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.