You and me, again. It's been a while since we've last met. I must say you look the same. The exact same bastard.Yeah, god. Don't try to make things pretty. I'm not making things pretty either. But I'm just a human. Your human, to be accurate.
So you know what? I was walking home. Muddy streets and shitty mood. I found your house. That's how sentimentalistic people call a church. House of yours. It was close, you know. I really wanted to get in. Like California, I just get in front of your son and murmur a couple of hail marys and I'm good to go. But this is Eger now. Your house was closed. I consider that a slight offense.
So I just stared at that weird building of yours. Do you really fancy that? It makes no sense to put your believers in a house with a tower. Are they feeling any better inside? I couldn't even get in!
God, you have some serious making up to do. If you actually care about any of us, you should be listening all the way I'm getting home. I was talking to you a lot, I even asked for some lightning bolts strucking me. Well, I trust you had better things to do than burning my ass.
I took that personal. I'm your human. And as such, I should call your name anytime I want.
But you aren't responding! You just leave me be, with my twisted thoughts and explanations of my actions.
I truly dislike you for that.
But what do I like you for?
No idea.
Peeps, god hates us all.
2014. február 20., csütörtök
2014. február 18., kedd
Memento of a secret sorrow
I adore good lyrics. They are what poems are for people of the past centuries: I could recite them anytime accurately. The only thing better than that would be filling out the blanks, ie. what each line makes me think. Here I present Sting-Hounds of Winter combined with Peter (Sting in italics, Peter normal)
"The Hounds Of Winter"
Mercury falling
I rise from my bed,
So it's just another damn morning. It's freaking cold. I hate waking up early.
Collect my thoughts together
I have to hold my head
Allright, it's not just another damn morning. There has to be something wrong out there.
It seems that she's gone
There we go. It's again about Her.
And somehow I am pinned by
The Hounds of Winter
Howling in the wind
Even simple things annoy me.
I walk through the day
My coat around my ears
I told you it was cold.
I look for my companion
I have to dry my tears
It seems that she's gone
Leaving me too soon
It's always too soon. It"s always too late. It's never in the right time. Poor me.
I'm as dark as December
I'm as cold as the Man in the Moon
Just some rhetoric shit to explain how bad I feel.
I still see her face
As beautiful as day
Her face was actually more beautiful than day.
It's easy to remember
Remember my love that way
Sure, linger on the moment that has already passed.
All I hear is that lonesome sound
The Hounds of Winter
They follow me down
Damn those dogs.
I can't make up the fire
The way that she could
I spend all my days
In the search for dry wood
It's all cool getting out of my life and taking the lighter of my heart, bitch.
Board all the windows and close the front door
I can't believe she won't be here anymore
Locking myself up seems definitely a good idea.
I still see her face
As beautiful as day
It's easy to remember
Remember my love that way
Time to burn those photos, Peter.
All I hear is that lonesome sound
The Hounds of Winter
They follow me down
Damned dogs.
A season for joy
A season for sorrow
A season for joy, infinite seasons for sorrow.
Where she's gone
I will surely, surely follow
I just wish...
She brightened my day
She warmed the coldest night
She took the lighter! Burn her photos!
The Hounds of Winter
They got me in their sights
I'm ending up as puppy food.
I still see her face
As beautiful as day
It's easy to remember
Remember my love that way
I would never forget you, even though bitch is the most proper word to refer to you.
All I hear is that lonesome sound
The Hounds of Winter
They harry me down
I'm done. That's what you get when you steal my heart, its lighter and the only thing you leave me by are some damn photos of your pretty face. Damn you, woman. Damn you for ever. May the Hounds of Winter come for you once and harry you down. Down to cehennem.
2014. február 13., csütörtök
The appetite
So many words. Unspoken. Thoughts. Meant to be said. They all roamed through my brain and my fingers.
Speaking of which, slippery fingers I got.
See, I just dropped my last piece of bread covered with some sauce.
What does this tell you about? Well, I'm apparently clumsy with stuff when I get home drunk.
Apart from that, I dropped it on my headphones. All soaked with mayonnaise. I'm definitely not using them tomorrow.
Now, I' chewing on the remnants of that bread. I would say I'm happy. If happy means joyful. Well, then I'm happy. So take a look at me. I'm still 24. I have a life, as they say. Issues I got, issues I solve. But I have bread and mayonnaise. And a place to drop that fucking bread. With mayonnaise. Little things, isn't it. You got to enjoy them.
God, what's the point of all this? Some struggle for daily living and my biggest concern is related to women/ writing. Pathetic. I would love to fight for food. Not like Tesco discounts. As in man-to-man, ultimate showdown, winner takes it all. Losers get shit. See, I'm not that comfort-seeking eventually. I just want to keep on tasting life. Cause at the end, your appetite will judge your character.
All the rest is bullshit.
Speaking of which, slippery fingers I got.
See, I just dropped my last piece of bread covered with some sauce.
What does this tell you about? Well, I'm apparently clumsy with stuff when I get home drunk.
Apart from that, I dropped it on my headphones. All soaked with mayonnaise. I'm definitely not using them tomorrow.
Now, I' chewing on the remnants of that bread. I would say I'm happy. If happy means joyful. Well, then I'm happy. So take a look at me. I'm still 24. I have a life, as they say. Issues I got, issues I solve. But I have bread and mayonnaise. And a place to drop that fucking bread. With mayonnaise. Little things, isn't it. You got to enjoy them.
God, what's the point of all this? Some struggle for daily living and my biggest concern is related to women/ writing. Pathetic. I would love to fight for food. Not like Tesco discounts. As in man-to-man, ultimate showdown, winner takes it all. Losers get shit. See, I'm not that comfort-seeking eventually. I just want to keep on tasting life. Cause at the end, your appetite will judge your character.
All the rest is bullshit.
2014. január 22., szerda
40 years back/ come
Borges has an excellent novel about a guy who keeps every single memory of his life as bright and vivid as it had happened with him. He separates himself from the outer world as it's too painful for him to experience new things; it's more than enough to remember the shades of the wall, the pattern of the bathroom's tiles or just the smell of the freshly baked bread. But that's just a novel; pure fiction, right?
I'm unsure. Normally, our memories fade as time goes on; some stay sharper, others lose their characteristics, change their taste, color, smell, feel etc. Our memory is a tricky bitch: even if we choose to keep things we want and forget the ones we disliked it doesn't always serve us. For instance, I could recall my 12 year old self walking down the street from school during autumn, kicking the leaves and thinking this moment is so meaningless I definitely won't remember it later (and yes, I did kibitz about things like this at 12). Yet no way I could remember how my sister looked like a baby, how she crawled around even though I saw her plenty of times during her babyhood (do we use that term? like a ghetto for babies. the babyhood, yo).
Oh well, I'm sure everyone works this way. Disturbing enough, my problem is how these memories pop up in my head in the nick of time. My example will prove how much I resemble the hero of Borges.
Röyksopp is probably the best band to listen while writing. So I open a new tab with the clear goal to continue my little Nordic saga about an invented warrior nation's struggle in conquering Northern Europe. My brother Daniel misses my stories and now I can't tell any before sleep, so continuing it online would be a nice-brother move, right? But god (ha!) has other plans, and Röyksopp- 40 years back/ come starts to play. I actually hate that track, always skipped it before, but this time I wait and when the melody shifts around two minutes, everything changes around me.
It's Turkey. It's Hasankeyf, the sun is scorching. Seven in the morning. We climb the path uphill, turn here and there, breathe the fresh air and reach the top. Thousand year old ruins all around, we lay down in the grass. Smiling white clouds wonder through the blue sky and the sun laughs in our face. A gust of wind tickles our feet: we smile back at nature. Breathe, in and out. There is nothing more precious than breathing, and nothing joyful than that. I feel alive.
I'm still in Turkey, but this time the scene tells me about twilight. Gorgeous colors paint the bottom of the sky with warm tones. Proud clouds amass together to see the sun going down. The scent of the tired country looms everywhere around and darkness takes over. It's like being there again... It's like living those memories again, and living the future again. Hasankeyf, I'm 60, 70 years old, bent and white haired but still breathing. Breathing the memories of my past, my life... Sun is going down behind the temple. The temple which has been standing for thousands of years, witnessed centuries come and go. Peter is just a tiny and forgettable part of its lengthy life. But the temple is the cornerstone of Peter's life.
Teardrops chase down my cheeks. What happened? It's Eger again, raining outside, I'm in pyjamas, laptop rests in my lap, fingers on the keyboard. Three years! It happened three years ago. I never even listened to that damn song- and still it ignited such a powerful flashback that I just sat here for minutes without doing anything.
Well, except for breathing.
And then, writing.
I'm unsure. Normally, our memories fade as time goes on; some stay sharper, others lose their characteristics, change their taste, color, smell, feel etc. Our memory is a tricky bitch: even if we choose to keep things we want and forget the ones we disliked it doesn't always serve us. For instance, I could recall my 12 year old self walking down the street from school during autumn, kicking the leaves and thinking this moment is so meaningless I definitely won't remember it later (and yes, I did kibitz about things like this at 12). Yet no way I could remember how my sister looked like a baby, how she crawled around even though I saw her plenty of times during her babyhood (do we use that term? like a ghetto for babies. the babyhood, yo).
Oh well, I'm sure everyone works this way. Disturbing enough, my problem is how these memories pop up in my head in the nick of time. My example will prove how much I resemble the hero of Borges.
Röyksopp is probably the best band to listen while writing. So I open a new tab with the clear goal to continue my little Nordic saga about an invented warrior nation's struggle in conquering Northern Europe. My brother Daniel misses my stories and now I can't tell any before sleep, so continuing it online would be a nice-brother move, right? But god (ha!) has other plans, and Röyksopp- 40 years back/ come starts to play. I actually hate that track, always skipped it before, but this time I wait and when the melody shifts around two minutes, everything changes around me.
It's Turkey. It's Hasankeyf, the sun is scorching. Seven in the morning. We climb the path uphill, turn here and there, breathe the fresh air and reach the top. Thousand year old ruins all around, we lay down in the grass. Smiling white clouds wonder through the blue sky and the sun laughs in our face. A gust of wind tickles our feet: we smile back at nature. Breathe, in and out. There is nothing more precious than breathing, and nothing joyful than that. I feel alive.
I'm still in Turkey, but this time the scene tells me about twilight. Gorgeous colors paint the bottom of the sky with warm tones. Proud clouds amass together to see the sun going down. The scent of the tired country looms everywhere around and darkness takes over. It's like being there again... It's like living those memories again, and living the future again. Hasankeyf, I'm 60, 70 years old, bent and white haired but still breathing. Breathing the memories of my past, my life... Sun is going down behind the temple. The temple which has been standing for thousands of years, witnessed centuries come and go. Peter is just a tiny and forgettable part of its lengthy life. But the temple is the cornerstone of Peter's life.
Teardrops chase down my cheeks. What happened? It's Eger again, raining outside, I'm in pyjamas, laptop rests in my lap, fingers on the keyboard. Three years! It happened three years ago. I never even listened to that damn song- and still it ignited such a powerful flashback that I just sat here for minutes without doing anything.
Well, except for breathing.
And then, writing.
2014. január 10., péntek
The impulse
Streets of mud and damp
A city that wants to revamp
If I ever thought about destiny, now it has to be the right moment to do so. Four months of failure and boredom have led me to the unsure terrain of self-pity and pseudo-horrors. 'Enough!', Eger shouted, and once again offered a helping hand not just to ease the pain of my puny soul but to fix it.
So why is the guy with the coincidence tattoo is preaching about destiny? Before the dear audience loses faith in him, please hear my more-than-plausible explanation.
Jury, judge, executioner, behold.
I got a damned job, flat and scholarship within a week! Did you just conceive that? After being influenced by women (from best to worst, in that time order), chasing made-up dreams and trying to explain why my moves make sense...and convincing myself that I'm actually not screwing up everything through shitty emotionally-affected decision making, now, here, see what happens!
The only thing I miss? The impulse.
The spark that makes me write better.
The push that makes me work harder.
The small everyday miracle that makes me feel alive again.
The ignition called "love" that kickstarts the rusty pistons of my heart
Damn, god! The day you mold each and every human being and set them ready to go, what kind of job have you done with me? Look, most people need simple goals to move from A to B, like having a family, studying something, getting rich (bah) and so on. But even if some of these still motivate me (please exclude the fuck out personal fortune, thank you), I'm paralyzed without the mighty assistance of love. The cheesy, pinky, fluffy and glossy love. Let me explain this with a rather simple illustration:
A city that wants to revamp
If I ever thought about destiny, now it has to be the right moment to do so. Four months of failure and boredom have led me to the unsure terrain of self-pity and pseudo-horrors. 'Enough!', Eger shouted, and once again offered a helping hand not just to ease the pain of my puny soul but to fix it.
So why is the guy with the coincidence tattoo is preaching about destiny? Before the dear audience loses faith in him, please hear my more-than-plausible explanation.
Jury, judge, executioner, behold.
I got a damned job, flat and scholarship within a week! Did you just conceive that? After being influenced by women (from best to worst, in that time order), chasing made-up dreams and trying to explain why my moves make sense...and convincing myself that I'm actually not screwing up everything through shitty emotionally-affected decision making, now, here, see what happens!
The only thing I miss? The impulse.
The spark that makes me write better.
The push that makes me work harder.
The small everyday miracle that makes me feel alive again.
The ignition called "love" that kickstarts the rusty pistons of my heart
Damn, god! The day you mold each and every human being and set them ready to go, what kind of job have you done with me? Look, most people need simple goals to move from A to B, like having a family, studying something, getting rich (bah) and so on. But even if some of these still motivate me (please exclude the fuck out personal fortune, thank you), I'm paralyzed without the mighty assistance of love. The cheesy, pinky, fluffy and glossy love. Let me explain this with a rather simple illustration:
And then you just let me go, sitting back in your armchair laughing. Old bastard. One day I'm coming up to you and showing that you couldn't fuck with me. Just a bit.
2013. december 21., szombat
I'm a writer
There is a funny thing about writing. Sandor Weores, arguably one of the greatest 20th century Hungarian writers, said:
"There are only two professions that can be done without any practice: one is poetry and prose, and the other is politics."
These days I'm not willing to accept any kind of advice. Whatever people say around me I just try to pretend as if nothing happened. But this one right here has just penetrated the fragile resiliance built by my pride and ego. Just think about it! Even if you are a little emotional, you turn to writing. No, you don't have a friend there to listen, let's say your relatives aren't there to help. You didn't learn to play any instrument so that's not a choice either; you can't find peace nor the answer in nature. No, you got to stay on your ass and fix your tiny little broken heart as fast as you can. So grab your pen, your keyboard, typewriter or anything that can leave a trace! And write it out. Let the writer within just unfold! Yeah, you don't have to be taught for that; without further ado, your basic education has given you enough to know "B" comes right after "A". There are few places left on earth where writing is unknown. Thus, most of us really know how to do it.
People proclaim they are writers. Why hello there, self-proclaimed writer! What makes you really one of those classic, socitey-molding, leading, revolutionizing guys (girls)? Telling you are a writer doesn't really prove a point here. You got your diary, your blog, your collection of fancy documents, written or typed, soaked with self-hatred, passion, pain and all the usual sufferings of an average human being. So do you really think that makes you one of those people? The holy group of writers?
Fuck, it doesn't.
Loving your own words, being compassionate towards your own emotions and deeply understanding yourself doesn't imply you are a writer. Even insane people write. Serial killers write. Assholes write (OK, assholes can be writers actually, for eg. Ernest has beaten up once one of his criticizers while showing off his chest hair). And emotionally hurt people write. Furthermore, emotionally hurt, insane, asshole serial killers write. That's the lovely thing about it. Like digital cameras. You grab one and you pretend you are a professional. Take that pen! Read some guys' novels and combine the two! There you go, you are a writer now!
But as Mr Weores said earlier, politicians and writers go hand-in-hand these days. You say you are one of them, you keep on repeating it and one day people will forget you are actually nothing but just an emotionally hurt, insane, asshole serial killer. That's how things work today.
And that is, why I'm a writer.
"There are only two professions that can be done without any practice: one is poetry and prose, and the other is politics."
These days I'm not willing to accept any kind of advice. Whatever people say around me I just try to pretend as if nothing happened. But this one right here has just penetrated the fragile resiliance built by my pride and ego. Just think about it! Even if you are a little emotional, you turn to writing. No, you don't have a friend there to listen, let's say your relatives aren't there to help. You didn't learn to play any instrument so that's not a choice either; you can't find peace nor the answer in nature. No, you got to stay on your ass and fix your tiny little broken heart as fast as you can. So grab your pen, your keyboard, typewriter or anything that can leave a trace! And write it out. Let the writer within just unfold! Yeah, you don't have to be taught for that; without further ado, your basic education has given you enough to know "B" comes right after "A". There are few places left on earth where writing is unknown. Thus, most of us really know how to do it.
People proclaim they are writers. Why hello there, self-proclaimed writer! What makes you really one of those classic, socitey-molding, leading, revolutionizing guys (girls)? Telling you are a writer doesn't really prove a point here. You got your diary, your blog, your collection of fancy documents, written or typed, soaked with self-hatred, passion, pain and all the usual sufferings of an average human being. So do you really think that makes you one of those people? The holy group of writers?
Fuck, it doesn't.
Loving your own words, being compassionate towards your own emotions and deeply understanding yourself doesn't imply you are a writer. Even insane people write. Serial killers write. Assholes write (OK, assholes can be writers actually, for eg. Ernest has beaten up once one of his criticizers while showing off his chest hair). And emotionally hurt people write. Furthermore, emotionally hurt, insane, asshole serial killers write. That's the lovely thing about it. Like digital cameras. You grab one and you pretend you are a professional. Take that pen! Read some guys' novels and combine the two! There you go, you are a writer now!
But as Mr Weores said earlier, politicians and writers go hand-in-hand these days. You say you are one of them, you keep on repeating it and one day people will forget you are actually nothing but just an emotionally hurt, insane, asshole serial killer. That's how things work today.
And that is, why I'm a writer.
2013. november 10., vasárnap
Sagopa's Child
(this post doesn't really make sense without listening to each song at least a minute long.)
Ever heard about Sagopa Kajmer? No? And Aphrodite's Child? Anyone?
The two bond in fascinating fashion, yet Sagopa is a rapper from Turkey and the latter is a 60's band from Greece.
It all started when me and my buddies enjoyed a rare treat: getting a lift to our dorm by our teacher. A catchy tune came from the car's speakers and I dared to ask for the artist: what I got was more than a name. I got my hands on the album of Sagopa Kajmer. Well, rap doesn't really make sense when you aren't getting a word so I got bored of it quite fast yet I couldn't resist perpetually listening the following song:
This mysterious tune just resembles the waves of the Black Sea, I told myself and Sagopa's deep thoughts were merely assisting. Years after, sitting in my father's crib (yo) I took advantage of him not putting any music on, so I grabbed my phone and started the song above. Wow, the waves again!, I thought again. And wow, my father says, how come you know that? asks, coming from the other room. Impossible. How does my father know contemporary Turkish rap? So there he goes to the record player, roams through his collection, picks out one album and puts the pickup on it. Wow. Now I'm listening in awe: is that Sagopa Kajmer from a damn record? Soon enough I realize it's not the case. It's Aphrodite's Child and the Aegean Sea:
Really? The issue though isn't Sagopa stealing the whole instrumental part (rapping and dropping the beat doesn't really conceals the thievery), no. Eventually, even Kanye West had to steal from Hungarian pioneer rock band Omega. It's the whole discovery that I impersonated Sagopa's track with the Black Sea waves and here the original song comes throwing "Aegean Sea" in my face! I'm just astonished.
Furthermore, I broke my unholy relationship with Turkish rap as the only catchy song they produced was actually done 40 years before by -the otherwise much disliked- Greek guys (Vangelis, Demis Roussos anyone?). Plus I discovered another branch of progressive-psychedelic rock. Has to be the silver lining.
Ever heard about Sagopa Kajmer? No? And Aphrodite's Child? Anyone?
The two bond in fascinating fashion, yet Sagopa is a rapper from Turkey and the latter is a 60's band from Greece.
It all started when me and my buddies enjoyed a rare treat: getting a lift to our dorm by our teacher. A catchy tune came from the car's speakers and I dared to ask for the artist: what I got was more than a name. I got my hands on the album of Sagopa Kajmer. Well, rap doesn't really make sense when you aren't getting a word so I got bored of it quite fast yet I couldn't resist perpetually listening the following song:
This mysterious tune just resembles the waves of the Black Sea, I told myself and Sagopa's deep thoughts were merely assisting. Years after, sitting in my father's crib (yo) I took advantage of him not putting any music on, so I grabbed my phone and started the song above. Wow, the waves again!, I thought again. And wow, my father says, how come you know that? asks, coming from the other room. Impossible. How does my father know contemporary Turkish rap? So there he goes to the record player, roams through his collection, picks out one album and puts the pickup on it. Wow. Now I'm listening in awe: is that Sagopa Kajmer from a damn record? Soon enough I realize it's not the case. It's Aphrodite's Child and the Aegean Sea:
Really? The issue though isn't Sagopa stealing the whole instrumental part (rapping and dropping the beat doesn't really conceals the thievery), no. Eventually, even Kanye West had to steal from Hungarian pioneer rock band Omega. It's the whole discovery that I impersonated Sagopa's track with the Black Sea waves and here the original song comes throwing "Aegean Sea" in my face! I'm just astonished.
Furthermore, I broke my unholy relationship with Turkish rap as the only catchy song they produced was actually done 40 years before by -the otherwise much disliked- Greek guys (Vangelis, Demis Roussos anyone?). Plus I discovered another branch of progressive-psychedelic rock. Has to be the silver lining.
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