British

It was incredibly pink and grey. It was an inexplicable, melancholic, ethereal mixture of the two colors. We all fell silent. The sudden bend in the mountain road muted us all as the vast sea emerged on our left. But it was the rugged peaks of the mountain range catching our attention. Like a giant spider's legs, the chipped peaks of the mountain stretched long into the sea, well beyond the valley where the city found shelter. The spider's leg even sunk underwater, but only to reappear again and rise, rise until another chipped peak broke its momentum and pushed it back to the water. As far as our eyes could see, two or three of these spider legs rested in the gigantic mass of water. The water almost coalesced with the sky and the murky clouds, making it impossible to spot a clear horizon. An enormous greyish canvas to paint on- this is probably what the Sun thought, staring down at the scenery. Picking up a pink paint bucket, he hid behind the thick veil of the clouds and emptied the bucket's contents on the sky.
And we just stared quietly at the result. There were no beams of the sinking sun, nor the orange face winking at us for a last time. It was all too blunt and quixotic; the hopeless love that comes to haunt you when you are old and seen too much to believe that such feelings could be real. But it was there, with all its swiftly fading beauty. The spider's legs, the sea and the sky all started to immerse into the night as the Sun cleaned up the pink mess. Tiny, blinking lights of the city appeared and the mountain road took a sharp right turn, tearing our eyes and minds from the landscape.

'Oh for fuck's sake how drunk I got' yelled the chubby girl getting on the minibus. Another 7-8 chubby girls followed, their obese bodies radiating an obnoxious combination of sweat, alcohol and stupidity. They screamed and they shouted, giggled and laughed, cursed and talked, burped, apologized and cursed again. After a ten minute ride, they got off the minibus, into the night. 'Fucking British', said the chubby girl and apologized once more.

Fucking British, we all thought.

I am

I go
to a well, deep with shallow thoughs
I descend
to the hole in the ground
I shiver
as the air gets cooler
I stumble
in a rock at the bottom
I fall
on the dry soil
I crawl
towards a dim light
I find
a path leading down below
I walk
in caverns of a distant age
I stare
into the pitch black, hoping to see the light
I lost
my way and the faith of finding the exit
I sit
in darkness, still and stale, as the air
I inhale
the nothingness
I crave
the nothingness
I am.

Easy

I smell like fish. I sniff my fingers.
I had a tin of trout for supper. Soaked in tomato sauce.
I also had a fine bottle of wine.

It's cold here, though spring is in for like ten days.

But that's just the calendar.

Music plays.

Fatigue. F-A-T-I-G-U-E. Calling it like that instead of tiredness makes it look more grave. I mean, you are so tired you must express yourself using another language. Je suis un peut fatiguée!
Biraz yorgunum. Yoruldum.
I always mess up the tense, whatever.

What you never learn, you never know! Right?

When it comes to Turkish grammar, I must agree. How would I know which tense to use by just listening to people speaking? See?
But it doesn't always work like this, as it's impossible to force a universal rule on how things work in general. Things never work as they are supposed to work. Rules are stupid, Teresa! And it's a terrific relief to realize that rules, by their nature are stupid in their very creation.

*Easy*

Kid's a natural. He's got it all.

When you hear that sentence, you know you are in the right place, doing the right thing.
Dad said that my brightest talent (if not the solemn) is that people love me. That's great, right? You aren't doing anything, or at least you feel like you aren't doing anything yet you achieve something you do not necessarily ask for. Fuck my career! Why would I be the next Bukowski or Hemingway? That's just all in my head! Embrace it, Péter! You are loved. But that's pretty much it.

*Easy*

Bang and blame

My poor baby!

If you could see yourself now. If you could see yourself now, baby, as the tides turn!
But you don't, because you are too much used to be so in control.
You don't see so I have to tell you, roll over me, let me go, it's an old story, even the words we had have grown old. We have grown old. It's not my thing, so let it go.

I wish you could see yourself now. The tables have turned, your hinges held the world while it swung, while it was in motion. The screws have loosened up, and now the world has fallen out of your grasp. I wish you could see yourself now! I could even turn the screw back, as it's almost painful to watch you turn the inside out. But I won't do it. It's not my thing.

Yeah, you have a little worry, I know it all too well. Who dares to cross your threshold? Who risks trespassing your territory? Each kiss that happens to be on your way, tell me, what would you do with it? Another screw to drop to join the other hundreds.

You know that's not my thing.

All the screws from your hinges, you used it for constructing a wicked totem of a god from the past. A god that you adore, a god you will never get rid of. A god that kisses you, tugs you and rubs you, even jumps on you... it beats you and it hits you. Your god! Your love. Your only love.

So let it go! So let me go. Adore your god and get rid of your hinges, the shackles that used to be your enthralling gems once. Your world doesn't revolve around anything but yourself and your love from now on.

And that's the past; so let it go.

Millow

Hallways
I see
Always
Icy

I told myself: I can write something like this, can't I? So I started to play with words.

Pillow. Willow. Another one? Mellow? Oh, fuck that. That doesn't even rhyme.

Millow. That doesn't exist, but you know what? It exists for me. I've come to the conclusion that it's either doesn't exist and you are afraid to create it, or it doesn't exist so you create it.
Sheesh, I'm already giving myself away. Reaching the conclusion within ~10 lines.
But let's make my statement also the hypothesis of the post. My professors tend to complain about the lack of analysis in my texts, so this should be a proper moment and place to see whether I truly lack the analytical approach.

Open rooms
Contra-zooms

Orange booms. Crescent moons. Another one? I don't have any, already weakening my hypothesis. It seems that things I create have questionable life expectancy and durability at best. It's a never-ending struggle against entropy, which seems to rule not only the basic laws of all living things but fundamentally everything, starting from my room. These days I'm having almost no rest, I caught flu, so anytime I enter my room I just throw things on the ground. All these scattered belongings started to from a neat little island, which bothered me in the first place, but now I'm growing fond of it day by day. It's as if The Enemy, the vile and treacherous Entropy itself decided to create something.

Pictures may
Faces may
Fade away
Fade away

Words may. Promises may.... Another one? Future may? Can the future fade away? We associate the term fading with past things. The phenomenon of time makes us perceive it as a passing thing. Future does fade away, though. See, the things I create fade away: due to various reasons, most of my personal belongings won't exist in a couple of centuries. Most of the information I create are simply going to be erased by the grandiose and impenetrable mechanism of time. And eventually, I'll fade away as well. One day, I'll stop to exist, some people will definitely bury me, then they will die as well, and their grave diggers will die as well. But I suppose I don't have to introduce my readers to the act of passing.

Brothers then 
Get close to them
Step outside
Gunmetal sky
Peel away

That doesn't even follow the previous pattern, guys. I won't do anything with it, sorry.
Peel away! What a catchy phrase, though. I've written a post not long ago where I drew some semblance between Achilles and myself. As Homer told, he chose eternal greatness and a short life instead of dying at an old age but in complete obscurity. Does greatness stand the test of time? Does fame stand it? Is there anything in our known world that could practically withstand the grinding wheels of entropy?

Nope.

The reality is as follows: it doesn't matter if we create something or not, because it's either our own idleness or entropy destroying it. We possess the ability to motivate people on a local or a global scale; we are able to compete with entropy and some of us seem to cheat the irreversible process of it; but then again, each and every one of us will fail. We already have arguments on things happening just a few thousands of years ago- why would anyone from the next millenia think that Alexander the Great was a real person? Or, that Péter Lévay had a blog, for that matter. Things we create are destinned to effloresce and then eventually meet their demise.

Children play
Fade away
Where's the scars
Fade away
Fade away

One last thing, though. If we keep in our heads that all we do is predestinned to end, and yet we still persist, we continue creating, we keep fighting that pointless battle, we might even discover things that our normally indolent behavior would prevent from seeing.

And that is...

Entropy is the frame of our lives. The place, this marvellous universe we were born into is all within the monolithic framework of entropy. This is where we are expected to act. This is were we are expected to create. We don't have to change anything in the framework, and if we comply that and stop trying to bend the rules to our will, then, but only then we will see that creation, with all its sweat, doubt and tears is the only, only true joy we can ever experience through our lives.

Fallacy

What's the difference?
When you smoke and you don't, when you speak or you don't; when you love and when you don't. Once, you are that smoker, silent introvert, and the other day you prefer air, telling stories and loving the shit out of people.
What's the difference?

I suppose it's all in your head. The fallacy of relying upon people's opinion is the most treacherous deceptions you could face. You stretch your arms and legs, your mind and everything, hoping that you could reach the treasure, the pot of gold or call it as you like. You try; and you fail. Because they will say you can't. You won't. You aren't able to. You ridicule yourself. Your talents are being wasted. Your years are being wasted. You clinch a lot but hold little. You act like you do a lot but you do little.

Yeah, people feed on your uncertainty. You long forgot that they judge because they are unsure about themselves. Why would you remember this most simple yet very hideous fallacy? Why, if, it questions the sole purpose of your existence?

It's a war on your existence, remember that. It's an everlasting battle. A clash which assumes from the very beginning that you'd endure for long but eventually meet your expected and pitiful demise. The kind of battle that is destinned from its origo to fail.

It's a massacre. It's a massacre because you dive into it, telling yourself that there is a challenge lurking below the amassing sea of opinions. The waves of fallacy, again. The battle can't be won, but you can't recognize your direction; you keep on fighting as the waves hit you. You actually hit back, you hit strong and some waves fall; but it's an infinite ocean you are facing, the type Solaris depicted. A thinking, wise and almighty ocean.

Ridiculously enough, nobody asked you to fight. Nobody demanded you to initiate what is a predestinned but procstrinated death of your very character. Nope. There is option B. The option that you could actually stay on the land. That, even if the ocean has the real power, the land keeps you high. And dry. Sure, it's always nice to swim a little in this ocean. But to fight it? Who the fuck told you to do that? Who suggested you this idiocy?

Yeah, the ocean lured you in. You sorry, little person.

I'm now in shallow water, guys. Laying in the sand, on my face. It's like fighting a war against the ocean of opinions, but ridiculing myself for not even trying hard enough to accept a challenge. But it's fine. From my perspective, I'm fighting the same battle I've just explained.

But now both the ocean and the land laugh at me.

Black and White

People are bored of black and white things. They want shit to be colorful. They want shit to be complicated. Well, here is the thing: people, you are all wrong.
Look, I understand your need for complicated things.  You always want something chiselled, that is your very nature; and that is cool for me. But don't you dare to make me follow you, don't you dare to make me adopt your wicked creed.
I could go to lengthy explanations and make you see what I mean, but instead of bathing in the shallow waters of the black and white philosophy, I present you an example that is simple yet amusing.

Skin. White skin used to represent the aristocracy a couple of decades before. Fair skin is not cool these days anymore: women (and even men) roast themselves until they resemble a gigantic, walking orange. Fair skin is the sign of malnourishment, lack of iron in our blood or just simply lack of sunshine. It stopped being cool.
Clothing. Black clothes are widely considered to be depressing if combined. Folks will think you are either in your teenages and follow some obscure death metal group/ sect or just simply lack the basic need for wearing feasible clothes. It was -let's admit- never cool.

And yet here you stand.
Ivory skin and ebony clothes. The perfect combination. Not a malnourished death metal fanatic, nor a tasteless night receptionist.
Nope.
The dazzling beauty of two of the simplest colors.

Take the colorful shit, people! Complicate your things. Raise your standards to skies. Make it impossible for anyone to reach. Create an ideal image of your preference that is unavailable here on Earth and even god himself would laugh at the mere idea of it.
Go on, people. Raise demands and expectations. Dream of the colors. Dream that you find the bottom of the rainbow. That you find the pot of gold.

I am completely cool with black and white.

Yeah. I am completely complete with black and white.

Anthem

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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. 

(...)

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.

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.

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.

Missing yours? Add it in the comments!

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.

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.

His silhoutte appears as he gently touches her thighs. A fraction of a second and he is gone again.

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

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.