f a i r - nem babablog

Thursday, November 08, 2001

Strong like music It first began with Mozart's Requiem last evening, and since I have wrapped myself in warmth of jazz for a dull autumn day like this, when the sun hardly even fights the clouds, and as I walk the streets with my presence lost somewhere else, like New York in the 1940's, in a room with roses and a couch by the window overlooking the city, reaching out to the past and to love beyond my reach, with in sentiments and daydreams, taking delight in what may otherwise be painful, today is one of those rare days when loneliness, like everything in the end, does not matter at all.

Then I remembered her.

Monday, November 05, 2001

Day out, day in It is hard to get back to work, hard to start again on a book I have already considered finished. It seems however much I have wanted to, I can't escape what was my due portion.

Where mountains meet the sky autumn meets winter, sunshine meets cold, lounge meets gallery, small meets big, close meets far, person meets group and play meets semi serious in a series of digital photographs I watch three or four times to recall how nice it was, even though fleeting, like the wind caressing my hair.

Széchenyi 9 I thought I would not find it, but my feet took me there, and now I want to lead you up the stairs to the entrance, show you the boys' room to the left and up the stairs halfway where a red mattress was, the perfect place to cuddle up to read or talk, then finally upstairs our room, the kitchen con dining room and a Santa Claus eve dinner made by the boys, a beautiful old chest of drawers the second top drawer for all my clothes, the bathroom where Eszter and Kornél often made love a little bit too loud for the short while they were together, 5, 6 of us in the girls' room, drawings, pictures, quotations on the wall, the sound of guitar and Keith singing "Jó éjszakát", a tiny tv and long conversations with friends some of whom are still around. Wait, I have some photographs and even a tape with songs to help me remember.

Tranquility Walking side by side with Márk without saying a word as we leave behind hundreds of trees and kick through a sea of fallen leaves on the forest floor.

All saints In small villages old ladies and men are riding their bicycles to the cemetery with yellow and white chrysanthemums, in small villages a thousand grave candles are burning in the evening, among the small houses and the scent of warm wax I find peace to become not 18, but a small child, making sure again every candle is burning around my grandfather's grave, and now my father's grave, wishing I have time still not to go alone, but with my grandmother who sang me the sad song about the blue, green and golden peacock, still my favourite.

On the tram Sometimes I wonder if people on the street think "foolish girl" when they see me smile and grin to myself, recalling events, sights and words of the day.

Colours The world is not black and white, I tell her, it is a million shades of colours, and my colours are not yours or theirs. Even if it may seem so at first sight, the hues are different, however slightly. Walking home from Margaret island complementary colours we studied back in primary school pop into mind.

Whatever Whatever words we do or do not say to manipulate people and events, whatever thoughts our subconscious filters out. In their (r)evolving relationship, mine is the most peculiar perspective you can have.

I could start an avalanche Things at a certain level don't need to be discussed anymore. There are forces in their own might, mighty as they can be. Forces accumulated, born of anticipation.

Autumn Huge starking apples, chestnuts and a pumpkin. The weather has turned cold enough for everyone to wear a coat, including me. Feels good to carry home two chunky magazines, sit down in the warm room and read by the light.

Bell knoll The most realistic I have ever heard. She sits in the back of the car, pointing out every single church steeple in this city, moving her head in a slow rhythm to the right and left, her blonde hair, dark eyes, shy smile sparkle as she looks at me.

Dull When there is nothing better to do, you can always write a letter of complaint to stir up events.

Skills Learning high skills of ironing from the elderly dry cleaner lady down the street. She tells me all you have to do is turn everything inside out, then she tells me about being scolded when she was an apprentice for leaving wrinkles in a man's trousers. She smiles and confines that if a woman were to look there, the wrinkles would be of little interest.