he loves you - yeah yeah yeah

He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

You think you lost your love,Well, I saw him yesterday.
It's you he's thinking of
And he told me what to say.

He says he loves you
And you know that can't be bad.
Yes, he loves you
And you know you should be glad.

He said you hurt him so
He almost lost her mind.
But now he said he knows
You're not the hurting kind.

He says he loves you
And you know that can't be bad.
Yes, he loves youAnd you know you should be glad. Ooh!

..oooh.and she was glad
she was so glad to stretch her body like a cat in a warm bed shared with love
so glad to arrive home with excitement and build a snowman that would
melt away slowly under the touch of hunders and thousends of raindrops
so glad to open surprises
so glad to learn new things
so glad even to fight, if the fight has brought a deeper understanding of each other with it
so glad not to be the hurting kind or the kind that is hurt
so glad to be in a safe heaven of love
in a paradise of red
where even her own reflection served the purpose of reflecting her joy
oh, she was glad, so glad she surely hasn't been this glad in a long long while
so glad
she didnt even mind haircuts or bellies
though she rebelled and protested as best she could
but changes bring new experienences
and all of this was so new
and this newness made her so glad
so glad she became a believer.
and from an undefined point in place and time she finally knew she truly belonged
wholly, inseperably, and possibly forever.

e scopri

é l'inizio del terzo anno di qcosa che dura solo da tre mesi
e ti fermi per pensare se una cosa cosí assurda possa essere vero
e leggi parole di un altra e dici, no, scrive di un altro, e invece no,
lo sai che é lui, peró tu lo vedi diverso..
imperfetto ma amabile
lottando contro di sé
ma poi lottando pure per te
alterando la realtá
ma poi la realtá non esiste nemmeno

e sai che lo ami
e vuoi scappare
scoprire sudamerica, africa
essere un altra ragazza
cosíché forse incontrando lui
lo potrei vedere incantato subito
cosí che non dovrei vivere con
qsti maledetti dubbi
e certo ce la fai
e poi i dubbi son solo
pippe mentali malefiche
e lui fa tutto per farti smettere
ma é difficile riparare
un treno che ha sbagliato binari
e andava in giro intorno la capolinea
prima di fermarsi
e poi ora non si sa dove va
ma ci vuoi andare pure tu
e vuoi attaccare tuoi vagoni
e viaggare insieme...

confessions

Times of rephrasing, paraphrasing
old pictures in new frames
new passions burnt out
- she was staring at an ashtray, beautiful, cristal, covered with a ligh layer of smoke and dust
some flames go out due to the slightest breeze
others keep burning deep within even when the cigarette lays untouched in the tray
seemingly unlit - its sparks light it up due to the slightest breeze.

She felt for her throat, and wondered about the unconfortable cough she has been having in the previous weeks.
Was it that she was choking on something?
What was it?
Was it connected to her sudden fear of the dark? Was it really the dark that scared her, or was it rather what may be and was once hidden under...was it a cold body...was it a killing lie...was it something she could not grasp?

There was much not-understood. It was a period of acceptance, a period of changes.
Just when she was about to enter a new room someone took her hand and pulled her elsewhere, and by the time she opened her eyes she was at this wonderful place where no fighting was required, where she was accapted with all her whirlwinds and follishness...

She liked the new place and though it seemed unreal, as the days passed by she did spend more and more time redecorating the rooms. But the unreal feeling kept lingering in her soul.

What a stange thing destiny may be...what a strange feeling when the 'meant to be' clashes your carefully built barricades and you find your soul pushed out in the warmth, naked, unprotected, feeling too many things, contrained to learn to trust again.

New beginning are difficult. Even if this newness is about a new fullness.

finish knitting

light threads connecting two
but what if the shawl you have been knitting
to keep you warm has holes in it
and what if you cant let the nodes drop
and fix and fill the gaps

and what if filling has no damned sense
would it not have to work like for others
you meet, you fall, you love
you know, you feel secure
you are asked, you answer

and yeah, like in the stupid film that goes in the background
you dont want to be asked either how i feel
i dont want to feel

'a tökéletlenség teszi különlegessé'

gosh, im confused. not even sure about what life do i want to live.

words words words
time time time

(gone to an island.-then, we will see)

fighting

almost a week has passed since she has learned that she was loved by the man of her past

or may we call him the hesitant, the latin lover, her angel...what is a name, if...-

so a week has almost passed with its usual emotional ups-n-downs, pain, tears, laughter, feeling of wholeness ans secueness, insecurity...she grew more naked and vulnerable each day

and her skin so soft and thin and pale

she almost became seethrough

yet she could not see

what was it she had in her heart.

her heart was like a fortress. from there did she fight.

for -as she realized nor the nth time - she needed

either TO FIGHT

or BE FOUGHT FOR

if at least one of these two were not inclueded she grew somehow weary and distanced

and the relationship silently emptied itself into her pocket

and with what was left of it

she would walk away in seach for a new quest.

yet this time it wasnt about the new.

at least not only.

it was also about the old.

and the newness of the old

or the oldness of the new

it was about imagination and reality

it was about making a decision she was not prepared

nor willing

to make.

she would take her chances with one

this day

and with the other

that day

she would run back

(in time)

or forwards

but in fact all she did was

running around in circles.

closeness is the key when something needs to

start or restart

for growth is impossible if two people are locked within the caves of their hearts

but closeness is not about being physical

it is about time

(the time you 'waste on your rose'...said the fox...)

and whereas Some people seemed not to have enough time

Others were always there no matter what

and still. as she was out for the quest.

and weary

seethrough

and vulnerable

she did not know

if Some day or the Other

may she not realize that her heart cheated on her

by being silent

when she would have needed to hear it most.

(or were her thoughts

too rumorous

her ears too deaf

her eyes too blind??)

once

once your mind is made up all seems to work according to clear patterns and runs on and on and on smootly like a river taking long curves as it speeds down towards something bigger

she buried herself in the cellars trying to clean the mess
but since it was within and not without she felt almost lost
she tried to delete some files in that stubborn heart, tried to upload new images of
an other future, tried to run a 'calmness and hope' program, but the second one got loose and
somehow brought back the deleted files and put on a movie show inside her head which she could not switch off...unless she took a broom and a duster, set out to kill feelings by exhausting the body that contained them

after 10hours of work she fell trembling on the sofa at her veranda and put on 'once' hoping whatever was in the film she had to see will make her calm down...and it did...
as the minutes passed by and wine and music filled her tired bones she became aware of a warm, indifferent feeling of calmness and love.

she knew she loved and was loved. whom did she love and how and who was to love her back and make her stay by his side did not matter any more. after 3days the 'hope' program finally worked as expected and she got her pillow and fell asleep in her dark room.

she awoke with strange feelings and vivid fragments of dreams feeling like a fairy tale hero tossed around in the wilderness, yet dawn was still a long long way away...sometimes it is not the decision that is hard to make...at times, it is sticking to that decision when all the odds are against us...

(other than the song added to the title, there is 'falling slowly' and others that i cannot stop listening or crying over, or feeling happy, or singing along...-and i strangely have the feeling of having listened to these songs with G...one day back in time, but i guess it is just the stupid misfunctioning 'hope' program that reboots every morning and that takes time to switch off.)

cities(Paris-Istanbul-Oslo)

Cities can be seen, eaten, smelled, lived in, touched..but most of all they can all touch something within me...

Paris is a superjoyous city where you feel so romantic men start to notice you and you start to notice that the woman in you still hopes to be with that last one, the one you find difficult to forget or let go.
Paris is culture-and that is FANtastic (FUNtastic) to a 'culture-snob' fanatic..and when you start scrying in front of THE Renoir pic. (of two girls bending over a piano)in the Orangerie you realize no matter how ols you may grow you will never ceize to be the 14yr old wanting practically 'live and die' in the museum.
Paris is great when it comes to the freedom of getting around as it is a fantasticly bikeable city!:)
/not mentioning how much fun it is to scream loud 'non volgio morire ancora...ti amo ti amo ti amo' when entering a roundabout at night followed by a truck as huge as the WTC/

But the best in paris is mainly a crazy NewYorker called Sarah who makes you LIVE the city:
takes you to the coolest wine-bar, the most crowded 'szimpla'type place at the riverside, ends up at a rockconcert at an ex-trainstation with you and makes you cry so much that you have to cry!

Istanbul. The city where continent and cultures meet...and people too...(and fates maybe..but lets not run so much ahead!). Istanbul is LIFE. Istanbul is LOVE. Istanbul is everything and full of it. It is FULL. yes, it is crowded..but not much dirtier than Rome, and yes, the traffic is crazy and you awake and fall asleep surrounded by smells and noises, but any passer-by is likely to treat you like the 'best thing that has happened to him/her' in a while and no matter what time you set out to see this-and-that you are likely to end up drinking tea or eating kebab with total strangers who may become your best friends for 2days..in Istanbul even the most antisocial British tourist becomes an open-hearted creature who smiles back at you when you greeat her with a smile.
But the best, again..is that thanks to H. i LIVED the city, the Bosporus, the traffic, the food, the Bridges and the Princes Islands.:)

Oslo. Clean and Clear.(Mh..just like the facial thingie...Oslo's habitants are wearing the perfect 'im polite and well-off'mask...and no matter how happy they may be for the sun is shining they would never give you more than a polite smile at hardly visible at the corner of their mouth). Walking this big and horribly pricy town I realize that the only thing it really reminds me is any bigger Swiss city..but that we (people from 'eastern'Europe) need cities full of contrasts, noise, dirt, underground and mainstream, shocking and smartly dressed, laughing and conventional. Oslo is nice, but too organized and in spite of the numerous art-exhibitions I seek to go elsewhere, or simply back to nature..or back to enjoying the company of my non-standard Norvegian girlfriend, Marit, who shines like the sun when she smiles.

And back to Budapest...is always a shock and a relief, love and hatred, belonging and not...

love making soul breaking (more than friends?)

if you make love to a lot of men you make love to a lot of men even if you only make love to one.
or maybe you dont.
maybe you dont make love to one chosen person, maybe you make love to love.
or maybe you dont.
maybe you find the perfect sexual match and make love with him only once
or maybe you dont.
maybe you find the perfect soul match but grow insecure about making love
or maybe you dont.

there are always two ways to think.
so why not choose the positive thought and let's say conclude that all the doubts, worries, strange or perverted thought, all the feeling out of place are evoked by strange fears and complexes, unsolved dilemmas with which there and then you dont necessarily have to deal.

whatever decisions you make, whatever you set your heart on...by doing so you lock out the rest.but why think about that which we dont have, cant have, or dont even want to have
instead of feeling happy about what we do.

theory implied to girl crying in the car sitting in the traffic jam watched by dozens of passer-bys.
=> implication of theory is not always easy.
but lets just pretend im tired and moody.
and be silent about fears, anger and trust issues.

what if...

what if you ask a random guy a simple question and he seems to give you more than the answer

what if you take all that comes your way without giving second thoughts

what if you are a sexual worldmap and the further south you go the better chances of good sex are

what if entering a mosque makes you feel relaxed

what if you want to take care of but only for a while

what if you are not in the mood of decisions

what if you want freedom over love

what if you struggle coz of stupid 'teorema'-truth

what if you want to choose the wrong guy over the right one

what if firmness scares the hell out of you

what if things change for the better

what if they change for the worse

what if you'll cheat

what if cheating seems unimportant and sensless

what if hesitation kills you

what if you still think of people unworthy of it

what if they are not unworthy

what if the whole concept of unworthyness sucks

what about: stop worrying and go with the flow?

istanbul

the city where on the way from the airport to taksim square you make friends with people
the city where cultural shock sets in slowly
the city that never sleeps(nor do you sitting up till 2 at the hostel playing music with a group of persian/german pple, or listening to the lovesongs of F. from Uruguay...)
the city where crossing over boundaries is as normal as the absence of normal/sized supermarkets
the city where you bump into the perfect pple and measure your imperfectness
..
lets close this brief note with a satisfied smile.

istanbul is great, tomorrow im off to Cappadocia (i must) and will have about 10pple awaiting me in the city as i return ... to the place where cultures, continents, and pple meet.

vorrei

vorrei poterti dire 'lenolaj'

dirti che tradimento é sbagliato

ma a volte nn cambia nulla

nel senso che nn tocca l'amore sotto

distrugge peró

se ci pensi troppo

e se ti mette una paura di perdere l'altro/a

o se tradendo perdi te stessa

a volte perdi solo controllo

e poi é come se fossi in una trappola

e non sai come fuggiere

perché oramai qcuno ti ha messo

in funzione: 'hunting'

e sei come un predator che gira in cittá

cercando di succhiare sangue

vorrei poterti dire che nn ce la faccio di dimenticarti

che lo so che é da un mezz'anno che nn ti vedo

che so che nn mi ami o amavi

in tuo modo superidealizzato-romatico

e lo so che nn ti posso perdere perché nn ti ho mai avuto

o forse é tutto sbaglaito qui perché

io non volgio possederti nel senso che

non volgio limitarti

vorrei averti accanto

vorrei essere tua donna

non volgio piú stare da sola

e mi confondo

e sono arrabbiata

e c'é un istante in cui io sogno di

poter star bene con un altro

ma alla fine non ce la faccio

che sarebbe violazione

contro tutto

contro te

contro me

sbagliamo tutti

e io appena sbaglio

incomincio ad analizzarmi

e nn ce la faccio di capire

c'era una guerra

and i am defeated...

...istanbul,

o, ti prego ti portarmi sollievo...

harapós kutyák

harapós kutyákkal álmodom s hiába menekülök önmagam átugrova az a dög az a nemes fényes szőrű farkas már ott van mellettem s kezembe harap

félek, s bár nem érzem a harapás kínját, megdöbbentő nyugalommal élem át a pillanatot és kínlódó szemekkel hívok és remegő hanggal könyörgök az engem körülállóknak, hogy valaki, valaki feszítse már szét

igen, hogy azt ami megmaradt kiszabadítsam

de senki sem mozdul és én sem mozdulok

és tudom, hogy sebes a kezem vagy egy roncs

nem tudom mi milyen mértékig sérült és talán nem is akarom

nem számít, már nem fáj, ez nem

megtörtént, így van, utolért, felugrott és itt van, keme a szájában pihen és ő sem megy sehova

és senki sem tesz hirtelen mozdulatot

mintha megfagyott volna minden

pedig nem, érzem szája forróságát, érzem, ahogy eremiben pulzál a vér,

érzem a sebemet lágyan áztató nyálat

és érzem ahogy egy ütemre lélegzünk

a kutya és én

és már nem tudom, hogy ha felébredek

és a hűvös erkélyen hideg kávét szürcsölök

segít-e, ha úgy teszek, mintha álom lett volna csupán

vagy kötést kell cserélnem

vagy várost

vagy ...

taboos and bounderies

look no further-says the song

and still, when she awakes

with a hand in her hand

she thinks she should look further

(consequences ect ect)

after all, what is there in peeping behind bounderies,

in toying with the idea of destroying taboos

...

the hand is there at a close distance

(she is sure of it, the outline of that hand

becomes visible every time she slightly opens

her eyes -or is it when she slightly closes it?)

...

sometimes the boundary between reality and imagination is so slight

it is almost inexistent

she breaths in and out with a slow pace

and drifts of back and forwards in time

looking for that hand

identifying it

trying to give meaning

/at times, it is best to take things as they are.

instead of turning them into a source of painful desire

don't overanalyze - this post is obscure on purpose and

is a dead end to thoughts, obscure and dead as

some taboos are that you fail to keep,

like not touching the beautiful bottom of a stranger/

music

strange when a melodie you think too cheesy or bad or annoying gets stuck in your head so much so that you find yourself sitting in front of your computer mesmerized by the random images projected on the screen as a part of an (un)official music video and as soon as it's over you find yourself pushing the repeat button as if listening to the same song over and over again was any help in getting it out of your head.

and you catch a strange through floating through your mind and spend minutes wondering if the scene described above has any resemblance whatsoever with kid's tendency to ask for the same fairy tales over and voer again for it helps them face some hidden thing in their little souls

i dont know what is in mine. i enjoy the heat and feel very balanced in this heat - yet i awake every morning with a memory of a fragment of a dream about some man once important to me, i find it increadibly bad having to climb out of bed coz i would feel prefectly happy cuddling my pillows for hours feeling a love that is so overwhelming i almost cannot bear it any longer
and still, every afternoon a strange headache sets in and a sudden restlessness
and explaning this and dirty thoughts is impossible using moody wheather as a standpoint.

once again i feel like Veronika in the film about her double life...as if something happening elsewhere had astrange effect on me, as if i was in love with womeone i do not know yet

this unbalanced balance seems to be extremly fragile
and i do not know in what moment am i going to
start breaking glass

i have love to give
and noone would take it

Free hugs (ölelést???)

she has just concluded a very restless night, one which has a strange beginning a strange middle and a strange end...the beginning coz laying awake at night with the wildest sexual fantasies and the strong wish-desire to take anything that comes her way(..ehm...nothing does...not at night in a closed room on the top of her posh-mountain castle thingie...no intruders, no midnight lovers), middle for sudden awakening, end...for unusual dreams about some blone figures of the past....

she got out of bed and went downtown (virtually DOWN for she lived up there...)to meet someone and then to have 2whole hours to dissolve in the city, fill gaps ect ect.

she got hungry, after a while, and with a more-or-less dry cheesy-breadstick in her hands she headed over to D.squeare only to bump into the girl-itn-the-red-shirt-giving-free-hugs. she cuddled up, of course, then spent ten minutes learning about their personal project(two girls, one giving-one filming)...and then...babummmm:

she found herself filling(trying to) the space(gap?)pf the square by a smile holding her 'szabad-ölelés'sign high above her head while tring to give the warmest of her marmth to people coming to have her hugs...

reactions were, of course, all different...but how did SHE enjoy, who did she RADIATE!!!

(and as she crossed the threshold of her 'office' she opened her arms and asked: a hug?-and she wrapped her arms around her collegues eager to be loved)

Adventures in Paris(The crazy Hungarian and the NewYorker)

As always, it all started at tome other time and place somewhere in the canada-NewYork-Budapest tirangle...and it all ended up (or rounded up) in Paris...
where the 'crazy Hun and the NewYorker' had some fabulous nights (to make it very precise 5fab.days and an equal amount of nights)...

in the post to come the author will try to cast light on the brightest/most hilarious/painful/elevating moments of her journey into the heart of French capital (but data about certain places and so on and forth is still awaited for ...let's say on the way from the newyorker to my craziness...)=> post to be continued(if this may be viewed as a beginning:)

the night before Paris

losing sleep curled up next to or far away from the well-know and unknown
sending love hung on the invisible cable that connects two people
following instincts and not social codes
acting out of guilt and not of passion
wanting to unite or rip apart
define the undefined
getting to know a part that may be nasty yet is not
looking at a picture with a vague resentment
may silence speak for you
for your warm feelings
that show that you care even though it must now be hard
as it is hard for you to curl up in bed laying wide awake with your sleep sent off to someone who needs it more
hung on the invisible cable that connects
no matter how you wrong each other

you know that there is love: right IN FRONT OF YOU.

something good.

a black bird flew across her heart
and the wind dry and hot like a shirocco
lay her on the ground forcing her to think
how from that perspective
all seems so large
people mainly consist of legs
and smelly feet threatening to step on her
over
and clean feet staring around her
touching her almost as if to comfort
and hands reaching down to lift her
and make her remember her name
she wanted to forget
and her numb mouth forming letters of sand
as she chuckles up the reminders of the storm
and sitting for long hours
all seems so slow
bodies nearing and drifting off
distances that can never be measured with exactness
she learnt that approximation was the best thing
and she walked out in the sun
as if nearing to the point before the black bird
pretending to know what was approaching:
seen at the distance...drawing closer, unable to resist her call
any more.

look no further

as she woke
as she passed the minutes
and hours
as she went thru the daily routine
as she gathered the hugs and touches
as she read thru herself
flipping the pages fast
one
afther
the other
one moment she arrived
where she had to
and
as she watched
her own smile
her own movements
on the screen of the computer
she knew she was there
always has been
at the right-place-at-the-right-time
sometimes not as easy as she would have wished
sometimes not as clear
sometimes emotional and rollercoaster
but her alterego was right:

Cruelest

Almost

Always to ourselves

It mustn't get any better

Off

It's in our hands, it always was

It's in our hands, in our hands

It's all there, in our hands

It's all there, in our hands

Well

Aren't we scaring ourselves

Unneccesarliy?

Aren't we trying too hard?

'Cause it's in our hands

It's in our hands

It's all here, it's in our hands

Look no further

Look no further

It's in our hands, it always was

It's in our hands

http://www.lastfm.it/music/Bj%C3%B6rk/+videos/+1-RlHSCpozhKU

AND AS SHE SAT
AS SHE LISTENED
THE MUSIC ENTERED HER
AND IT WASHED HER
IT CLEANSED HER
her hands...

possibly the last

as the nights gone by she became more and more weary

her face grew pale

and applying special refresh-self-tan-lotions

or covering major part of the facial surface with an incredibly balanced array of colors

did not seem to help

she assumed physical exercise would help

and spent hours tiying the garden, cleaning the filthy weekend house, riding her bike

but...none of it seemed to help

as the days gone by she developed a secret-fear of entering her room

or going anywhere near her bed

she would have preferred sleeping on the ground in some other room

but

she assumed fears are often just reflections of our worried imagination

and she entered her bed night after night trying to find an inch of secure spot between the sheets, covers and her army of pillows

as the hours passed the darkness surrounding her body grew thick and sticky

her heartbeat raced around the room trying to identify the source of the dark

and she lay with eyes wide open as various types of spiders crawled across her mind

she could not take it any more

and as she gave way to her sadness

she found herself enclosed in a hug

rocking herself to a deep sleep

entering the world of dreams

where for one night she ciesed to fight herself

she lay in pain

she lay in peace

she lay in hope

in the preassure that builds when one feels lost.

i'mmmm a hundred miles baby dont!!!

I wanted to say something like:

"i'mmmmmm
a hundred miles an hour baby dont slow me down i never
get to my point.."

But then as i opened the poetry book i've read another sequence of words like:

Marriage is not

a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edgeof the forest, the edge

of the desert

the unpainted stairs

at the back where we squat

outsude, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire

And i wonder if the same would or could be true for a relationship, and i wonder how

...pride's an interesting thing

a beautiful thing

a necessary thing

a nearly untouchable thing

a dangerous thing

the last straw taken or given

a match

itching for concern...

I sit and wonder in silence, not in peace, no ocean, no sand, no warmth licking my feet sinking into the depth of my life...

I sit here in time

I sit here in peace

I sit here in pain

in the preassure that builds

when two people

cannot meet.

...

s nincs feloldozás. /=there's no dissuolution./

/Poems and fragments quoted in order:
Heather Hermant: The long distance runner
Margaret Atwood: Habitation
Heather Hermant: Pride (a whispered slam poem)
Jennifer Haberman: The Mediterranean - my favourite poem of all/

Sceraching but not finding-not seaching but finding

She has read the Tao of the Pooh (Hoffamann's supercute and at time hilarious writing on how blind and miserable we are, whereas all is full of Love and all Good..we just...but lets not go into this now.) she has read the Pooh-Tao and right on pp.11 found a though worty of letting the book fall(as it was, damage not considered nor noticed) feeling a huge urge of getting what? paper. yes. and a pen. and lets jot it down...
not where to put? where???? door. re-reading is cool.
no. door is not good. pic. on the wall, exchanged for note? no. not good.
(simple. that's her 'love corner' nicely decorated out of her fatalist belief that as long as that corner is harmonic, alive, green, warm, paired up, and heartshaped...but lets not get into this either).
there was the other pic. the small one. the one she fell in love with in august. the pink kiss from chagall...the painting she has recently put back but now suddenly, or all of a sudden, found very unnerving. she stuck the thought on. stood there and awaited the effect...and effect...(or affect)any...thing...anything.

nothing happened or changed for a long time until one day (having crossed the hills of Buda without swiss guards or a compass /she was great at following her instincts/ and having fixed the wheel of her bike /with the aid of a fixing-set, an old toothbrush and a paintbrush/)she fell to bed with high fever.

when she awoke from her foced-movelessness her feet rushed her throught the rain and into a bookshop...used books' section. first she thought she has to have a scope not to seem silly, but as time passed and her clothes became heavy on her she realized she has to stop searching...and as soon as she did that THE BOOK was in front of her.
the book she has been looking for for weeks before last christmas.
the book that had no title or writer to it in her mind, but which fitted in her pulsing palm as it had always been there.

she laughed loud on the way home caressing and admiring her new miracle.
'that story is in it'-she smiled....but when she flipped thru the pages she could not find the thoughts she was looking for. maybe they disappeared under her seaching eyes. maybe they never existed anywhere but in her heart.

she laughed again.laughed at herself. at her blindness. picturing herself reading the book and forming her own story ...folding it softy and hiding it betweeen the pages of the book. re-placing in on the shelves. forgetting the author. forgetting the title. but never forgetting the stories she read and her heart hidden between the pages of the book now laying in her bed, on her table, all is full of...

calze nere

she goes to bed
with bursk movement she climbs under the covers and pulls the extra blanket over her hear, she hugs her heart and tries to feel safe in the dark

her imagination races back and forwards and she finds herself in the middle of an imaginary situation
in which she confronts her pain
and once her body feels exhausted enough by squeezing out tears she falls fast asleep

deep down
in the reign of her dreams she finds herself on a chair in a big room
the noise around warns her that she is not alone yet she stretches her legs peepeing out of the miniskirt and gazes at her legs following and getting lost in the wonderful patterns of her black stokings. surely to finest, the most beutiful...

all of a sudden she realizes she is being watched, she turns and sees 'his' parents some rows behind her sitting with a proud smile on their faces...but before their eyes could meet she quickly turns back, as if not shoing your face was a possible way of dissolving.

the little large-eyed boy appears from nowhere and seems convinced that the best place to play why the boring ceremony takes place is next to her chair. They exchange looks and as if the little one asked she gives out her heart wrapped in a loud whisper: 'Ma io amo tuo fratello'....

The next day she spends hours trying to remember the sexy stockings...she should buy a pair. black ones. 'tipo molto raffinati'. and when in a bookshop she comes across the book about the tiger she knows she has to buy it....she is not eve surprised the little boy from her dream is on the cover...in bed...keeping her secret.

psychology of blogging(1)

i fear this entry will be the first in a long series of thougths
dealing with the examination of the psycho of blogging.

some view it as some scary phenomenon that above/beside/undelying(-questions of position may be debated on) our 'real'society there is a 'virtual' world (matrix...hihi) growing wider/huger/deeper(again-its dimensions may need further discussion).

Mh...i have thought that the examintation of such a virtual-emotional world might be a rather interesting way of mental masturbation:)

For me it all started with the phenomenon called 'ICQ' and a rather huge need of virtual hugs and caresses from: friends left home, virtual friends, anyone(!!!)while overcoming the first waves of the so.called cultural shock when arriving to the wonderful land of Oz.

Besides this there were the almost daily emails to family members...but of course those lines only connected me and a small circle...it was like a virtual private world:)

And today...8years down the road i check, read, comment on the blogs of friends; spend hours exchaning hugs and ideas on msn and skype....for millions of personal/global motivations.

one of these was hilariously presented at:
http://xkcd.com/406/
(dont forget to stop the cursor placed on the pic to see the 'sopracomment':)

well...i dont know what you, dear reader, may think of 'venting' but i guess other than those hugs and caresses..it may be one of the most valid reasons for spending more and more time in the matrix...

(uffa. now that i think of it i think i really have to further elaborate these ideas...with more caffé circulation in my veins!)

bonefire

walking through the dark garden became one of her obsessions lately.
she liked not to switch on the light
having to feel, rather than see the path she had to take
(like one dark night with a heavy bag on her shoulders and a hand
and another path somewhere far through a garden
leading to the house with red windows)
she liked to experiment in the dark
slow or fast
her heart beating with an everchanging rythm in her chest

she often stopped underneath a pinetree
and laying her back against its trunk she cried or wailed
falling through the darkness

the world around was silent and comforting
the mucis in her ears helped to throw up the
most terrible of her fears


but with time her habits changed and she often rushed past the tree
to stop at the corner of the house
and dance in the dark
her movements radiating
she gave birth to hopes
and passions
her sighs travelled through the night
and climed under a heavy blue blanket
somewhere at the feet of the green hills.

circles

circles.

we often want to run back to some start to restart

as if in our scienticif world

as if we were like the laptop i use to lay out this feeling

THESE feelings mixed wqith thoughts rounded up tied up within

as if we were machines that only needed to be restarted

reload

reboot

restart

circles.

we rush forwards with our heads turned backwards

of pointed forwards

we run chasing something

and once we have reached it we dash off some other direction

going back to the start

going back

some days it means putting on some music

and listening to my mind racing

tac-tac-tac

circles.

circles are hard to break.

circles connect different places and times

circles contain a lot

yet they are seen as empty at times

circles this morning contain the memories

of some really dark dream in which i tried to overcome something really hard

riding a red motorbike that broke down

but since i knew i have to rush on i just looked down at my feet and put them on the pedals

the motorbike turned into a bike and i pulled forward hardly able to make it go

then suddenly downhill

and running over s small cat, stopping, but instead of finding it dead fincing it vicious and attacking me pushing its nlaws deep into my hands

i pulled it out holding it in a cruel clench

with an immense force of anger flooding my body

as i woke i wasnt able to recall whether the cat was killed or not

circles.

a memory of a nightmare might lead you into negative circles

in which you see yourself 5years down the road

with both hands clutching the sink

and shaking of pain

rocked by the melody of 'the scientist'

the memory of the music pushes you towards your computer

and youtube

and all of a sudden you are at san lorenzo

waiting for the tram3 missing a man who maybe doesnt want you any more

and knowing that whatever you may have fucked up at the start there is no way of going back

circles.

cirlces often contain resentment

anger

devastation

helplessness.

but today

today i will stop running around

i will simply step in the middle of it all

and see it all spinning around me.

if it makes me dizzy or gets me down.

let it be.

/whoever want my afterfeeling click on the title and enter a new circle./

emotional layout ater Bp.Fringe Festival

never skin smelling so soft
fingers so rough yet sweet
never pain so sharp and unwanted
never words so invading
never so unready yet ripe
never so intense and surrounding
never so humiliated but yielding
never so true yet fake
never silence so long and loud
never lines so flat

under my skin
my past
under my skin it crawls
it crawls up to my heart

and i remember you
...and i remember me.

the 7th sin

...it is a blogentry to my dear friend M. who is hopefully having a great time up Nor(th)way
and more hopefully is soon back
coz i feel like becoming the teenage love-machine dancing until dawn on the stereos of 'The Church'

when i hear this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=02exfOzdQOI&feature=related

and Gawd....mhh...CALL ME BEAUTIFUL TO MY FACE!:)

Parafadugó - avagy: go with the flow

anger and disappointment are only are two of the negative reactions
that we experience autimatically
if things dont go they way we expected/wanted them to ...

but:
what if someone we wanted to lean on - was not ready to be strong for us?
what if someone we wanted to enter a new phase with - was not ready for that change?

is this their fault?
mh. we all know the answer.
shall we wait?
well, it is for us to decide.
but in either case. it is not really about whether we should wait. much more about whther we should run on, or slow down to see if are feet are pointing the same direction at all or not.

i often find myself out of place.
a mentality that doesnt fit the H.average is experienced (from time-to-time) as something difficult, causing suffering and all.
but it is not at all my being out of place that causes the suffering.
it is my trying to change things too fast. and this temporary impatinece tortures me.
mh (smile)...
there is a time for everything!
and now it is my time to dig deep and face. to let go of bits and pieces of anger and pain,
and to feel a stream of tears rolling down my cheeks with relief:
for the nth time in my life i have experienced what Coelho in the alchimist calls something like the Force of the Universe.
this time it came in the form of a little italian girl
a rather overemtional being in total 'sintonia' who all of a sudden felt a sudden urge
to grab my hand, pull me towards her, hug me virtually and
whisper the most magical word in my ears:
Tranquilla. Stai tranquilla.

and if i think back i understand that sometimes
you belong together with someone and you are pushed in two extremely different directions
for you have two very different mountains to climb
and i understand that instead of F. i had G. and E. as my helpers
and i am somehow back in touch with myself
and silent.unmoving.
but this time staying still is my way of going on (inside),
laying on the surcafe of some slow river,
face up watching the trees and birds pass by,
ma face caressed by the sun and a warm breeze
going with the flow:)

reminder:)

should you, dear reader, whoever you are
have forgotten

this is a reminder:

all is full of love!

yeah, maybe your phone is off the hook
but you know what:

trust your head around!!! and smile (che sei piú bello/a qdo sorridi)

oh. and take this word by word from the girl who almost got a free drink from the cashier girl of Freni&Friziano for her
amazing resemblance of Björk:)

fragments

a night passes with agonies and a body hungry for the warmth of touch
hours spent playing with tears
a tug-o-war of violence
letting go
or
holding onto
decisions often form in the darkness
your soul suffocating
under the heaviness of your wet skin
and when you awake
your skin smells of pain and the relief of the start of a new day.

not dead yet doesnt mean alive
not parted yet doesnt mean belonging together
loving doesnt mean trusting

and you play a piano-concerto on the claviature
frustrated that those lines so perfect (sonnet 40 and yet...)
are not understood by the other
that maybe
there is no 'sintonia'

(sometimes) my soul is out of tune.

trauma-1

not even she was prepared to see what she had to when opening the door
things scattered randomly on the floor
an empty bottle glasses
empty containers of medicine
her underwear and his

her body was not hanging between the coats any more
and her eyes looking at the knob of the rope cruelly cut
(the only reminder of what has taken place in the quiet flat before)
was still hanging there
burning her
as though it was a hot august night
when after a fight you fall on the floor and beg for it to stop
her eyes wide shut and dry stared about
to witness the magnity of the loss

the dogfood spilt on the floor must not have been far from her feet not touching the ground
in front
the table covered with
money, her glasses, unnamed objects of no importance
the heart-shaped box made especially for her some days ago
and next to it...

her body twitched as she forced her arm to reach for the book
her fingers gently caressing the red cover
opening
(as if opening her..her eyes..her mouth...her dead mind, her thoughts and feelings lying around)
her eyes were still reading when she placed it back
those lines now forgotten
but still crawling under her skin
would only have made things worse.

death is simple.
survival is not.

a piece of cake

it all started with a piece of cake...
TEMPTATION! I KNEW IT! -you'd scream your mind connecting my first line with the ancient story of the first woman(bearing my name...what a coincidence!) and her first man.
but you would be wrong. as we often are when - due to our imptatience, axiety, urge to be in the limelight- point at connections that never existed in the head of the storyteller.

as i've told you. it all started with a piece of cake.
a piece of smudgy chocolate cake i was forced to eat for an extremely simple reason:
i was hungry.
I KNEW IT! YOU WERE HUNGRY FOR HIS LOVE! you would scream with joy feeling totally satisfied (and once again: wrong!) to have found the underlying connection between what i have to tell and what you want to hear.

IS THE CAKE SOMETHING SYMBOLIC? you would ask silently noticing the frown on my face, knowing that the 'hungry for love theory' is not exactly i would want to discuss with you.

no. it isnt. or maybe it is. the cake was sweet. smudgy-as i have already told you - falling into little pieces in my hands so that i have to push it into my mouth knowing that the crumbs will eventually cover me as well as the floor. i am the sweet-type. i would add silently, knowing it doesnt add to the story, neither it is relevant. there were tastless salty-biscuits too. but i didnt want them. i wanted something REAL.

at this point you -dear listener - would look at me gasping not understanding how REALNESS come to the story of a chocolate cake. and i woudl get embarrassed, turn around and ask you if you wanted a coffee.

this way you would never know anything about the things that happened
BEFORE
or
AFTER that piece of cake...

noah's arch

her body lay under the covers
motionless
as if dead
unwilling to react
or move

a faint sound of regulated breath vibrated in the air
she was deep asleep in this other bed
as she moved to find a better position
(or the hands she had to hold to sleep well)she left out a little moan of joy
and thought noone could see it (her face being under the covers)
i bet she had a smile on her lips

i sat there watching her
guarding her sleep
rocking her
as if the bed was her new universe,
or a noah's arch that had to save her
and drift her through some ocean of dangers

from time to time she looked at herself in the mirror
to check if she still existed
to see if this sudden and unexpected peace
really belonged to her body streched out on the covers of this bed...

insanity

she was sitting in the middle of her room
exactly in the middle
she took hours before to measure the exact distance between the walls so she could sit exactly where she had to:
in the middle.

her eyes knew all that surrounded her,
touched and caressed
the white surface of the soft panels covering the wall

sitting there she wondered wether she was expected to throw her body against it
but she knew agression was not possible

it was something she banned many many years ago from her realm
she ruled quietly and peacefully
on all the horror her eyes had seen

her heart-nothing but a bunch of battered flesh
rotten in the sour-acidy ocean of emotions and tears withheld along the years
would have been better cut out and placed on a plate.

she closed her eyes and regulated her breath
trying to imagine as best she could
a painting /or photo...no, she preferred the painting/of
a girl sitting EXACTLY in the middle of a white room
/designed to protect her form herself/
with a black hole in her chest
and her pound of flesh placed on a very white plate in front of her
resting maybe on a very small white(or red? yes, maybe red, no, let it be black)chair.

strangely she didnt imagine the heart to be red
she didnt imagine it to be dead

sitting in the exact middle of all
she saw it BLACK soaked in blood (HER BLOOD!)
on a white plate
on a back chair
in a white room
with white walls
and a white floor
a white ceiling
and white feelings.

A retemetesz

Lázár Ervin: Buddha szomorú

A retemetesz

Erikán már az ajtóban látszott, hogy szomorú.
– Mi baj? – kérdezte megrettenve Simf.
A kislány előbb megkerülte az asztalt, fölkapaszkodott a szemben levő székre, állát az asztal peremére támasztotta, a tekintetével szép szomorúsághurkokat gubancolt a férfi köré.
– Sírnak – mondta.
Simf előtt egy pillanatig sem volt kétséges, hogy kicsodák. Nyilvánvalóan a felülnézetből ábrázolt, szépen kipikkelyezett, bandzsa krokodil, a bombaforma hal, az úthengerrel szétlapított farkas, a csánk nélküli, szögletes ló és persze ő: a retemetesz. Sírnak.
„Bizonyára valamit elhibáztam – gondolta Simf –, megfeledkeztem valami lényegesről.” Most már az ő szeméből is áradt a szomorúság, rézsút lefelé, éppen a kislány tágra nyitott, szép virágszemébe. Jó szomorúság volt, lilásvörös, fénylett tőle az asztal.
Mit is ronthatott el?
Amikor a kislány először belibegett…
Tavaszforma idő volt, csak Simf szívében volt ősz, legalábbis ő azt gondolta, ősz van benne, egészen Erika megérkeztéig. Egy szétbontott cigarettásdoboz belsejére rajzolgatott, azaz inkább csak firkált, mert hiszen oda se figyelt, csak húzta, kanyargatta a vonalakat, satírozgatott. Ekkor állt meg mellette a kislány. Figyelmesen nézte a rajzot – Simf még észre sem vette, de már érezte, hogy ez az ősz a szívében, ez csak mese, dehogyis van ősz a szívében. Erika rábökött a rajzra.
– Mi ez?
Simf tétován ránézett, elnevette magát, honnan kerül ide ez a tökmagvirág, virágtökmag, virágvirág gyerek?
– Ez egy retemetesz – mondta.
Erika szája kerekre nyílt.
– Ó – sóhajtotta –, gyönyörű! Hadd üljek az öledbe!
Simf ölébe telepedett (még hogy ősz, nevetséges!), és a papírra mutatott.
– Add nekem.
– A tied – mondta Simf –, neked rajzoltam. – És már hitte is, hogy tényleg Erikának rajzolta és hogy a kusza egyenesek és kacskaringók valóban egy retemeteszt ábrázolnak. Sőt, ez maga a retemetesz.
– A szeme nagyon szép – mondta Erika.
Ó, de még mennyire, és már látta is Simf a szemét, no nézd, van egy vidám szeme, egy szomorú szeme, egy szeme, amit csak alvásra használ, ezt a másikat meg, ni, kacsintásra, és nézd csak, itt a mosolygó szája, a fütyörésző szája, a lebiggyesztésre alkalmatos szája, s a rengeteg keze, hetvenkét lába, hisz csodalény ez a retemetesz. Örültek Erikával a retemetesznek. A retemetesz is örült nekik.
– A szívében tavasz van – mondta magabiztosan Simf.
– Rajzold bele – kérte őt Erika, és Simf belerajzolta a retemetesz szívébe a tavaszt.
Hát így kezdődött, ez volt az első találkozásuk. A retemetesz beköltözött Erika fiókjába, és bizonyára alig-alig volt oka rá, hogy a lebiggyesztős száját meg a szomorú szemét használja. Legalábbis Simf úgy gondolta.
– És most megint rajzolj nekem – kérte egyszer a kislány.
– Micsodát?
– Amit akarsz.
Simf vakarta a feje búbját, hiszen egyáltalán nem tudott rajzolni.
– Na jó – mondta, mert eszébe jutott, hogy valamikor gyermekkorában rajzolt egy krokodilt felülnézetből –, egy krokodilt rajzolok neked.
– Krokodilt? – kérdezte neheztelően Erika.
– Ez egy nagyon kedves krokodil lesz – mentegetőzött Simf, és munkához látott.
Valóban egy nagyon kedves krokodil született a papíron.
– Bandzsa – mondta boldogan Erika.
– No igen – emelte távolabbra magától a rajzot Simf, és oldalra döntött fejjel kacsintott rá.
Mindketten büszkék voltak a rajzra. Azaz mindhárman, mert a krokodil is büszke volt magamagára, s arra kérte Simfet, a bal első mancsába rajzoljon egy virágcsokrot, mert időnként szeretné fölköszönteni magát. Ilyenkor – mondta – majd átteszi a csokrot a jobb mancsába, és talán meg is hajol önmaga előtt, bár még e művelet végrehajtásáról nincsenek pontos elképzelései.
Kapott hát egy virágcsokrot.
– Tulipántkát is rajzolj bele – mondta Erika, és Simf belerajzolt hármat is.
Később Erika egy halat kért.
– Delfint, cápát vagy pontyot? – nagyképűsködött Simf, mert azt gondolta, halat rajzolni pofonegyszerű.
– Halat! – mondta Erika.
Simf háta feszülő ív a papír fölött, Erikáé is, pedig ő csak nézi, hogyan születik a hal. Hal?
– Ez egy bomba – mondja Erika.
– Nono – tiltakozik Simf –, ide nézz!
A bomba csúcsára szemet rajzol, szájat, kopoltyút.
– Jaj, pislog! – tapsol Erika.
Valóban, a bombaforma hal pislog, kacsingat, biztatja Simfet. Ő meg, mint egy fenomén, uszonyokat rajzol a halnak, hátuszonyt, hasuszonyt, oldaluszonyt, pótuszonyt, pikkelyeket, és megkérdezi a haltól:
– Kezet akarsz?
A hal rázza a fejét.
– Akkor mivel fogsz kezet? – kérdezi Erika.
– Az uszonyommal – mondja mély hangon a hal, és nyújtja az uszonyát.
A bombaforma hal is beköltözött Erika fiókjába a retemetesz meg a kancsal krokodil mellé, s nemsokára odaköltözött az úthengerrel szétlapított farkas is.
Igen, a farkas. Hát őkelme nem a legszebbre sikerült. A fogsora az gyönyörű volt. Mint a fűrész. De a teste, a teste bizony egy kicsit ellapult.
– Erre ráment az úthenger – mondta Erika.
– Jaj! – szisszent föl a farkas.
Gyorsan bekötözték, injekciót kapott meg aszpirint. Meg is gyógyult azon nyomban. Csattogtatta a fogát, és azt mondta:
– Én vagyok a világ legszebb, legegészségesebb farkasa.
És hát persze hogy ő volt.
– Te olyan gyönyörűen rajzolsz! – mondta Simfnek elérzékenyülve Erika.
Utolsónak a csánk nélküli, szögletes ló költözött be a kislány fiókjába.
– Milyen állatot a legnehezebb rajzolni? – kérdezte Simfet Erika.
– Lovat.
– Akkor rajzolj nekem egy lovat.
Hi-hú, fészkelődött Simf, még hogy lovat! – De mit tehetett, nekilátott. A fülén kezdte. A fül szép is lett, de ami az egész lovat illeti, meglehetősen szögletesre sikerült.
– Ej-haj – mondta Simf –, nincs csánkja.
– Ennek? – méltatlankodott Erika. – Öt csánkja is van. Gyönyörű öt csánkja. És nézd, milyen szépen fut!
A ló hátracsapta a fejét, és körülszáguldotta a papírt. Csak úgy porzott a lába nyoma.
Aztán Simf nagyon sokáig nem találkozott Erikával. Utazni kezdett, végigszáguldozta a világot. Jött és ment, ment és jött, futott és szaladt, járt és kelt. Egy helyet keresett, ahol majd tüzet rak, melengeti a kezét, és azt kiáltja: boldog vagyok! Rakott is tüzet, melengette is a kezét, de kiáltani csak azt tudta: jaj de boldogtalan vagyok! Jaj de keveset tudott Simf arról, mit kell tennie az embernek, hogy egyszer csak szétkiálthassa a boldogvagyokot. Így hát utazott. Kelő napjait mindig más hegyek dajkálták, nyugvó napjait mindig más hegyek temették. Jött és ment, ment és jött, futott és szaladt, járt és kelt.
S ahogy így bolyongott, kujtorgott, csavargott, lerajzolt magának mindent, amit látott. Hegyeket, házakat, templomokat, madarakat, kengurukat és sörényes hangyászokat. Eleinte nem nagyon ismert volna rá senki, hogy mit ábrázolnak a rajzok, de aztán Simf megtanult rajzolni. Pompás krokodilokat rajzolt és pompás halakat meg pompás farkasokat és igen-igen pompás lovakat.
Pompás, pompás, pompás – mondogatta Simf, és egyszerre csak úgy érezte, hogy nem jelent ez a szó semmit. Semmit, semmit, semmit.
S ekkor keveredett vissza a régi asztalhoz, a régi szobába, ott találta a régi ceruzákat, a régi papírokat, és benyitott hozzá Erika. Azzal, hogy „sírnak”.
És, mondom, Simf rögtön tudta, kikről van szó.
– Mert egy társ kell nekik – mondta Erika. – A krokodilnak egy krokodil, a halnak egy hal, a farkasnak…
– Értem! – rikkantott közbe Simf (pedig dehogy értette), és megragadta a ceruzát.
Erika gyanakodva nézett a krokodilra.
– Ez nem bandzsa – mondta.
Simf fölpillantott.
– Nem – mondta, és érezte, hogy a mellkasát nyomja belülről valami.
– Tulipántkája sincs.
– Nem kérte – suttogta Simf.
– Egy szót se szólt. Talán nem is tud beszélni.
A nyomás odabent.
És a halnak nem volt se pótuszonya, se mély, se magas hangja, árván karcsúskodott és izmoskodott a farkas, s a ló, a ló meg, nézd, csánkokkal, kényes hajlatokkal ékes, befont sörénnyel lobogó.
– Szépek – mondta Erika szomorúan.
Simfnek csak úgy döngött a szíve. Legalább egy szólalt volna meg, legalább egyetlenegy! De a pompás rajzok meg se pisszentek.
– Retemeteszt is – kérte Erika.
És Simf izzadt és reszketett, vonalazott és satírozott. De semmi, semmi, semmi. Ez nem retemetesz.
– De hiszen te rajzoltad! Nem emlékszel rá?
– Dehogynem – mondta Simf, dömm-dömm, a szíve –, de most már nem tudok, láthatod, nem tudok retemeteszt rajzolni.
Erika szelíden kivette a kezéből a ceruzát, kacskaringókat húzott, egyeneseket, görbéket, és ni csak, egyszerre ott volt a másik retemetesz, a vidám szemével, a szomorú szemével, az alvásra használatos szemével, a kacsintós szemével, a mosolygó szájával, a fütyörésző szájával, a lebiggyesztésre alkalmatos szájával, a rengeteg kezével s a hetvenkét lábával.
– Oda nézz – kiáltott Erika –, retemetesz!
Dömm-dömm, dobogott Simf szíve, dömm-dömm, dörömbölt szomorúan.
Most már tudta, hol kellett volna tüzet raknia.
-----------------------------------------------------

nekem hol kellett volna?
nekik hol kellett volna?
és a nekünk?

példa-képek

my personal heroes are many

on the one hand they are all those old ladies on buses who somehow have an air of
life-joy-wittiness-class about them

the women who did not become battered by life
but made most out of it
who still have dreams
and cannot stop smiling with their eyes.

personal heroes are also the women who somehow achieved
something ..something somehow great,
admireable,
in spite of how life treated them.
women who believed in themselves and their dreams.
women who knew how to strive and did so...
with the help of great men.... (and now i close my eyes and picture the perfect the strong the witty the irresistable the sexy the i-know-what-i-want-is-you..and post this blog without trying to tell apart my feelings my hopes my memories my wishes my passions my heart my lust my joy my sadness my pain my cries my excitement my desire my fire my future and my present.)

Out - and back in - touch

A sudden decision of breaking a frozen silence
of changing the course of a relationship
(senza vergogna ma con un po di inquietudine)
after five years (so long, really??) i take the train (from Keleti, i smile as memories flash back) and after a three hour trainride i find myself in the city of Pécs.

an icy cold wind cuts through layers and layers of clothes
(it had been a smart decision to take the long coat-
but how could i possibly forget the hat again...
just like in Vienna my ears freazing off as i do my compulsary
sightseeing, but this time there is noone to tuck me under his arm to warm me up
doesnt matter- for a change, im kinda better off alone)

and there she is, my long-lost-friend
just like before
her hair shorter but her smile radiates
and some hours later i find myself back at our high level of intimacy.
she puts on my makeup and we giggle as we share a bottle of wine
i dose off only to wake up as she put on 'our' party music:)
everything is back in motion
my limbs revitalize as if by some miracle someone somehow had spread some
energy within me

changing bedshhets at four in the morining seems to be the most normal thing
as getting undressed or peeing in each others company.

some friendships are made in heaven
and now i know that even when we have to get on the road
to find ourselves
we know where (to whom) we belong
we just forget...
im glad that now i remember:)

compagnia

una mattina silenziosa
segreti nascosti fra pagine di libri
un amore mai vissuto con l'intensitá vera
promessi mai fatti e sbagliati
la volgia di aprire e distruggere
la voglia di essere preso
di cadere con la testa girata
di amare
anzi, di essere amata
di vivere una vita senza bugie
con la capacitá di fidarsi
idee sbagliate mi girano la testa
mio corpo caldo e sudato sotto la doccia
una foresta attraversata
correndo con un cane di color nocciola
una creatura che mi segue e sembra di aver scelto la mia compagnia
quando mai sceglieró un uomo chi sceglie me
chi crederá che io sono l'altra meta
vorrei crescere ali e volare via
indietro o avanti
ma devo stare nel momento
e con un sorriso sottile sulle labbre
mi tiro fuori dalla melancholia
indosso mia giacca rossa
apró la porta
e c'é il sole.

vízválasztó.

sunshine as i open my eyes awaking from the most beautiful dream i have had in the past two years
i dig my head deeper in the bed covering my face with the couchine
my face hot, my heart beating as i remember that dream.

maybe said to be stupid but by the time i climb out of under the sheets
and wash the smell of cigarettes never smoked out of my hair,
spreat cream over my body
i become another person

a new me, with less worries, and less analyzing.
relationships when you start to analyze them suck anyways.
you have to live them and enjoy them.

also yound a cool website with a lot of quotes of different psychologists.
i decide to read it a bit every day to enhance new thoughts

Today it is Albert Ellis. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Ellis
Ellis, who says that:

• People don't just get upset. They contribute to their upsetness.
• Self-esteem is the greatest sickness known to man or woman because it's conditional.
• There's no evidence whatsoever that men are more rational than women. Both sexes seem to be equally irrational.
• There are three musts that hold us back: I must do well. You must treat me well. And the world must be easy.
• People got insights into what was bothering them, but they hardly did a damn thing to change.
• The best years of your life are the ones in which you decide your problems are your own. You do not blame them on your mother, the ecology, or the president. You realize that you control your own destiny.

The first three of which seem to be so true i have to smile. The fourth represents a great challenge in my life (of being an overachiever) - i must treat myself better even if at times i screw things up:) - this of course is connected to the next point...where i could add i should try not to change things so much or at least give time to changes, otherwise i end up at the 'i must do well' and it only contributes to me being upset.

living that feeling i have had in my dream is sort of like my own destiny:)

why should i go against it by overworrying myself?

spinning

Below a long-long monologue of a long logn day,
i know-totally boring
but i felt like filling a blank page
there it is out. i dont want to think in circles
(though i dont think it is an illness, it really doesnt make me feel any better)
so, dear reader, if you ever get to the end of the message and have any thought to add, you are welcomed. if you ever get to the middle and get bored, thanks for having read anyway. :)


long day.
thoughts entering and leaving my head
a body weary of too much dancing and five hours of sleep and the constant struggle to keep some food down
yesterday - almost unable to stand up and go home from work, as if my arms and legs were lifeless, not belonging to me (to who else then?) i forced myself to sit on the bus and go downtown to see friends (promised, promises are sacred, we keep them!)
the best decision ever.
for five hours no thoughts of me being mentally sick,
no thoughts of mistakes, sex, illusions, feelings
just two eyes watching a new face with the hugest smile ever,
a wave of positive feeling wrapping me up as my body sets into motion,
my feet moving under me (little alcohol, promise made to myself not to get drunk in the next few months) and it all works. the mind is silent. the heart begs for five minutes of break.
i dont even look around for men (what for, i have three sexy chicks to have fun with:)
yet i end uo dancing around with one (a friend of friends...) and he looks into my eyes as i step back to avoid a kiss i dont want (yesss!!!in control again!!!:)
i go to the bathroom (the same bathroom where i have almost fainted in realizing at a spagettata that his face had the smell of another female on it. how sure i was then! and how decieved! - anyways: past, gone, has to be forgotten),
so i enter the bathroom and i happen to overhear the most vulgar and disgusting of female-conversations ever: on how to humiliate 'an ugly' guy who kindly tries to get at someone. (bitches. - i think and look in the mirror to examine my face: nah. he is wrong, im not like them.)pale, but satistied i exit and enter the crowd outside.
on the way home at half past three i decide to eat a gyros, but standing at the busttop stuffing the food into my mouth i notice a terrifying thing: im shivering while eating. i dont understand. it is not that cold, and i dont even feel cold. i stop eating. the shivering stops. as soon as i put a bit of food in my mouth i restarts. i spend three minutes trying to understand what's going on and finally i locate the source: my stomach. it is as if some sort of a football or rugby world champinship was taking place inside. i note that i have to force eating. i cannot afford to lose more weight. (would be the stupidest thing to end up in hospital just because a man called me names.)
i re-enter. the house is asleep. i take a quick shower, jump into my nightdress, put on the alarm for the morning and fall asleep. safe night. no dreams, five hours later i awake and feel fit, get up...and there it is: my stomach.
i crawl between the covers, switch on the tv to wathc the morning-series, and send down some food only to spend the rest of the morning running in-and-out of the bathroom.

then something changes: and suddenly, in the course of half an hour i have two job-interviews organised.
objectives, focus, wash your hair, dress decent and so on.

then work. kids. hugs. kisses. everybody loving Freddy - and life goes on.

just as Ammaniti writes in the book im reading (ti prendo e ti porto via) -
'la cosa, si disse, sarebbe passata perché nella vita le cose passano sempre, come un fiume. anche le piú difficili che ti sembra impossibile superare, e in un attimo te le trovi dietro alle spalle e devi andare avanti. ti aspettano cose nuove.'
(=all things pass as the woter of a river running towards the ocean.even the shittiest things, the ones you thought you'd not overcome, you find behind you all of a sudden and you have to keep on going ahead. there are new things awaiting you.)

and so i try to feel happy for possibly-maybe jobs, the family dinner planned for tonight, ect.
standing on the scale mobile (shit, how do you say that in english?) i re-think and decide i wont forgive easy this time. noone has tha right to call me a bitch because i have slept with a man a month (or god knows) after it was 'said' to be over between us (keep in mind it was never 'said' that it ever started or lasted.... - ehi. a relationship with no beginning or contect, just an end.sound interesting enough). he was angry and other things okay, pushed deep in a mass of emotions, okay. but he should have known he has no right to say certain things.

and he does. arriving home i find two lines in my mailbox: sorry (short.honest.)
i switch the computer off, back on, read it, reread it, memorize it, forget it
think about whther i should answer. or what to answer. should i tell him things i think would make him understand how wrong he was in thinking i just went off with a total stanger? no. yes. no. yes. dunno.
should i call a friend and ask what she'd do? no. no. yes. maybe. nonono. i have to do this alone.
for once, after so many years i am extremely angry. and therefore my reactions are honest. maybe not right but honest.

so i keep silent.
i dont write anything.
and though it takes me two hours of sufference to keep the food down
i decide even not to care about that.
in the worst case i lose some weigth. if it ever goes under 52 i go to the doctor. this time i wont make an arse of my mouth.
i dont have to beg him for forgiveness.

if he chooses to think im a slut, let it be.
i know i am not.
maybe it wasnt wise to sleep with that guy i didnt love.
but it doesnt make me a bad person.

i have been faithful to him while officially being only 'his hungarian' (slut added by him later).
and right now i have no wish to keep struggling.

it will pass.
he there, me here
(next time we meet maybe only some empty hello, and we walk by)
his loss is bigger
im onyl haunted by his smell stuck in my norstrils.

dark

just wonderingthat if i saw it,
and knew it,
if i wrote only two days ago
that it is something i shouldnt do
something that would hurt me

why did i?

maybe yes,
maybe i have some sort of a mental disorder
that manifests itself every time
something hurts me so
that i pretend it didnt

and then i cross lines
and in a sense commit suicide

only to realize
thatwhat i do is wrong
and that i have always known it is
...therefore it wouldnt have needed testing

or destroying what was left of a love.

fel-oldódás

red phase.
a movie you watch with three male friends, resting your tired head on a shoulder unknown to you and not-belonging. a film about italian men and hungarian women, about dreams and realities. a film not your choice.
big cheers for the creators, actors...Franco Nero who is not present but in our minds
big discussions standing in a smoky room built for the occasion
- pointing out filmmakers, producers, acters and actresses - beer sinks in your veins and you set in motion creating witty word-jokes touching the untoughable surface of males, feeling the power of the predator, the lady in red, the very sexual part of myself.

sex, that sweet curse, that which you blame for big losses
your overwhelming sexuality
your need to be controlled
but almost total inability to give in or over
power
strenght
a figth for joy and pain
sex, that sweet feeling of dissolving in the arms of a powerful man
losing control
disappearing like sugar dipped in caffé
boundaries disappearing and finally entering a soul
and screaming with joy
bodies fighting for-or-against each other:
unity.

i think back and forward, wondering if i am a sexual predator
a woman who engulfs her prey in the act of love
a woman who becomes lost at sea
yet sets out to sail
a woman who fears losing control
yet yearns nothing more than the presence of a man strong enough to win over her

cheating is only possible if you fuck without your heart
but in that case the joy is lost
and all is left is some pounds of flesh hungry for a touch
an abandoned heart beating in your chest
and all becomes meaningless
an act of violence against yourself
in my case.
i wonder whether i envy or pity those without a heart
those whores(fe/male) who have sex
but dont remember love.

intellectual fun

sarah silverman, america's top-showman's girlfriend
has become my favuorite source
of intellectual fun...

criticizing santa's personal click in:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=40qTXlNJj9s&feature=related

smoothly finishing a loving relationship in:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UGh44JvqIM&feature=related

plus she has fantastic judgement about smells and how you know who si THE ONE:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQ0Q04Azk0M&feature=related

ehm. really. i wish i could be as crazy and as outspoken an she is.
but 'im only a f***ing genious when in comes to languages'...hihi

I'm like the Terminator...except with LOVE!

click on 'X' (top left corner)

ehm....so much like my twisted thoughts:)

(sidenote)

(sometimes i still feel an urge to watch the photo of a girl 7 years youger than me
...'just a fuck'...a straight line drawn in a non-existing book of records
i wonder if he cheated on me more that i cheated on myself
i want to learn about betrayal
but it is a lesson
i dont understand)
(at least not much more
than i understand trust)