretches his back before continuing.
'I only think that you think you are smart. And that is mildly disturbing if you consider what we've reached in our lives so far.'
'Are we having that discussion again? The I've-done-more-than-you-have-ever-dreamt-of argument?'
'I'm simply pointing out that you prefer talking instead of acting.'
'Fuck off. I've traveled the globe. I've slept with so many women that not getting any STD is probably even more miraculous than the achievement itself. I've worked in dozens of countries, and I've written uncountable pages which will do perfect for my future memoir about these years. While you have gotten your diplomas and a comfortable life with a well-paid job an a caring wife. Come on, dude. Tell me you aren't bored and I shut my mouth.'
'I'm perfectly elated with my life, thank you. Though I'm slightly concerned about my friend's perspective about his own things.'
'You, sitting atop the throne of judgement. Tell me why I should do the same as you do. Tell me why it's so comfortable there.'
'First, I'm not up there, and you aren't lesser either. Second, you are a child. Dreaming is cool as long as you keep on making them real. You don't have to get any degree, if that doesn't satisfy you. Keep traveling! But then make good use of it.'
'I'm making good use of it, dude. Here I am, understanding everything with my vacuum cleaner, while you are comforting your ass in that tiny bubble you calle life.'
'All you have is experience. Without making use of it, you have some intangible mumbo-jumbo that definitely gets you the pussy but nothing more.'
'Pussies tell a life's story, bro. Oh wait, you've got to know just one! I'm so sorry for you.'
'You are being childish.'
'And you are just jealous.'
'Surely I am.'
'Fuck off, you arrogant prick! Why the hell would I expect any kind of understanding?'
'If understanding is what you expect, then coming here was in vain.'
'You really start to piss me off, dude. I came here to chill, and to exchange thoughts...'
'We did exactly that, until you...'
'Until I? You know what? I should be leaving now.'
Jumps on his feet and bursts out to the flat. As he storms through the dark room, a child starts crying. He freezes for a moment; another figure emerges from the darkness of the room.
'Are you already leaving?'
'Anna? Yes. It has been a long trip, and I need some rest.'
'Oh. Okay. Glad to have you back. He also missed you a lot.'
'Thanks. I must be on my way, Anna. Be good!'
'Bye!'
He leaves the flat. As he gets into the elevator, he stares at himself in the mirror. His mouth widens for a grin, with its corners so shaky that it's unclear how his grimace will look like.
The picture fades to black, and we hear two lengthy sob; as if a giant vacuum cleaner was trying to clean up what we've witnessed.
2014. október 9., csütörtök
Creep
It was one of those mornings again. You open your eyes and think something is different.
If I was beautiful...
But I wasn't. I knew I was a creep. I didn't even have to look in the mirror. It wasn't a case of 'she is beautiful and I'm not'. It wasn't actually a case of 'she'.
If you are a creep, there is no 'she'.
So I was a creep, but I got used to it through the years.
My childhood, naturally, was hard, as it's always hard for a frail soul to realize that he is a creep.
As I grew, my features as a creep got more and more apparent and obvious. Odd enough, my environment didn't find it sickening (as I normally did) but rather attractive; and even though I was the creepiest creep around, I was surrounded by 'shes'.
I did, however, see myself as I was, as I am now. I knew the truth and I never tried hiding it, but they didn't seem to care. I whispered words dripping with poison, soaked with verity into their ears, mouth and all over their bodies. I never missed a chance to tell them what I was; but then they just hugged me stronger, clinched on me and bit my neck. They called me a liar and kissed with passion.
They just didn't get it.
But what did I whisper? What was the poison? Anything, really. Me as a creep initially meant being completely indifferent towards them. So I normally complimented the features I disliked about them. If she was short, blonde, curvy or not, ugly or pretty, dumb or smart, didn't matter; I always chose the thing that annoyed me the most, and I kept on mocking it.
I guess it's easy to see how they didn't see that I was a creep. They loved that I love their least likeable features. They loved me no matter what. Oh, how naive they were! They never saw the creep toying with them, but the man taking good care and making them feel like a woman. This was my prize, dipped into perversion and forged by obsolescence. I already had hundreds of these trophies, but my hunger couldn't be satisfied, not even a bit.
I must admit though, that some of them did manage to penetrate my disguise.
They were the ones who knew that I was a creep. There were only three of them, all three differing from the other, all eager to love, but most importantly, to consume me.
I hated them. I lost my game from day one, the veil covering my true self was gone and I was exposed to their irresistible seductive powers.
I didn't kiss, hug, fuck, love or hate them; we did it, together. The creep within climbed to the surface, sunbathing in the beams of togethereness. I felt pathetic for letting it happen, but I was defeated. So when they were gone, and I was I again, I sank in the comfortable, fluffy fortress I had been building through my life, and I happily realized that it just got stronger and harder to overcome.
Those were the moments of pride, the moments of joy; when I got the joystick of my life back in my hands. And the game just went on, it still goes on; and I know that one day the disguise will be completed and I can declare that I'm the most gorgeous creep who ever walked this planet.
If I was beautiful...
But I wasn't. I knew I was a creep. I didn't even have to look in the mirror. It wasn't a case of 'she is beautiful and I'm not'. It wasn't actually a case of 'she'.
If you are a creep, there is no 'she'.
So I was a creep, but I got used to it through the years.
My childhood, naturally, was hard, as it's always hard for a frail soul to realize that he is a creep.
As I grew, my features as a creep got more and more apparent and obvious. Odd enough, my environment didn't find it sickening (as I normally did) but rather attractive; and even though I was the creepiest creep around, I was surrounded by 'shes'.
I did, however, see myself as I was, as I am now. I knew the truth and I never tried hiding it, but they didn't seem to care. I whispered words dripping with poison, soaked with verity into their ears, mouth and all over their bodies. I never missed a chance to tell them what I was; but then they just hugged me stronger, clinched on me and bit my neck. They called me a liar and kissed with passion.
They just didn't get it.
But what did I whisper? What was the poison? Anything, really. Me as a creep initially meant being completely indifferent towards them. So I normally complimented the features I disliked about them. If she was short, blonde, curvy or not, ugly or pretty, dumb or smart, didn't matter; I always chose the thing that annoyed me the most, and I kept on mocking it.
I guess it's easy to see how they didn't see that I was a creep. They loved that I love their least likeable features. They loved me no matter what. Oh, how naive they were! They never saw the creep toying with them, but the man taking good care and making them feel like a woman. This was my prize, dipped into perversion and forged by obsolescence. I already had hundreds of these trophies, but my hunger couldn't be satisfied, not even a bit.
I must admit though, that some of them did manage to penetrate my disguise.
They were the ones who knew that I was a creep. There were only three of them, all three differing from the other, all eager to love, but most importantly, to consume me.
I hated them. I lost my game from day one, the veil covering my true self was gone and I was exposed to their irresistible seductive powers.
I didn't kiss, hug, fuck, love or hate them; we did it, together. The creep within climbed to the surface, sunbathing in the beams of togethereness. I felt pathetic for letting it happen, but I was defeated. So when they were gone, and I was I again, I sank in the comfortable, fluffy fortress I had been building through my life, and I happily realized that it just got stronger and harder to overcome.
Those were the moments of pride, the moments of joy; when I got the joystick of my life back in my hands. And the game just went on, it still goes on; and I know that one day the disguise will be completed and I can declare that I'm the most gorgeous creep who ever walked this planet.
2014. szeptember 18., csütörtök
Varietas delectat
There is an uncanny beauty in constructing a post based on song lyrics. It's as if you had a perfect framework of music and wording that cries out for something more. Something more coherent, something more literary, something more... fun.
I know Massive Attack is an overused thing lately on the blog and on other social media platforms. I know you have read something similar (see the Roxanne post) not long ago. Still, Dissolved girl just asks to be transformed. Listen, read the lyrics, then read this. The original lyrics are in italics.
Shame, such a shame. I think I kind of lost myself again. Has it happened once, it will happen twice and so on. Shame, such a shame! It all came with a prompt warning notice yet I acted as if I was unprepared.
Day, yesterday, won't matter. Not a question of 'when' but 'why'.
Really should be leaving but I stay. I stay, I know that it will happen, but I stay. It's already happening and yet I stay.
Say, say my name. You seem to forget my name! I'm not asking for much, not asking for more. Just say my name. You know,
I need a little love to ease the pain. It's not much to demand. See,
I need a little love to ease the pain.
It's easy to remember when it came, remembering your words feels always easy and is never in vain...
'Cause it feels like I've been here before, same motions, the same kiss, the same words, it's like
I've been here before. It has happened yesterday, and it's clear that
You are not my savior, not the one I'm looking for, the yesterday I'm trying to let go.
But I still don't go, I can't go.
Feels like something
That I've done before, the motions and the smiles, the cherish and the care, all happened before.
I could fake it, I know it too well how to do so.
But I still want more, is it different then?
Fade, made to fade, the past does it all the way. I've seen that happen and you are no different here.
Passion's overrated anyway, you need it, you get it; still I want you, I beg you to
Say, say my name
I need a little love to ease the pain, I told you it's not much, just
I need a little love to ease the pain, your words sooth me and are never in vain.
It's easy to remember when it came, when you came, and said what you said.
'Cause it feels like I've been here before, same motions, the same kiss, the same words, it's like
I've been here before. It has happened yesterday, and it's clear that
You are not my savior, not the one I'm looking for, the yesterday I'm trying to let go.
But I still don't go, oh, I can't go.
I feel live something
That I've done before
I could fake it
But I still want more, oh.
It has happened before, I've been here before and yet I have to confess,
I want more,
Hell I do want more.
I know Massive Attack is an overused thing lately on the blog and on other social media platforms. I know you have read something similar (see the Roxanne post) not long ago. Still, Dissolved girl just asks to be transformed. Listen, read the lyrics, then read this. The original lyrics are in italics.
Shame, such a shame. I think I kind of lost myself again. Has it happened once, it will happen twice and so on. Shame, such a shame! It all came with a prompt warning notice yet I acted as if I was unprepared.
Day, yesterday, won't matter. Not a question of 'when' but 'why'.
Really should be leaving but I stay. I stay, I know that it will happen, but I stay. It's already happening and yet I stay.
Say, say my name. You seem to forget my name! I'm not asking for much, not asking for more. Just say my name. You know,
I need a little love to ease the pain. It's not much to demand. See,
I need a little love to ease the pain.
It's easy to remember when it came, remembering your words feels always easy and is never in vain...
'Cause it feels like I've been here before, same motions, the same kiss, the same words, it's like
I've been here before. It has happened yesterday, and it's clear that
You are not my savior, not the one I'm looking for, the yesterday I'm trying to let go.
But I still don't go, I can't go.
Feels like something
That I've done before, the motions and the smiles, the cherish and the care, all happened before.
I could fake it, I know it too well how to do so.
But I still want more, is it different then?
Fade, made to fade, the past does it all the way. I've seen that happen and you are no different here.
Passion's overrated anyway, you need it, you get it; still I want you, I beg you to
Say, say my name
I need a little love to ease the pain, I told you it's not much, just
I need a little love to ease the pain, your words sooth me and are never in vain.
It's easy to remember when it came, when you came, and said what you said.
'Cause it feels like I've been here before, same motions, the same kiss, the same words, it's like
I've been here before. It has happened yesterday, and it's clear that
You are not my savior, not the one I'm looking for, the yesterday I'm trying to let go.
But I still don't go, oh, I can't go.
I feel live something
That I've done before
I could fake it
But I still want more, oh.
It has happened before, I've been here before and yet I have to confess,
I want more,
Hell I do want more.
2014. szeptember 2., kedd
Wiggle, wiggle
Oh my. Have you heard the most recent 'hit' from Jason Derulo (who, btw was born in '89 just like I was)? If you haven't, please click here and watch the video, it'll provide you more than sufficient knowledge to comprehend this post.
Freshmen's camp comes with sacrifices: you gotta listen to the mainstream hits all day. All night. This is how I heard Wiggle the first time and to be honest, I liked the beat a tiny bit. It was a rather catchy tune, and as always, I've looked for the lyrics. Not that I expected much, really. But what I found was the atomic bomb of music industry, the pinnacle of explicit sexism and the final kick to the agonizing body of mainstream hip-hop. Ladies and gents, let's see the lyrics, shall we?
The song begins with an introduction. Not that we don't know who the hell Jason Derulo is. His god damn name is written before the song's title, and many other places where far more worthy things should appear. Okay, so we have a wild-west style build-up, where Derulo replies to Snoop Mammal:
Hey, yo, Jason
Say somethin' to her
Holla at her
[Laughs]
I got one question
How do you fit all that... in them jeans?
[Laughs]
Alrighty, our intro should already prevent every sane human being on the planet from continuing with this crap. Not me.
You know what to do with that big fat butt
Well, sounds like our chorus is about to start...
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Just a little bit of... swing
Fine, you don't have to invent complicated rhymes all the time. And eventually 'wiggle' rhymes with 'wiggle'. The real apocalypse starts off with the first verse:
Patty cake, Patty cake
With no hands
Got me in this club making wedding plans
If I take pictures while you do your dance
I can make you famous on Instagram
I've stopped myself from looking for rhymes anymore, so let's just analyze the real meaning behind the oft and apparently pointless lines. The artist compares the booty to a patty cake without a hand. This weird metaphor proves itself to be just enough so that the artist wants to marry the owner of the booty. Then he drops an unnecessary line about Instagram because it's popular and we all heard about it.
Hot damn it
Your booty like two planets
Go head, and go ham sandwich
Whoa, I can't stand it
So, apparently these:
both resemble an ass. Before I'd start thinking that by ham sandwich he means something more explicit, let's move on:
(Oh wait it's the chorus, let's skip it.)
Cadillac, Cadillac, pop that trunk
Let's take a shot
Alley oop that dunk tired of working that 9 to 5
Oh baby let me come and change your life
The artist continues to use incomprehensible metaphors, starting off with a car's trunk (I presume women also have a trunk, and that is... yeah, you guessed) and finishes with a completely pointless basketball reference. Ah wait, sexism also peaks here: the artist believes that a working woman's life can be changed if she is willing to become objectified. Girls, shake your ass to Jason and you don't have to work anymore!
(Again those stupid planetary sandwich references...)
Shake what your mama gave you
Misbehave you
I just wanna strip you, dip you, flip you, bubble bathe you
What they do
Taste my rain drops, K boo
Now what you will and what you want and what you may do
Completely separated,
Till I deeply penetrate it
Then I take it out and wipe it off
Eat it, ate it, love it, hate it
Overstated, underrated, everywhere I've been
Can you wiggle, wiggle for the D, O, double G, again?
Snoop Random Animal Name is still representing the quality here, though it's not really hard after reading the previous lines. Basic grammatic mistakes spice the usual sexist verse that has become a signature for Snoop Dogg ever since he entered the lackluster environment of popularized rap and hip-hop.
I'm done. I'm not willing to analyze this crap any further. Go and watch the video clip, or send me some catchy songs to whistle. Cause all I've been whistling for days is wigglewigglewigglewisédfséfksdlfksdélfk...
Freshmen's camp comes with sacrifices: you gotta listen to the mainstream hits all day. All night. This is how I heard Wiggle the first time and to be honest, I liked the beat a tiny bit. It was a rather catchy tune, and as always, I've looked for the lyrics. Not that I expected much, really. But what I found was the atomic bomb of music industry, the pinnacle of explicit sexism and the final kick to the agonizing body of mainstream hip-hop. Ladies and gents, let's see the lyrics, shall we?
The song begins with an introduction. Not that we don't know who the hell Jason Derulo is. His god damn name is written before the song's title, and many other places where far more worthy things should appear. Okay, so we have a wild-west style build-up, where Derulo replies to Snoop Mammal:
Hey, yo, Jason
Say somethin' to her
Holla at her
[Laughs]
I got one question
How do you fit all that... in them jeans?
[Laughs]
Alrighty, our intro should already prevent every sane human being on the planet from continuing with this crap. Not me.
You know what to do with that big fat butt
Well, sounds like our chorus is about to start...
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
Just a little bit of... swing
Fine, you don't have to invent complicated rhymes all the time. And eventually 'wiggle' rhymes with 'wiggle'. The real apocalypse starts off with the first verse:
Patty cake, Patty cake
With no hands
Got me in this club making wedding plans
If I take pictures while you do your dance
I can make you famous on Instagram
I've stopped myself from looking for rhymes anymore, so let's just analyze the real meaning behind the oft and apparently pointless lines. The artist compares the booty to a patty cake without a hand. This weird metaphor proves itself to be just enough so that the artist wants to marry the owner of the booty. Then he drops an unnecessary line about Instagram because it's popular and we all heard about it.
Hot damn it
Your booty like two planets
Go head, and go ham sandwich
Whoa, I can't stand it
So, apparently these:
both resemble an ass. Before I'd start thinking that by ham sandwich he means something more explicit, let's move on:
(Oh wait it's the chorus, let's skip it.)
Cadillac, Cadillac, pop that trunk
Let's take a shot
Alley oop that dunk tired of working that 9 to 5
Oh baby let me come and change your life
The artist continues to use incomprehensible metaphors, starting off with a car's trunk (I presume women also have a trunk, and that is... yeah, you guessed) and finishes with a completely pointless basketball reference. Ah wait, sexism also peaks here: the artist believes that a working woman's life can be changed if she is willing to become objectified. Girls, shake your ass to Jason and you don't have to work anymore!
(Again those stupid planetary sandwich references...)
Shake what your mama gave you
Misbehave you
I just wanna strip you, dip you, flip you, bubble bathe you
What they do
Taste my rain drops, K boo
Now what you will and what you want and what you may do
Completely separated,
Till I deeply penetrate it
Then I take it out and wipe it off
Eat it, ate it, love it, hate it
Overstated, underrated, everywhere I've been
Can you wiggle, wiggle for the D, O, double G, again?
Snoop Random Animal Name is still representing the quality here, though it's not really hard after reading the previous lines. Basic grammatic mistakes spice the usual sexist verse that has become a signature for Snoop Dogg ever since he entered the lackluster environment of popularized rap and hip-hop.
I'm done. I'm not willing to analyze this crap any further. Go and watch the video clip, or send me some catchy songs to whistle. Cause all I've been whistling for days is wigglewigglewigglewisédfséfksdlfksdélfk...
2014. augusztus 5., kedd
Weather the storm
Stormy nights shouldn't be spent alone.
We were sitting in my room, watching the clouds gather. The air thickened quickly. She didn't bother much, but I was glued to the window. I loved the rage of the storm, ripping the greenery, and throwing branches around the neighborhood.
'It's so majestic', I told her.
'You should see the ones in the Americas. This is nothing compared to those.'- she shrugged with some gentle despise in her voice.
I poured another glass of wine and turned off the lights.
'Storms around my lake aren't grandiose. They are different in nature. They are unique.'- I paused for a second, letting my words sink in. She knew there was more to tell so she pulled herself closer, one hand playing with my forearm, other holding the glass. I went on.
'When I was a child, I was afraid of the storm. My father would hold into his arms and whisper a short story about God and his angels. He'd tell the tale of God, being a moody jerk and demanding to move his place often; his angels had no choice but to obey, and all we sensed here was a great storm. The rumbling of the thunder was the sound of furniture being scratched at the top of the clouds, he oft said.'- She smiled while staring out the window.
'God and his angels were promoted to the ranks of Santa Claus, baby Jesus, Easter bunny and all these imaginary creatures who make life better during our childhood. But unlike those, my belief in God has evolved and never disappeared. The old, peevish fella morphed into an invisible friend. I set some rules, though. Eventually you can't talk to your best, ethereal friend anytime you wish. The rule for talking with him was bind to the presence of a storm. I'd just open a window, get soaked in the rain, or get any kind of connection with the elements, and then I knew we could talk.'
Her eyes were wandering the dark clouds. I wanted her to be hypnotized: to see what I talk about. Real or not, she appeared to be searching for my old friend in the grim shapes of the sky.
'As every story, mine also has a turning point. At 18 I was through the initial maturing process: love, philosophy, literature and alcohol rocked my world. My friend was still there, but his existence was highly endangered. And then that night came. I would never forget.'
'What happened? Please continue!'- she grabbed my forearm with some excitement.
'I got drunk at a house party. Dizzy with thoughts and wine I exited the dancefloor and found a quiet corner in the garage. The door was wide open: I could see there was a storm coming. With some anger, I decided to challenge my old friend. Eventually, I never saw him, he never replied so you might say it was time for some action in our friendship.'
'You, and your pride. The status quo never satisfies you.'
'It does not, indeed. But that's another story. So as I smoked there, sitting on the cold floor, my back at the wall, I shouted 'where are you now, God?' out, loud as I could. Naturally, only the growing wind roared back at me. The relative silence encouraged me to repeat my statement and adding 'you don't even exist' to it.'
'And?'
'And no one replied, of course. So I've decided to yell the most blasphemous, surreal thing I could ever think of. 'Show me yourself, or you don't exist', it was.'
'What a taunt.'
'Don't mock me. By then, it was almost scary to say it out loud.'
'So did he reply?'
'At first, nothing happened. But suddenly a huge lightning bolt struck into the tree across the street. It didn't catch fire though. As I stared with astonishment, the cigarette did something even eerier. I was holding it upwards with ember, yet the shiny little ball, confuting all the laws of physics, slowly rolled up and out of the filter, and fell on the floor.'
'Your friend isn't a talkative one.'
'A man of actions, I'd say. So as I was sitting there, my friend appeared in the doorframe, asking whether I was afraid of the storm.'
'Let me guess: you said yes.'
'Wrong. I said: 'God has a great sense of humor, you know'. He didn't really get what I meant, but handed over a beer and asked me to return to the party. So I did; and ever since I never dare to challenge my friend.'
'Mexican storms are still bigger than this.'
I looked at her. She was mocking me all the time.
'I bet you haven't dared to have sex during the storm.'
'I bet I'd like to try.'
So we did. My friend above finished moving his furniture by dawn; and with the first lights of the new day, we both forgot the significant beauty of a storm during summer.
We were sitting in my room, watching the clouds gather. The air thickened quickly. She didn't bother much, but I was glued to the window. I loved the rage of the storm, ripping the greenery, and throwing branches around the neighborhood.
'It's so majestic', I told her.
'You should see the ones in the Americas. This is nothing compared to those.'- she shrugged with some gentle despise in her voice.
I poured another glass of wine and turned off the lights.
'Storms around my lake aren't grandiose. They are different in nature. They are unique.'- I paused for a second, letting my words sink in. She knew there was more to tell so she pulled herself closer, one hand playing with my forearm, other holding the glass. I went on.
'When I was a child, I was afraid of the storm. My father would hold into his arms and whisper a short story about God and his angels. He'd tell the tale of God, being a moody jerk and demanding to move his place often; his angels had no choice but to obey, and all we sensed here was a great storm. The rumbling of the thunder was the sound of furniture being scratched at the top of the clouds, he oft said.'- She smiled while staring out the window.
'God and his angels were promoted to the ranks of Santa Claus, baby Jesus, Easter bunny and all these imaginary creatures who make life better during our childhood. But unlike those, my belief in God has evolved and never disappeared. The old, peevish fella morphed into an invisible friend. I set some rules, though. Eventually you can't talk to your best, ethereal friend anytime you wish. The rule for talking with him was bind to the presence of a storm. I'd just open a window, get soaked in the rain, or get any kind of connection with the elements, and then I knew we could talk.'
Her eyes were wandering the dark clouds. I wanted her to be hypnotized: to see what I talk about. Real or not, she appeared to be searching for my old friend in the grim shapes of the sky.
'As every story, mine also has a turning point. At 18 I was through the initial maturing process: love, philosophy, literature and alcohol rocked my world. My friend was still there, but his existence was highly endangered. And then that night came. I would never forget.'
'What happened? Please continue!'- she grabbed my forearm with some excitement.
'I got drunk at a house party. Dizzy with thoughts and wine I exited the dancefloor and found a quiet corner in the garage. The door was wide open: I could see there was a storm coming. With some anger, I decided to challenge my old friend. Eventually, I never saw him, he never replied so you might say it was time for some action in our friendship.'
'You, and your pride. The status quo never satisfies you.'
'It does not, indeed. But that's another story. So as I smoked there, sitting on the cold floor, my back at the wall, I shouted 'where are you now, God?' out, loud as I could. Naturally, only the growing wind roared back at me. The relative silence encouraged me to repeat my statement and adding 'you don't even exist' to it.'
'And?'
'And no one replied, of course. So I've decided to yell the most blasphemous, surreal thing I could ever think of. 'Show me yourself, or you don't exist', it was.'
'What a taunt.'
'Don't mock me. By then, it was almost scary to say it out loud.'
'So did he reply?'
'At first, nothing happened. But suddenly a huge lightning bolt struck into the tree across the street. It didn't catch fire though. As I stared with astonishment, the cigarette did something even eerier. I was holding it upwards with ember, yet the shiny little ball, confuting all the laws of physics, slowly rolled up and out of the filter, and fell on the floor.'
'Your friend isn't a talkative one.'
'A man of actions, I'd say. So as I was sitting there, my friend appeared in the doorframe, asking whether I was afraid of the storm.'
'Let me guess: you said yes.'
'Wrong. I said: 'God has a great sense of humor, you know'. He didn't really get what I meant, but handed over a beer and asked me to return to the party. So I did; and ever since I never dare to challenge my friend.'
'Mexican storms are still bigger than this.'
I looked at her. She was mocking me all the time.
'I bet you haven't dared to have sex during the storm.'
'I bet I'd like to try.'
So we did. My friend above finished moving his furniture by dawn; and with the first lights of the new day, we both forgot the significant beauty of a storm during summer.
2014. július 22., kedd
Obituary
No worries, it's no big deal.
It's not someone close to me who died. People, eventually die anyway, anytime, anywhere.
Though not all worth an obituary.
Hard to start this, really. Firstly, writing this in English veils me under the cloak of anymosity. At least that's how it feels to talk about a friend who has passed away a few days ago.
I lied again. It was not directly my friend, but my dad's.
He was a talented winemaker, living in the Badacsony wine region with his family. Obviously, my main interest during my childhood was his younger son and their huge, huge garden that resembled more a piece of wilderness than a garden. We took the ferry, and they could see us from their terrace as we crossed the lake.
My friend was a reckless, rural kid, whilst I was the epitome of citylife: pompous until faced a countryside challenge.
Countryside challenges were numerous and various things, let me list a few to get the gist:
- Finding a mysterious alien-like creature at night which turned out to be my friend
- Building canals for a speedboat race in the backyard
- Building underground tunnels to get the shit scared out of me with jump-scares from my friend
- Talking about sex (I was 8ish so this was an obvious novelty AND challenge)
Good days.
Then the mob evicted them. He liked their house. They had to go. They lived in a cave for a week: father, mother, two kids. And the dog. Shortly after they moved close to the Danube. The mother got cancer but she was cured. Some years were spent, and we totally lost contact with them.
Few years later, they moved to Budapest. Dad's friend had become a heavy drinker. He lost his passion, his interest in life (winemaking) eventually. My childhood friend had gone to Afghanistan. I always knew he was the brave one.
We even met a few times the past years. It was serious men talk between me and my friend; and pseudo-optimistic talk between our fathers. His dad was diagnosed with lung cancer.
He, surprisingly (had been a chain smoker and never gave up) healed.
Then, half year before it infected his brain. He had a tumor in his brain, and the lung cancer came back as well. Dad called me three days ago that he passed when my friend and his family were visiting him.
Fuck all who complain about how unjust life is.
(...)
2014. július 14., hétfő
Multi-class
I've started playing the best video game ever. Once more. My head starts to fill up with elves, magic, dungeons and shit. Way to spend a summer.
Few of the many disadvantages of sucking on the tits of Baldur's Gate 2 again:
- night shift ends with some casual point-and-click instead of sleeping
- day off is ruined by staying in bed 'just one more hour'
- browsing geek forums in order to solve puzzles and stupid riddles only geeks can solve
No, I can't really see any advantage expect for:
- Getting excited about fulfilling the romance between the main character and the drow female NPC (and that's painstakingly pathetic)
As you may assume, this is exactly the kind of free time activity one would keep as a secret. But my dearest friend Géza just drew an amazing parallel between my gaming activity and our lives. We discussed our careers during the infamous third-place match at a bar in Fonyód, sipping some beer and trying to look as mature and grown-up as we could. I said,
'I want to have two lives, just as my father. He has an academic one where he teaches and does research; and has the artistic where he plays the piano and composes great stuff.'
Géza smiled and quipped:
'It's intriguing indeed to be multi-classed. But remember, you have to divide the XP between both sides, and you need plenty of support from magical items and companion, otherwise you'll be surpassed by the single-classed ones.'
And that was the best piece of advice I've received lately.
Go for the Master, become a teacher; polish your writing skills and publish your book: be the writer.
That's my multi-class, that is my purported trajectory for the coming years, decades and life.
Few of the many disadvantages of sucking on the tits of Baldur's Gate 2 again:
- night shift ends with some casual point-and-click instead of sleeping
- day off is ruined by staying in bed 'just one more hour'
- browsing geek forums in order to solve puzzles and stupid riddles only geeks can solve
No, I can't really see any advantage expect for:
- Getting excited about fulfilling the romance between the main character and the drow female NPC (and that's painstakingly pathetic)
As you may assume, this is exactly the kind of free time activity one would keep as a secret. But my dearest friend Géza just drew an amazing parallel between my gaming activity and our lives. We discussed our careers during the infamous third-place match at a bar in Fonyód, sipping some beer and trying to look as mature and grown-up as we could. I said,
'I want to have two lives, just as my father. He has an academic one where he teaches and does research; and has the artistic where he plays the piano and composes great stuff.'
Géza smiled and quipped:
'It's intriguing indeed to be multi-classed. But remember, you have to divide the XP between both sides, and you need plenty of support from magical items and companion, otherwise you'll be surpassed by the single-classed ones.'
And that was the best piece of advice I've received lately.
Go for the Master, become a teacher; polish your writing skills and publish your book: be the writer.
That's my multi-class, that is my purported trajectory for the coming years, decades and life.
2014. július 4., péntek
Saudade
Is everything supposed to be bittersweet? (Click for the improved blog experience)
It's Lake Balaton, top floor of an unknown house. I'm with father and some other unknown people. They are our captors, blocking our way from the staircase.
They are questioning us.
'How do you do it?'- one of them asks. I can't recall his face.
'There is nothing special about it'- says my father with the hint of a witty smile. That smile, the kind of smile that tells me that everything is alright and tells them to fuck off.
'You! You tell me how you do it!'- the man is talking to me now.
'I can't do it. I'm still too young.' - and that is the truth indeed. I haven't learnt it yet.
The man nods, and they leave us. We are on our own, with a few boxes around.
'Grab one, Peter.' - he whispers.
'But I can't! And these are so small.'
'That brownish will just do it. Take it.'
I obey and take the box he points at. Rickety cardboard box, glued together at the edges. I sit in it, father joins me in the front.
'Now, Peter. We have to go.' - he commands.
Our captors are downstairs; the windows are wide open in the room. We have to try.
I can't really explain how it feels like, but since it was the first ever time in my life, I feel obliged to share my experience. Father always said I had to look at the sun, and it'll be much easier. With that in mind, I , grabbed the side of the box and started to focus. The box quickly jumped mid-air and started to levitate a metre above ground. I was still resolute about my goal. Father's word echoed in my head. 'We have to go', he said.
The box slowly flew through the air and fluttered outside of the room. Our captors somehow recognized our escape but it was too late. They tried to catch up with us but we were long gone before they could exit the house.
The open air scared me. It was just the vast sky around, and the miniature earth below. Our crappy box was the only thing dividing us from death. I shivered, and the box started to lose altitude.
'The sun, Peter. Don't think about the ground. Just the sun.'
I couldn't do as he commanded. We were steadily descending. Rooftops and chimneys scratched the bottom of the box. I still managed to keep us mid-air, but our trajectory was like a moody wave on the lake itself.
'You were right.'- father sighed with some resignation.
I couldn't see the sun, nor the sky or the clouds anymore. Just the ground below. The box hit the soil and it got torn apart by the force of the impact. As I looked around, father was gone.
The field around was just as empty as the sky and things seemed just as dull as they were before the flight.
No, I wasn't sitting on a torn box but an old bed: sunlight beamed in through the windows. Oh, damn it. Damn the dream, the box, the flight.
Damn my father.
Damn myself and my inability.
But mostly damn awakening.
I can't fly, not even with a rickety box.
It's Lake Balaton, top floor of an unknown house. I'm with father and some other unknown people. They are our captors, blocking our way from the staircase.
They are questioning us.
'How do you do it?'- one of them asks. I can't recall his face.
'There is nothing special about it'- says my father with the hint of a witty smile. That smile, the kind of smile that tells me that everything is alright and tells them to fuck off.
'You! You tell me how you do it!'- the man is talking to me now.
'I can't do it. I'm still too young.' - and that is the truth indeed. I haven't learnt it yet.
The man nods, and they leave us. We are on our own, with a few boxes around.
'Grab one, Peter.' - he whispers.
'But I can't! And these are so small.'
'That brownish will just do it. Take it.'
I obey and take the box he points at. Rickety cardboard box, glued together at the edges. I sit in it, father joins me in the front.
'Now, Peter. We have to go.' - he commands.
Our captors are downstairs; the windows are wide open in the room. We have to try.
I can't really explain how it feels like, but since it was the first ever time in my life, I feel obliged to share my experience. Father always said I had to look at the sun, and it'll be much easier. With that in mind, I , grabbed the side of the box and started to focus. The box quickly jumped mid-air and started to levitate a metre above ground. I was still resolute about my goal. Father's word echoed in my head. 'We have to go', he said.
The box slowly flew through the air and fluttered outside of the room. Our captors somehow recognized our escape but it was too late. They tried to catch up with us but we were long gone before they could exit the house.
The open air scared me. It was just the vast sky around, and the miniature earth below. Our crappy box was the only thing dividing us from death. I shivered, and the box started to lose altitude.
'The sun, Peter. Don't think about the ground. Just the sun.'
I couldn't do as he commanded. We were steadily descending. Rooftops and chimneys scratched the bottom of the box. I still managed to keep us mid-air, but our trajectory was like a moody wave on the lake itself.
'You were right.'- father sighed with some resignation.
I couldn't see the sun, nor the sky or the clouds anymore. Just the ground below. The box hit the soil and it got torn apart by the force of the impact. As I looked around, father was gone.
The field around was just as empty as the sky and things seemed just as dull as they were before the flight.
No, I wasn't sitting on a torn box but an old bed: sunlight beamed in through the windows. Oh, damn it. Damn the dream, the box, the flight.
Damn my father.
Damn myself and my inability.
But mostly damn awakening.
I can't fly, not even with a rickety box.
2014. június 30., hétfő
Rocket man
The road has come to its end: last Sunday Hank Moody left his Porsche thus ended a show worthy to remember. Californication was a breeze of fresh air amidst the endless sea of silly sitcoms, and even though the last season was a let down, Hank will never be forgotten.
Instead of a cheesy summary I'd like to throw in some captions to show you why Cali was my favorite show until this day.
Instead of a cheesy summary I'd like to throw in some captions to show you why Cali was my favorite show until this day.
Missing yours? Add it in the comments!
2014. június 10., kedd
Roxanne
OK, so all of you know Roxanne from Police. Or from Moulin Rouge. Well, I happen to love both. With the image of the movie plus the reinvented lyrics, I've attempted to create a short play-like script. Hope Sting won't get too mad.
A woman lays on a table. Hands and feet tied, mouth loosely gagged. She wears a red transparent dress, lingerie shows through the soft material. Sharp light falls on her, leaving everything else pitch black. A man's voice can be heard.
His silhoutte appears as he gently touches her thighs. A fraction of a second and he is gone again.
He appears again, this time for a longer notion. He touches her body all around, slowly, with some wicked passion.
Woman pants, moans. Starts to chant with a fading voice from behind the mouthgag. Man stops touching her and remains motionless.
As the woman stops chanting, the man keeps circling around, disappearing and re-appearing.
I loved you since I knew you. Since day one. You were the prettiest of all, Roxanne. I wouldn't talk down to you! My words are real. They are for real, sweet Roxanne! I have to tell just how I feel...
Man appears again, and grabs woman's arm swiftly and with some power. Woman moans her line indistinctly.
Leans forward, talking to her just a few inches short of her mouth.
As the scene fades to black, we hear the man's voice, lower and lower, mixed with the woman's emotionless yet panting lines.
A woman lays on a table. Hands and feet tied, mouth loosely gagged. She wears a red transparent dress, lingerie shows through the soft material. Sharp light falls on her, leaving everything else pitch black. A man's voice can be heard.
MAN
Roxanne! I've told you many times. You don't have to put on the red light. Those days are over! I take good care of you now.
MAN
You don't have to sell your body to the night! I have money. I have a house. I have all the riches you need. You don't have to wear that dress tonight.
MAN
(laughing at himself)
Even if I was the one asking you to wear it. But even if you know I can give you everything- what do you do? Walk the streets of money. And you don't care if it's wrong or if it's right.
He appears again, this time for a longer notion. He touches her body all around, slowly, with some wicked passion.
MAN
Roxanne! You don't have to put on the red light! You can wear whatever you want. Roxanne! You don't have to put on the red light... You don't have to work no more.
Woman pants, moans. Starts to chant with a fading voice from behind the mouthgag. Man stops touching her and remains motionless.
WOMAN
Put on the red light... put on the red light... put on the red light.
As the woman stops chanting, the man keeps circling around, disappearing and re-appearing.
I loved you since I knew you. Since day one. You were the prettiest of all, Roxanne. I wouldn't talk down to you! My words are real. They are for real, sweet Roxanne! I have to tell just how I feel...
Man appears again, and grabs woman's arm swiftly and with some power. Woman moans her line indistinctly.
MAN
I won't share you with another boy. I know my mind is made up. It's only you who I want!
He touches her face, lips and starts to smudge her lipstick.
MAN
So put away your make up... Told you once I won't tell you again.
Leans forward, talking to her just a few inches short of her mouth.
MAN
(whispering)
It's a bad way!
He finally kisses her, less with passion more with fury. He apparently tries to devour her with his hands and mouth as she trembles and shakes.
MAN
Roxanne! You don't have to put on the red light
Lights start to fade as his motions quicken. He climbs the table and loosens his pants.
MAN
(grasping for air)
Roxanne... You don't have to put on the red light...
As the scene fades to black, we hear the man's voice, lower and lower, mixed with the woman's emotionless yet panting lines.
MAN
Roxanne!
WOMAN
Put on the red light...
FADE TO BLACK
2014. június 2., hétfő
God the Branch
A short story told by pictures. And some captions.
 |
| Henry: Change it. I want "Formidable". Foooormidable. Lydia: Please, not again. We are here to enjoy ourselves. |
 |
| Henry: You mean like this? Lydia: Stop it, douche! |
 |
| Henry: Just lemme do it for a little sec... Lydia: Henry! |
 |
| Lydia: Let me be! I want to throw little branches to the lake. Henry: There is something seriously wrong with you. |
 |
| Henry: I hope you are happy now. Lydia: <omnomnom> |
 |
| Henry: Ain't no branches around, hon. Lydia: There are. Just watch. |
 |
| Lydia: See? Henry: One wicked lake. |
 |
| Henry: So what's next? Lydia: We are gonna swim a bit. |
 |
| Henry: As in sexy time swim? |
 |
| Lydia: Not exactly. |
 |
| Lydia: Did you see my branch? Henry: I'm freezin. |
 |
| Henry: Can we finally skip to sexy time? Lydia: Hush, jerk. Somebody is following us. |
 |
| Henry: From above? Has to be the Lord. Lydia: Henry, you imbecile! |
 |
| Henry: Ah, now I see! Hello, girl with camera! Lydia (murmuring): Would you just shut up? |
 |
| Lydia: I'll show you how to treat stalkers! Eat this sucker! Henry: Ha-ha. Look at her. She looks furious. |
|
| Lydia: Holy cow! Something is really above us! Henry: I told you it's Him. |
 |
| Henry: Oh Lord! Take us with you! |
 |
| Henry: He can't. Lydia: You shouldn't have lost the fuckin' branch. THE END |
 |
| Sabina: Shit try, Peter. Better luck next time. |
2014. május 29., csütörtök
Farewells
... suck.
They are like reversed hellos. Why? A hello is
- curious
- sweet and happy
While a farewell is
- weathered
- bitter and sad
People come, people go.
Thing is, you are the only one who stays.
Smart guy said once
But it feels good to be a pussy sometimes.
And then you switch and pretend to be James Dean again.
Blue jeans, white shirt. Eyes burnin'.
Farewell, pussies.
They are like reversed hellos. Why? A hello is
- curious
- sweet and happy
While a farewell is
- weathered
- bitter and sad
People come, people go.
Thing is, you are the only one who stays.
Smart guy said once
I will not say: "do not weep", for not all tears are an evil.
Ha! Only pussies weep.
But it feels good to be a pussy sometimes.
And then you switch and pretend to be James Dean again.
Blue jeans, white shirt. Eyes burnin'.
Farewell, pussies.
2014. május 25., vasárnap
Jenga
(oops, so this post was meant to be posted in the Hungarian blog)
Emlékszem, az az év volt, amikor érettségizni készültem. Sok minden egyébről is emlékezetes év volt a 2008-as, de a visszafordíthatatlan és grandiózus döntések sorozata, ami végül Egerig űzött, valahol 2008 februárjában kezdődött el.
(1)
Valamiért imádtam a barna színt akkortájt, így a szóbeli nyelvvizsgámra felöltöttem magamra barna zakóm, alá világosbarna ingem, barna nadrágom, barna félcipőm, vállamon átvetettem barna oldaltáskámat, s gondosan megfésültem félhosszú, barna hajamat. Zsolti kölcsönadta iPodját, ami egyébként fehér volt, de ez engem nem zavart. Azt hiszem, ekkortájt szerelmes voltam. Mi voltunk a gimiben a legidősebbek, minket utált, szeretett, de mindenekelőtt: ismert az egész Móricz. Mi nehézség várhat még az emberre? Tudtam, hogy sikerülni fog a szóbelim. Játékosan doboltam a combinó kapaszkodóján. Zsolti akkoriban nagy Citizen Cope rajongó volt, arra meg aztán lehet dobolni a ritmust.
Szóval arra gondoltam, hogy milyen könnyű az életem. Hogy 19. életévemben a legnagyobb kihívás, ami elé az élet állít, néhány vizsga meg a továbbtanulás. Könnyű volt hévre szállni, zötykölődni, bámulni az unott arcokat és elhinni: én soha nem leszek ilyen. Tényleg ott lobogott valami kitartó tűz, amely fűtötte cselekvőképességemet és önbecsülésemet. Tudtam, hogy ki vagyok. Tudtam, hogy jó helyen vagyok.
(2)
2008 nyarán nem vettek fel oda, ahova jelentkeztem. A vizsgáim jól sikerültek, ettől függetlenül a gondosan megszerkesztett világképem összedőlni látszott. Kihúzták a kibaszott jenga-elemet, pont azt, ami mindent összetartott. Nem voltam már szerelmes sem, csak összetört, népszerű sem, csak ismeretlen és magányos. A fonyódi nyár vége mindig valami új kezdetét jelentette: de most először, 19. alkalommal féltem az újtól. Apám Samarájával süvítettünk az M7-esen Pest felé. Segített költözködni. Szerettem volna bátornak látszani, ezért végig énekeltem és nevettettem apámat. Nem szerette a Coldplayt, olyankor abbahagytam a kornyikálást. Elmerengtem, és azt mondtam neki:
- Nem tudom, mit várjak Egertől. Olyan, mintha nem lenne előttem kihívás.
- Ezt hogy érted?
- Persze, beképzelt dolog, de úgy érzem, hogy 18 év alatt annyit láttam és tapasztaltam, hogy már semmi sem lephet meg.
- Hát, elérted egy kor végét.
- Mármint?
- A gyerekkorodnak vége. Mindent összeszedtél, magadba szívtál, amire szükséged lehetett. Még felnőttet is játszhattál egy kicsit kamaszként. Viszont innentől kezdve készülj fel!
- Mire?
- Soha többet nem fogod azt érezni, hogy minden rendben van.
Piszok jó kilátások, mormogtam. Persze apám vigyorgott. De az a fajta vigyor volt, ami egyenlő arányban keserít el és vidít fel.
(3)
Mint egy kibaszott Jenga. Egerbe utazásom kihuzigálta az építőelemeket. Anyám, apám és saját origóm közti távolság 40-ről átlag 1500-2000 km-re duzzadt. Nagyanyámmal már távolságban nem kifejezhető ez a differencia. Ellepett a káma, minden jótékony és kártékony hatásával. Már nem tudtam elmélyedni a combinón, kocogtatni a kapaszkodót, ha Citizen Cope ment. Kezemben akartam tartani minden építőelemet, szerettem volna építeni a Jengát. Hogy olyan legyen, mint rég. Büszke és stabil.
(4)
Aztán apám azt is mondta még:
- Akkor leszel igazán nagy szarban, ha eztán úgy érzed, minden a helyén van.
Megint vigyorgott. Keserűen. Szívderítően.
Emlékszem, az az év volt, amikor érettségizni készültem. Sok minden egyébről is emlékezetes év volt a 2008-as, de a visszafordíthatatlan és grandiózus döntések sorozata, ami végül Egerig űzött, valahol 2008 februárjában kezdődött el.
(1)
Valamiért imádtam a barna színt akkortájt, így a szóbeli nyelvvizsgámra felöltöttem magamra barna zakóm, alá világosbarna ingem, barna nadrágom, barna félcipőm, vállamon átvetettem barna oldaltáskámat, s gondosan megfésültem félhosszú, barna hajamat. Zsolti kölcsönadta iPodját, ami egyébként fehér volt, de ez engem nem zavart. Azt hiszem, ekkortájt szerelmes voltam. Mi voltunk a gimiben a legidősebbek, minket utált, szeretett, de mindenekelőtt: ismert az egész Móricz. Mi nehézség várhat még az emberre? Tudtam, hogy sikerülni fog a szóbelim. Játékosan doboltam a combinó kapaszkodóján. Zsolti akkoriban nagy Citizen Cope rajongó volt, arra meg aztán lehet dobolni a ritmust.
Szóval arra gondoltam, hogy milyen könnyű az életem. Hogy 19. életévemben a legnagyobb kihívás, ami elé az élet állít, néhány vizsga meg a továbbtanulás. Könnyű volt hévre szállni, zötykölődni, bámulni az unott arcokat és elhinni: én soha nem leszek ilyen. Tényleg ott lobogott valami kitartó tűz, amely fűtötte cselekvőképességemet és önbecsülésemet. Tudtam, hogy ki vagyok. Tudtam, hogy jó helyen vagyok.
(2)
2008 nyarán nem vettek fel oda, ahova jelentkeztem. A vizsgáim jól sikerültek, ettől függetlenül a gondosan megszerkesztett világképem összedőlni látszott. Kihúzták a kibaszott jenga-elemet, pont azt, ami mindent összetartott. Nem voltam már szerelmes sem, csak összetört, népszerű sem, csak ismeretlen és magányos. A fonyódi nyár vége mindig valami új kezdetét jelentette: de most először, 19. alkalommal féltem az újtól. Apám Samarájával süvítettünk az M7-esen Pest felé. Segített költözködni. Szerettem volna bátornak látszani, ezért végig énekeltem és nevettettem apámat. Nem szerette a Coldplayt, olyankor abbahagytam a kornyikálást. Elmerengtem, és azt mondtam neki:
- Nem tudom, mit várjak Egertől. Olyan, mintha nem lenne előttem kihívás.
- Ezt hogy érted?
- Persze, beképzelt dolog, de úgy érzem, hogy 18 év alatt annyit láttam és tapasztaltam, hogy már semmi sem lephet meg.
- Hát, elérted egy kor végét.
- Mármint?
- A gyerekkorodnak vége. Mindent összeszedtél, magadba szívtál, amire szükséged lehetett. Még felnőttet is játszhattál egy kicsit kamaszként. Viszont innentől kezdve készülj fel!
- Mire?
- Soha többet nem fogod azt érezni, hogy minden rendben van.
Piszok jó kilátások, mormogtam. Persze apám vigyorgott. De az a fajta vigyor volt, ami egyenlő arányban keserít el és vidít fel.
(3)
Mint egy kibaszott Jenga. Egerbe utazásom kihuzigálta az építőelemeket. Anyám, apám és saját origóm közti távolság 40-ről átlag 1500-2000 km-re duzzadt. Nagyanyámmal már távolságban nem kifejezhető ez a differencia. Ellepett a káma, minden jótékony és kártékony hatásával. Már nem tudtam elmélyedni a combinón, kocogtatni a kapaszkodót, ha Citizen Cope ment. Kezemben akartam tartani minden építőelemet, szerettem volna építeni a Jengát. Hogy olyan legyen, mint rég. Büszke és stabil.
(4)
Aztán apám azt is mondta még:
- Akkor leszel igazán nagy szarban, ha eztán úgy érzed, minden a helyén van.
Megint vigyorgott. Keserűen. Szívderítően.
Seven feet deep
I've been digging for months. I've been digging through grass, through soil, I even broke my spade. It splintered on a grey stone. I got another spade, I kept on digging.
One foot deep.
Easy job. I'm one foot deep. I found nothing on this level. Not that I should expect to find anything. I haven't made the effort. I know it's somewhere down there.
Two feet deep.
I'm warmed up. Drops of sweat chase down my cheeks, neck, and dry up at my collar. Where is it? I have to keep digging. It has to be here.
Three feet deep.
I tuck up my sleeves. Damn, it's tiring! And it's still not there! Is it sweat running down from my eyes?
Four feet deep.
If I bend, I can't see out of the hole. My back hurts. Where the hell is it? I've been told it would be here. She told me it would be here. It was put here, she said!
Five feet deep.
No! Nothing, for fuck's sake! Nothing! She promised! She told me I'd find it here! Just dig a bit down, and you'll find, she whispered! Poisonous tongues always lure you into a trap. Yet I knew the thing I was looking for is there, right below me. I have to dig.
Six feet deep.
Dead men rest here. Even if I straighten, I see nothing. Just a hole I dug. Still nothing. What a lie it was! A sweet lie...
Seven feet deep.
I look around. It's almost pitch black. As I extend my arms vertically, they can't reach the edge of the hole. I'm trapped. Have I found it? I fumble at the bottom but my hands grasp only the cold, soft soil. What I'm looking for is warm. Throbbing, probably. But now I see there is no turning back. Grabbing my spade I have to keep on digging. Wind grazes my nape; it ruffles my shaggy hair. Sweat dryens on my skin quickly. I shiver. My dirty fingers clutch around the hilt. Determined motion raises and strucks the spade into the ground.
Eight feet deep.
One foot deep.
Easy job. I'm one foot deep. I found nothing on this level. Not that I should expect to find anything. I haven't made the effort. I know it's somewhere down there.
Two feet deep.
I'm warmed up. Drops of sweat chase down my cheeks, neck, and dry up at my collar. Where is it? I have to keep digging. It has to be here.
Three feet deep.
I tuck up my sleeves. Damn, it's tiring! And it's still not there! Is it sweat running down from my eyes?
Four feet deep.
If I bend, I can't see out of the hole. My back hurts. Where the hell is it? I've been told it would be here. She told me it would be here. It was put here, she said!
Five feet deep.
No! Nothing, for fuck's sake! Nothing! She promised! She told me I'd find it here! Just dig a bit down, and you'll find, she whispered! Poisonous tongues always lure you into a trap. Yet I knew the thing I was looking for is there, right below me. I have to dig.
Six feet deep.
Dead men rest here. Even if I straighten, I see nothing. Just a hole I dug. Still nothing. What a lie it was! A sweet lie...
Seven feet deep.
I look around. It's almost pitch black. As I extend my arms vertically, they can't reach the edge of the hole. I'm trapped. Have I found it? I fumble at the bottom but my hands grasp only the cold, soft soil. What I'm looking for is warm. Throbbing, probably. But now I see there is no turning back. Grabbing my spade I have to keep on digging. Wind grazes my nape; it ruffles my shaggy hair. Sweat dryens on my skin quickly. I shiver. My dirty fingers clutch around the hilt. Determined motion raises and strucks the spade into the ground.
Eight feet deep.
2014. május 21., szerda
Dim, wit
Man is dressing up in a dimly lit bedroom. Woman watches every movement of his.
-No, Lula. I'm sorry, but no.
- No what, Mickey?
- No for this. No for you.
- I don't understand, Mickey... don't you want me anymore? Don't you love me anymore?
- Hush, Lula. Enough of this nonsense.
- But Mickey, where did all those dreams go? You said you would love me forever! You said we'd fuck and drink forever, or maybe until we die...
- Enough of it, Lula. We can't.
- But Mickey! I'll go with you anywhere! Anywhere! I swear to God, I swear for the sake of my Ma' and Pa', and...
- Shut your mouth, silly.
- Am I silly, Mickey? Am I silly for loving you? Am I silly for wishing nothing but you?
- You are silly, Lula. You are silly for following me.
- Oh but a woman does what a woman's heart tells her to do. And my heart tells me to follow you, Mickey.
- I'm leaving town, Lula. And I won't stop just to eat, sleep and fuck.
- I don't care, Mickey! Take me with you! Take me and stop to eat and sleep and fuck with me!
- I can't, Lula.
- But why?
Woman pants miserably. Man appears to be wondering for a second. He turns his head towards the woman.
- Why? You ask why? Here is my answer. I go cuz I have to go. I go cuz I'm not from here. I go cuz I don't love you. I go cuz I'm restless. I go cuz I'm selfish. I go cuz I'm weary.
- Stay Mickey... if you are weary. I can cure that.
- No woman could cure weariness. You cause weariness. You simply don't use poison as remedy.
- What do you mean Mickey?
- I mean I have to go, sweet Lula.
Man finishes dressing. Woman makes no movement, just stares at him.
- What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.
- Oh Lula. You and your sentimental hunger for drama. Things aren't as Chris Isaak sings it.
- They are Mickey. And you rivers are also on fire, just in the song. But I'm calm, Mickey. And you know why?
- Tell me.
- It's cuz I know that nobody loves no one. And you ain't an exception, Mickey.
Man pulls a bitter grimace, a wicked smile maybe. Opens the door, slams it. Woman sobs silently as his footsteps fade.
-No, Lula. I'm sorry, but no.
- No what, Mickey?
- No for this. No for you.
- I don't understand, Mickey... don't you want me anymore? Don't you love me anymore?
- Hush, Lula. Enough of this nonsense.
- But Mickey, where did all those dreams go? You said you would love me forever! You said we'd fuck and drink forever, or maybe until we die...
- Enough of it, Lula. We can't.
- But Mickey! I'll go with you anywhere! Anywhere! I swear to God, I swear for the sake of my Ma' and Pa', and...
- Shut your mouth, silly.
- Am I silly, Mickey? Am I silly for loving you? Am I silly for wishing nothing but you?
- You are silly, Lula. You are silly for following me.
- Oh but a woman does what a woman's heart tells her to do. And my heart tells me to follow you, Mickey.
- I'm leaving town, Lula. And I won't stop just to eat, sleep and fuck.
- I don't care, Mickey! Take me with you! Take me and stop to eat and sleep and fuck with me!
- I can't, Lula.
- But why?
Woman pants miserably. Man appears to be wondering for a second. He turns his head towards the woman.
- Why? You ask why? Here is my answer. I go cuz I have to go. I go cuz I'm not from here. I go cuz I don't love you. I go cuz I'm restless. I go cuz I'm selfish. I go cuz I'm weary.
- Stay Mickey... if you are weary. I can cure that.
- No woman could cure weariness. You cause weariness. You simply don't use poison as remedy.
- What do you mean Mickey?
- I mean I have to go, sweet Lula.
Man finishes dressing. Woman makes no movement, just stares at him.
- What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.
- Oh Lula. You and your sentimental hunger for drama. Things aren't as Chris Isaak sings it.
- They are Mickey. And you rivers are also on fire, just in the song. But I'm calm, Mickey. And you know why?
- Tell me.
- It's cuz I know that nobody loves no one. And you ain't an exception, Mickey.
Man pulls a bitter grimace, a wicked smile maybe. Opens the door, slams it. Woman sobs silently as his footsteps fade.
2014. április 29., kedd
my pipe
start,
start,
start,
ignite
start it.
my grandpa's pipe's in my mouth. its like having a piece of history in my mouth. not like when lewinski blew clinton. its like my grandpa, long dead and buried, leaving his pipe untouched for decades is coming to life again. this tiny piece of well-fabricated wood survived him. it survived his wife. survived thirty years. waited with patience, as much as a wooden pipe could wait. with patience.
now its here, in Eger. the only thing which deserves capital letter in my post.
so, this pipe is mine now; and its lit. lit with fire. lit with this fucking enthusiasm which doesnt want to come to an end, this impulsive fraction of life, sorry, Life.
im drunk with love, drunk with life, drunk with writing. drunk with pipe. drunk with my grandpa. is he there? anywhere? watching? listening? grinning? paying attention? i hope he has a pipe up there. even though i know we'd have a lot of fun smoking tobacco together in fonyód, now i only wish he has some tobacco up there.
people die around you. they leave you, they exit your life. it doesnt make a difference. they vanish even if they are still alive. they are dead for you. is grandpa gone? yep. is he still smoking the pipe with me? yep.
i bet he fuckin does.
some others may still be alive; and yet they are dead.
my pipe survived my grandparents. it will probably outlast me as well.
lovers come and lovers go; but my pipe is always there. so as my pen; and so as my words.
oddly enough,
i just love this life.
just like i love my pipe.
start,
start,
ignite
start it.
my grandpa's pipe's in my mouth. its like having a piece of history in my mouth. not like when lewinski blew clinton. its like my grandpa, long dead and buried, leaving his pipe untouched for decades is coming to life again. this tiny piece of well-fabricated wood survived him. it survived his wife. survived thirty years. waited with patience, as much as a wooden pipe could wait. with patience.
now its here, in Eger. the only thing which deserves capital letter in my post.
so, this pipe is mine now; and its lit. lit with fire. lit with this fucking enthusiasm which doesnt want to come to an end, this impulsive fraction of life, sorry, Life.
im drunk with love, drunk with life, drunk with writing. drunk with pipe. drunk with my grandpa. is he there? anywhere? watching? listening? grinning? paying attention? i hope he has a pipe up there. even though i know we'd have a lot of fun smoking tobacco together in fonyód, now i only wish he has some tobacco up there.
people die around you. they leave you, they exit your life. it doesnt make a difference. they vanish even if they are still alive. they are dead for you. is grandpa gone? yep. is he still smoking the pipe with me? yep.
i bet he fuckin does.
some others may still be alive; and yet they are dead.
my pipe survived my grandparents. it will probably outlast me as well.
lovers come and lovers go; but my pipe is always there. so as my pen; and so as my words.
oddly enough,
i just love this life.
just like i love my pipe.
2014. április 26., szombat
Chocolate eggs
One day my stories from the hotel will be published. Paperback novel. Wicked black and white portrait of myself on the back, no blurb as no one would be willing to write any. And the title: Wellness hotel.
Whoa, whoa, hold your imagination cowboy! First you need stories to fill that book up.
Here, I present you the latest and probably the weirdest so far.
4 am. Night shift coming to its end. I'm about to leave the reception desk as breakfast has to be prepared. Drunkards sleep, lovers sleep, loners sleep. The hotel is asleep.
Except this fucking night. Two drunk Germans arrive. Yelling and giggling all the way, they stop with some hesitation at my desk.
"Hello there. We would like eine... zwei..., nein, two beers. Two beers, please."
"I'm sorry sir. We do not have any beer at the reception" that's me, lying obviously. We have shit loads of beer racked up behind the reception door in the fridge. But in their condition, they get only mineral water.
"NOOOO we wantzz some bier! Good bier."
"Sir, you have two bottles of Heineken and Carlsberg in your room. Check the minibar" I told him, hoping they will just vanish. Surely they didn't.
"Oh fuck the beer. But what other drinks you have then... OOOOH I see a lot of alcohol!" said the shorter guy, happily recognizing the pocket-sized liquor store behind my back. There goes my plan, I thought. I should have served the damn beers but now they are ordering some hard stuff. They did.
"Two martinis please, James Bond style. Zwei, yes Thomas is also drinking"
Damn you and your Martinis. Fine, so now what? Single or double? They are wasted already. Double it is. As they taste it, the short guy spits it back.
"Scheisse! OUFF this is is shit! I want some bier!" with the most German-English pronunciation one could imagine.
"Fuck this scheisse... What's your name?" he leans closer above the desk, stares in my eyes."Say, boy! You look like my friend in Germany... As young and as..."
"Stop it, Stephan." he gets interrupted by Thomas. Thomas is sober enough to restrain his buddy. Which I'm more than glad for. Thomas picks up one chocolate egg from the tiny silver bowl on the desk.
"Can I take this for my little kids?"
"Sure, take two." Stephan also starts playing with one egg. He peels the thin red paper, breaks the chocolate egg into two halves. He slowly grabs one half and drops it into Thomas' glass. The father of two kids takes a good, long look at his freshly made coctail.
"Fuck you Stephan. I'm going to sleep" Stephan laughs like an idiot. Chocolate bits between his teeth. Smell of alcohol hits my face. He winks at me and says,
"Thomas, tell him that (says something indistinct in German)," grinning.
Thomas has all the pain of humankind written over his face.
"He says you look like his boyfriend back in Germany. As young and as.. gorgeous."
Now I'm fucked. Figuratively, thus far. And I have to be aware if I want to keep it like that.
"HA! He is gorgeous indeed. You don't want a champagne maybe? My room is no. 5." adds Stephan with a menacing grin.
"I'm sleeping, Stephan" and this time Thomas indeed walks up the stairs.
We are alone. Faint lamp lits Stephan's wicked face.
"So... you want some champagne, yes?"
"Sir, I can't drink during shift. I'm sorry."
"Sorry, sorry... you are always sorry you fucking arschlock." he grabs another chocolate egg and totters towards the stairs. "Fuck this night... fuck this martini and your pretty white face."
His voice echoes up the corridor as he disappears on the corner.
"Always sorry! Fuck you and the eggs, the martini, and Thomas. Fuck..." and so on, until the door slams.
4.30 am. I have to start preparing breakfast. Fuck the breakfast.
Figuratively.
Whoa, whoa, hold your imagination cowboy! First you need stories to fill that book up.
Here, I present you the latest and probably the weirdest so far.
4 am. Night shift coming to its end. I'm about to leave the reception desk as breakfast has to be prepared. Drunkards sleep, lovers sleep, loners sleep. The hotel is asleep.
Except this fucking night. Two drunk Germans arrive. Yelling and giggling all the way, they stop with some hesitation at my desk.
"Hello there. We would like eine... zwei..., nein, two beers. Two beers, please."
"I'm sorry sir. We do not have any beer at the reception" that's me, lying obviously. We have shit loads of beer racked up behind the reception door in the fridge. But in their condition, they get only mineral water.
"NOOOO we wantzz some bier! Good bier."
"Sir, you have two bottles of Heineken and Carlsberg in your room. Check the minibar" I told him, hoping they will just vanish. Surely they didn't.
"Oh fuck the beer. But what other drinks you have then... OOOOH I see a lot of alcohol!" said the shorter guy, happily recognizing the pocket-sized liquor store behind my back. There goes my plan, I thought. I should have served the damn beers but now they are ordering some hard stuff. They did.
"Two martinis please, James Bond style. Zwei, yes Thomas is also drinking"
Damn you and your Martinis. Fine, so now what? Single or double? They are wasted already. Double it is. As they taste it, the short guy spits it back.
"Scheisse! OUFF this is is shit! I want some bier!" with the most German-English pronunciation one could imagine.
"Fuck this scheisse... What's your name?" he leans closer above the desk, stares in my eyes."Say, boy! You look like my friend in Germany... As young and as..."
"Stop it, Stephan." he gets interrupted by Thomas. Thomas is sober enough to restrain his buddy. Which I'm more than glad for. Thomas picks up one chocolate egg from the tiny silver bowl on the desk.
"Can I take this for my little kids?"
"Sure, take two." Stephan also starts playing with one egg. He peels the thin red paper, breaks the chocolate egg into two halves. He slowly grabs one half and drops it into Thomas' glass. The father of two kids takes a good, long look at his freshly made coctail.
"Fuck you Stephan. I'm going to sleep" Stephan laughs like an idiot. Chocolate bits between his teeth. Smell of alcohol hits my face. He winks at me and says,
"Thomas, tell him that (says something indistinct in German)," grinning.
Thomas has all the pain of humankind written over his face.
"He says you look like his boyfriend back in Germany. As young and as.. gorgeous."
Now I'm fucked. Figuratively, thus far. And I have to be aware if I want to keep it like that.
"HA! He is gorgeous indeed. You don't want a champagne maybe? My room is no. 5." adds Stephan with a menacing grin.
"I'm sleeping, Stephan" and this time Thomas indeed walks up the stairs.
We are alone. Faint lamp lits Stephan's wicked face.
"So... you want some champagne, yes?"
"Sir, I can't drink during shift. I'm sorry."
"Sorry, sorry... you are always sorry you fucking arschlock." he grabs another chocolate egg and totters towards the stairs. "Fuck this night... fuck this martini and your pretty white face."
His voice echoes up the corridor as he disappears on the corner.
"Always sorry! Fuck you and the eggs, the martini, and Thomas. Fuck..." and so on, until the door slams.
4.30 am. I have to start preparing breakfast. Fuck the breakfast.
Figuratively.
2014. április 15., kedd
New header and more
You might have realized that something changed. This vanished:
And this appeared, changing the color scheme:
And this appeared, changing the color scheme:
After a little cosmetics of course. Original:
So previous one was Misi, oldest of my brothers (turning 14). But he shan't reign long I told myself thus the idea of bringing Andris (10) to the spotlight came last night. So there you go, share your opinion, like, dislike etc.
2014. április 5., szombat
The hooker, the birthday guy and the boy
1
Wasted. That would be the perfect word. To describe me. Me, in general. And me, right now. You turn 40 and you seem to be forgotten by the outer world. Great fourth X birthday party! Huh! We all gonna come, they said. We are getting wasted, they said.My saddest fuckin birthday. Ever. Sure, I've had bad ones. But not sad ones. Not like this. Mmmh, anyway. Eger and the valley of the beautiful women. That's how they call it. Yet the only woman I've found is a hooker. Yeah, I didn't actually find her. I just dialled a number. If you are having a miserable birthday, it has to peak in every possible means. The hooker is pretty. As much as a hooker can be pretty. She has some class, possibly faking it though. As we enter the hotel, she orders a whisky with coke. There goes the class. I take a black label and a ginger ale to wash it down. Boy serving it is whole-hearted, at least he appears to be. Brings the tray with the booze to the room. Fine, just get back to your desk. Let me close the door. Thanks.
The hooker is classy again. I suppose that's what you say when a woman grabs your cock with sure hands. Now she is naked, just the bra left on. I'm trying to grope her, everywhere. She is like a candy. The type of candy you bite on and you just can't stop chewing. It tortures your tasting buds so much that you chew faster, and faster until the moment you realize...
That she is gone. And you came.
2
Oh boy, what an awful day. Hate Fridays. There is this fat-ass lawyer I have to blow at 6 pm. Every damn Friday. It lasts at least for 30 minutes. No matter how hard I try. Men say they cum fast if I use both hands. Well this lawyer seems to beat the odds every fuckin occasion. Leaving him is a bigger pleasure than having an orgasm after months of trying at work and home. And yet, receiving a phone call at 2 am is almost worse. Guy sounds excited. Drunk. Wants to fuck. Has a birthday today. Booked a hotel room. In the valley of the beautiful women. How ironic. The slut walks into a place which salutes to beauty. Well, I salute to cock. Even pretty girls do that.
The hotel seems neat. Ardent boy raises his pretty white face. Whisky would do it. He dutifully executes our order. Sheer innocence. At least in my eyes. He even brings the tray to the room. Birthday guy takes the tray with unsure hands, slams the door quickly. A swift series of movements and he is all mine. Or at least that what he thinks. I moan as I think my working hours are almost over. He tries to control me, but he even fails to play the role of a man. His hips' pace deaden. Inhale, exhale. Heavily. Switches to snoring.
My clothes still ooze perfume. Not even a drop of sweat. Luckily the notes are already on the drawer. I sneak out of the room. The boy smiles with embarassment. I nod and say goodbye. I could see him staring at my ass from the window's reflection. Oh boy, could you buy me? Not even for an hour.
The valley is chilly. Eventually it's 4 am. I'm finished.
Six days left until next Friday.
3
Things bothering me about night shift, reason no. 1: guests arriving after midnight. Maybe I'm too harsh, but if I booked a hotel I would totally get to my room before midnight. But it's the valley of the beautiful women, eventually. People come here for one reason. That one reason is drinking, and I'm totally okay with that part; what bothers me more is what ensues.
When the guy said he is getting drunk tonight so he needs a room downstairs, right across the reception, at the entrance, I already knew what he has in his head. It's his birthday, so his buddies will make it sure it would be a night to remember.
It's probably 3 am and he returns with a woman. Who am I fooling, a prostitute. Fine, still a woman. Damn, but a gorgeous one. How can a guy like this be with... oh, don't be so naive, Peter. Prostitution is the finest way to define how money based society works. The more money you got, that better and prettier things you buy.
Guy takes two whiskys. Ordering a whisky is always cool. Leaves the impression you are classy. Guy takes the tray from my hands and quickly closes the door. Oh boy, you are horny aren't you? Fine, I sit back at my desk.
Last for five minutes maybe. The hooker giggles and moanes delicately. I have to concede I'm getting hard. Damn night shifts! Luckily a faint shriek signals the end of the story. The hooker appears soon in the corridor, nods goodbye and leaves. Her ass sways hypnotically until her curves fade to black.
My pants get comfortable again. And I have only three hours from my shift.
2014. március 29., szombat
And then I jerked off
Bad sex is like a poorly written script: the more takes you force, the worse it gets.
The most recent novelty in my life is acting. While I'm trying to give my best to the poor bastard who picked me for the main role by random, I have these amusing moments of silence. The crew does what it does best, the other actors are sitting and chatting around so it is not precisely the type of silence you may think of, however the peace I find amidst this seemingly chaotic environment is almost as relaxing as jerking off while taking a shower. Almost. So silence creates peace, peace creates fertile soil for my thoughts, and finally my thoughts are... well, they form up to something clever. Or dumb. This time: both.
She was the hottest girl in the dorm. She was a bit short but nonetheless gorgeous. Had danced for over ten years, had the curves you won't find anywhere. She was somewhat simple-minded which she perfectly deputized with her emotional intelligence: the kind of girl you'd never like to discuss Wittgenstein with, just rather fuck her til the last breath. Or at least that was what I had thought.
First time was bad. She was drunk. Being drunk usually has two implications on women: either turns them into a sexual predator who feed on cock, or instantly switches off their "seductive powers" button. It was only later when I found out that her buttons were deactivated by the manufacturer.
So second time was bad again. We weren't drunk. Not being drunk often has two implications on women: either turns them into the sexual fantasy you had been imagining about, or become the authentic counterparts of what we call as a "piece of wood".
Third time was the last time. She was drunk. She ate some spicy soup with beans before she rushed into my room to grab me out of my late night trance, and to -finally- fuck me. Being drunk usually has two implications on women, but I've already told you that. And yet I still believed the sheer eroticism of her character won't die out once I start undressing her.
I was wrong again. Still, the bathroom seemed cosy enough to bend her over (roomies' peace shan't be disturbed), but undressing her brought the same disappointment. She tired to kiss me but all her mouth spoke to me was an ugly burp which chanted the exact ingredients of the soup.
I sent her out. She needed sleep, and she even believed it's better to rest. There I was, sitting in the shower, hot water scorching my skin; half stiff cock in my hand. I laughed.
And since there was nothing better to do, I jerked off.
2014. március 27., csütörtök
Why am I an ass?
EXT. PARK. NOON
Birds are chirping. Distant chatter dithers from the background mixed with busy noises of a near road. Young man holds his hand on his face with a sour grimace. Much shorter girl opposes him just a few steps in front, ready to strike again. Although the girl's appearance is rather poor and the boy's clothes represent a certain stature, it seems the girl has the upper hand.
Slaps the boy again, still furious but obviously less vehement. Boy recognizes the softening, but apparently ignores it.
Girl, being rather shocked by the boy's words takes control over her rage. Moreover, she appears now woeful and tiny.
Boy realizes his mistake, nervously laughs and tries to carry out a hug, which he fails.
Girl finds herself shaking a bit, grabbing the boy's arms with both hands.
Girl totally loses it, moanes silently.
Boy grasps girl's neck gently but with iron hand. She gulps with excitement.
Squeezes the girl's face and sticks his lips to hers.
Birds are chirping. Distant chatter dithers from the background mixed with busy noises of a near road. Young man holds his hand on his face with a sour grimace. Much shorter girl opposes him just a few steps in front, ready to strike again. Although the girl's appearance is rather poor and the boy's clothes represent a certain stature, it seems the girl has the upper hand.
BOY
Why am I an ass?
GIRL
Are you still asking?
BOY
A man needs some explanation...
GIRL
And the woman refuses to give one.
Slaps the boy again, still furious but obviously less vehement. Boy recognizes the softening, but apparently ignores it.
BOY
I just can't see why this thing is such an issue.
GIRL
This thing? You mean, using your cock as a fishing rod and fish all who bite on it?
BOY
I don't like where this is going, but the example fascinates me.
GIRL
Does it? Well, if it pleases you, answer me one thing. Are you enjoying all those minnows biting on?
BOY
Oh, baby. Minnows are minnows. They serve practical needs.
Girl, being rather shocked by the boy's words takes control over her rage. Moreover, she appears now woeful and tiny.
GIRL
Am I not good enough to serve the practical needs?
BOY
C'mon sweetheart. You ain't a minnow. Ain't a fish... but like a whale.
GIRL
A whale? Now that's very sweet of you.
Boy realizes his mistake, nervously laughs and tries to carry out a hug, which he fails.
BOY
You know I didn't mean that way. You are a dolphin... A sexy, curvy dolphin. Swimming free in the seas... All the foam around your body. Sunshine glints on drops of water chasing down on you..
Girl reluctantly accepts the hug. She finds some comfort as the boy embraces her from behind. Boy now lowers his voice, and switches to a much more tender tone.
BOY
You are a special kind of dolphin. Your pretty white skin... your swift and flexible body... those curved lines, all suporting perfection.
Girl finds herself shaking a bit, grabbing the boy's arms with both hands.
GIRL
I can't believe your dolphin-talk just bought me.
BOY
That's my charm, honey. I might be a bad fisherman, but I throw back the minnow and only keep the dolphin. And you know what I do with dolphin?
Girl totally loses it, moanes silently.
BOY
See? I don't ask much. Forget the minnows... I throw them back anyways. I let them breathe. But as for you...
Boy grasps girl's neck gently but with iron hand. She gulps with excitement.
GIRL
B-but baby...
BOY
What is it?
GIRL
What if there is an another dolph...
BOY
Oh, just shut your cute mouth.
Squeezes the girl's face and sticks his lips to hers.
FADE TO BLACK
2014. március 23., vasárnap
Eger-Trabzon-Eger
This is a rather free translation of the original. Click if you are lucky enough to understand it!
The title? Nope, it's not a route planner.
Rather a foolish jubilance. This is how I could depict the relation between Eger and Trabzon:
Let's ignore the fact that comparing two such obviously contrasting cities is normally utterly nonsense. One is Turkish, other is Hungarian; one is located at the seaside surrounded by proud peaks, other is situated amidst low hills. No matter how I'm contradicting myself, I'll make these two cities face each other. No matter what you think. This is my blog. My rules. It's my bitch. The blog, I meant. I'm running this thing. Just like a pimp. Got it? Get it? Good.
so
I've strolled enough in both cities, with or without camera, equipped with pen and ink, some tunes in my ears. A brief list of the things I think of, there and back:
Eger: joy, universe, la vie, event, accidentals, future, people, air (fresh), fervent, home, wine, book, women, sun, stars, trees, writing, fatigue
Trabzon: grim, bitter, seaside, rain, family, Nalan, tomorrow, Hungary, teaching, health, sickness, death, alone, self-pity, end, growing up, ripening, creed, a fucking celibacy to live in this corner of the world, air (igrenc)
I had elevated my Trabzon exile to a Shakespearean level so gravely that it wasn't fixed with my homecoming. Still, all is bright and pretty now, spring is at our doorstep. Plenty of sunrises and sunsets glamor me as I walk the streets of Eger. It was one of those evenings I roamed throught the town. Night almost fell as I was admiring the last pastel tones of dusk. Our sun had already vanished and the night sky started to take over from the other side of the horizon. Slightly above the trees and rooftops a cold yet sweet sunbeam dithered, warily smoothing the edge of the urban landscape. Blueish, simple color it was, so gently flowing around the pine trees' silhouttes that I couldn't stop myself reciting:
Smooth sky-sea washes
With gentle foam
duh, no
Blue sea-sky embraces
Trees, houses, mazes
Yeter! Yells the audience. But the feeling remains. Why the hell did those two colors amuse me so much? I charge my happiness with unseen rage. I dislike the way I favor Eger. Surely, I must had some similar moments in Trabzon! Nay! Even better ones! Found some proof:
The title? Nope, it's not a route planner.
Rather a foolish jubilance. This is how I could depict the relation between Eger and Trabzon:
Now that you are blinded by my paint skills, continue reading.
I've always loved to contradistinguish things. I enjoyed comparing Lake Balaton with the Adriatic Sea, chocolate ice cream with lemon flavored, Tolkien with Martin, brunettes and blondes and so on. Yet these are somewhat simple examples. Lake Balaton is better then the Adriatic, chocolate beats lemon, Tolkien owns Martin, and brunettes are always better than blondes, except when they aren't. Problems start to occur once we make two not that obviously differing subject face each other. Raspberry or strawberry flavored ice cream? Beatles or the Stones? Foreign girls or Hungarians? And -finally- reaching the peak of my argument:
Trabzon or Eger?
Let's ignore the fact that comparing two such obviously contrasting cities is normally utterly nonsense. One is Turkish, other is Hungarian; one is located at the seaside surrounded by proud peaks, other is situated amidst low hills. No matter how I'm contradicting myself, I'll make these two cities face each other. No matter what you think. This is my blog. My rules. It's my bitch. The blog, I meant. I'm running this thing. Just like a pimp. Got it? Get it? Good.
so
I've strolled enough in both cities, with or without camera, equipped with pen and ink, some tunes in my ears. A brief list of the things I think of, there and back:
Eger: joy, universe, la vie, event, accidentals, future, people, air (fresh), fervent, home, wine, book, women, sun, stars, trees, writing, fatigue
Trabzon: grim, bitter, seaside, rain, family, Nalan, tomorrow, Hungary, teaching, health, sickness, death, alone, self-pity, end, growing up, ripening, creed, a fucking celibacy to live in this corner of the world, air (igrenc)
I had elevated my Trabzon exile to a Shakespearean level so gravely that it wasn't fixed with my homecoming. Still, all is bright and pretty now, spring is at our doorstep. Plenty of sunrises and sunsets glamor me as I walk the streets of Eger. It was one of those evenings I roamed throught the town. Night almost fell as I was admiring the last pastel tones of dusk. Our sun had already vanished and the night sky started to take over from the other side of the horizon. Slightly above the trees and rooftops a cold yet sweet sunbeam dithered, warily smoothing the edge of the urban landscape. Blueish, simple color it was, so gently flowing around the pine trees' silhouttes that I couldn't stop myself reciting:
Smooth sky-sea washes
With gentle foam
duh, no
Blue sea-sky embraces
Trees, houses, mazes
Yeter! Yells the audience. But the feeling remains. Why the hell did those two colors amuse me so much? I charge my happiness with unseen rage. I dislike the way I favor Eger. Surely, I must had some similar moments in Trabzon! Nay! Even better ones! Found some proof:
And even
Silhoutess are at least as pretty there as well. But as long as Trabzon sunsets and dusk mean the fall and death of hope (even non-existence of it), Eger only has to show me a lucky meeting of two rooftops in front of blue mood lights and it's already reminding me feminine intimacy. Why?
Why am I chanting Under the Bridge on my way home from the private school, inevitably comparing Kiedis' L.A to my Trabzon whilst I erase every grim and depressing song from my phone in Eger and pump up the volume for all the joyful shit like Sting and Jamiroquai?
WHY?
The diagram above says it all. Nothing else matters.
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