Category Archives: BLOG

The essence of being

The casual Eye

The casual Eye

Reflections, musings, all indirect.
The shadows of timidity set.
Eyes bound to embrace if by chance
And then in blush turn once more back.
To shaded Eyes, the hidden glance,
The brushing back – displaying risk.
Another eye to eye embrace
Till two souls set save embarrassment.
A nail pick and a fumble still
The night resides in circumstance.
Ill-comfort or the lack of breath…
One’s terrified by the sombre poet.
Hope, yet eternal, Springs then falls
It is the chill of winter Afterall.
And so the fleeting glance- perchance-
Is nothing but the final failed romance.
And yet in words as these, such coined,
There is a lurch towards new Hope!

Tina Turner’s

The night before my birthday, my fortieth, and I hit Tina Turner’s…it used to be called Anya’s but that half-Greek fantasy set sail down towards the ninth district, somewhere around Mester utca, a long time ago. The soap I bought, a dried up reminder of a notion I once had.
The whole place is infested with memory and even my darkest hour, not worth mentioning, being part of the fabric of this place provokes a Dichotomy, an idea of improvement based upon a previous moral digression, thoroughly equated therefore by its having occurred within the confines of this place.
It was always an awkward place, often ruled by boredom, fatigue, drunkeness, and paranoia. It, however, served well as a last resort. It never closes, you see,”… and that has made all the difference…”
I sometimes long for this place in the blur that is pre- fatherhood memory, but in truth, a moment like this, actually living the memories, is the closest anybody can get to all things past. Sometimes it’s worth coming back for the trip – the reality of what was left behind, suitably soft, a drawing smudged to suit a tolerable indifference.
The corner in one of the upstairs booths, was my workbench of occasion, though never to the extent of B City and the Soproni place, now Cheerio – then nameless (at least to me), and yet Tina’s, ahem…Anya’s (like the stalwart calling Snickers Marathon), provided some of the material for my future. Here dreams were shattered, rebuilt, born yet before, and after. Time bent here… as these words may take me back, they may in time propel me forward, or at least be read again in a time not yet recorded. For now I just create them in the hope that someone, maybe even me, can read them in a future!

Some day

Some day

In the interests of safety, I will write this carefully
but don’t confuse caution with fear.
I have not chosen prudence to avoid any conflict
just I know better than to create what’s not there.
Ah, but therein lacks a passion, to never fully explore,
and I surrender to the notion right then.
Yet on further inspection, and I’m off down the road,
Such hollow words oft come from men who’ve not lived them.
So go swimming with sharks, or float higher than larks,
and as you plummet remember my face!
I’m not here to live your life, nor follow your dreams
So please leave me alone with my ways .
Because if you can’t tolerate choice, while iterating freedom,
and if you can’t see the hypocrite you’re being,
then sorry to say but you’ve spent your worth away
And what I liked about you dissipates.
Now, as for the one who does as he pleases,
maybe more exciting by far than I know,
of him I say nothing if of me he claims ditto,
because every man’s life is just his own.
So wallow in depression if need be,
or holler your madness out loud,
Go read a book in the park near where the single moms sit
Or join the theatre and hold your head proud.
Do things that are cool for people different to you
and say things like: “all men are fools”
For there in the end when your image is spent
You’ll be dead along with me too!

My Old Self

My Old Self

I saw a ghost of who I was, today.
A younger familiar me.
He passed the church at Lehel tér
Going places not for me.
He passed over Feri’s bridge
And down along Podmaniczky
To where there now lies nought for me
but bloated memory.
I felt the shadow of my past
on the stairwell at the bank,
When days and nights and morning’s hand
were defined by what I drank.
And on each step as I went down
I heard the old pain murmur,
“a tired mind worn by the night
could too soon be torn asunder”.
And so I took another turn
and left the West End go
and prowling down on Vaci street
I decided to go slow.
Now sitting here on this May day
the cars in sunshine glitter,
the people walking to and fro,
and some sitting down to chatter.
I feel the cool breeze of the moment
and let my senses go
Infusing in the utter present
I’ll accept what was before.

HippyKnewYa…

…2015.

I have decided this New Year’s Eve not to make any more resolutions and in so doing have made yet another resolution, or so that is how the joke goes. Well, come the bells I wasn’t eating grapes – I don’t live in Spain anymore – , I wasn’t singing Old Lang Syne – though I tried, I was shushed by my Hungarian family who had all arisen from their pre-midnight-layabout to the glory of their national anthem – but I was sipping Champagne, or at least some Cava and Pezsgo, and I was enjoying the localised fireworks displays  which have come to signify suburbia, I guess everywhere these days.

What else? Well, some eighteen hours later and sitting here typing this, I realise there is nothing left to say. I had some grandiose notion to record an emotion but that was thwarted some hours ago by responsibility. Do I expect 2015 to be better than 2014? Why should I? The date, the change is merely numerical. Surely for most people the difference between today and yesterday is the hangover, the memory of the shameful deeds  done while under the influence, the lost expectations, but beyond that this day, a Thursday, is no different to yesterday, or any other Thursday really. Then what is left to surmise concerning all things new and glorious? Nothing!

 

Pass the Bottle

Pass the Bottle

 

The very frustrations which can nightly arise when battling my four-year-old over sleeping duties pale, usually, in comparison to the joy which she brings. That she has just sat up again from her sleeping poise raises the shackles, especially when she demands her right to speak. “I am trying to work” I tell her and have made it a compromise that I do some of it here in her room. The classical music plays in the background, a Youtube selction meant for sleep, but perhaps I chose the adult selection for my kid is certainly no closer to her slumberation. That she commands another assault just now forcing me to play my own guilt cards, only serves to heighten the tensions on the Bedside Parallel. I go back to my typing, realising that the tappitty tapping will soon be used as an excuse to be awake, only that I have worked here many times before and she has nodded off without so much as a protestation. It is Christmas, and we are in Nagyi’s, and this definitely has something to do with it, but the fact that last year I signed up for some How to Get Your Kid to Sleep newsletter would suggest that this is more than a minor technical difficulty: this has, in fact, become a lifestyle.

The other terrorist has been placated but promises to erupt past the witching hour with plaintive tones that would set all the devils below a tad off kilter. Hell may have no fury like…some woman, or other, but here ón this blessed Earth it’s the wee ones that win the day, and night, their very shrieks calling out beyond the confines of a humanity: they are the very driving force that must surely render any universe, ours included, and THEY do not rest ón the seventh day. I’m not even sure they rest at all. Even in their sleep I imagine they are racing headlong into furniture, eating razor blades, and making dogs very very nervous: all the while being called cute by those fucking visitors…yeah, you know who you are. You don’t think we haven’t noticed you beginning to back out the door from the very moment you have been invited in. The lack of space ón the coat rack which may have led you to be insulted because the back of a chair had to suffice, now seems a blessing in disguise. Imagine trying to excavate any article of clothing from under that pile there a-hanging…or worse, what if you had taken up the offer of having your jacket put in the bedroom…UPSTAIRS! Run you miserable bastards and don’t bother coming back again to make such contrivedly concerned comments such as “Aren’t you a bit cold?” to a four year old who can tell the difference, and especially when inside the flat it’s 22 degrees celsius, even if it is sub-zero outside. Perhaps, and I’m not suggesting you are dying, but if you are feeling a little chilly maybe it’s cos you is already dead!!! So zombie yourself the hell out of here and leave me to my two little Síoga, and my woman, who is at this moment out there in the demilitarised zone, soaking up the glow of the nonsense that is TV Landia, a state I am aspiring to once I’ve finished this.

Adonkey

 

What’s in when going out?

What’s in when going out?

 

If you mention Móricz Zsigmond körtér it often evokes a feeling of nostalgia, and this for a place I have but a recent memory of. I’ve thought and taught here and drunk but a bit and yet I feel it’s somewhere I’ve been before, a place of greater memories, even if it isn’t.
There is a certain atmosphere in the area what with the tram rushing through as well as the 6 and 61 finishing up here. The schools, bookshops, fastfood places, all a step off make it a vibrant hub and now with development of the Metro 4 complete this area has come into its own. It owns the night scene Buda side, even if Lövõház is challenging to the north, and with the restaurants, bars, and general nuisances fanning out in all directions from the square, it’s certainly a pin to put in your google, or mental, map. Bartók Béla út, which dissects the square, is the main source of attraction and distraction with Szatyor, Nevada Pub*, Moha*, to name but a few offering up in terms of not only food and drink but other forms of spiritual nourishment. Nevada with its Cowboyish Wild West look, swinging doors to boot, has live music from the middle of the stairs on your way up: a live set-up in such a confined space?…interesting! (Sometimes a DJ may take over.) Booking a table is almost a prerequisite especially if you’re a group, or come looking for the perfect seat. The winter sees activities contained indoors while the sun shine draws forth a smattering of chairs making it a perfect beer and leer environment, even if your lungs and ears have to compete with the slight inconvenience of pollution from the ever busy Bártok Béla út…
Szatyor across the street has a sprawling ground floor with tables all ariot, while upstairs the seating is shared with a space for performances, exhibitions, and all the rest. As with Nevada it can get tricky to find seating around the weekend so be warned.
Whereas Nevada is a pub with grub on offer, Szatyor is a cafe with its own culinary aspirations. An offer of garlic soup followed by a Lángos was one of the lunchtime treats when I was visiting , and I tried it (poor students that afternoon), so while many may judge that as its downfall, it was most certainly for me its selling point. Like Nevada service in Szatyor never breeches the barrier between polite and friendly with smiles being somewhat a rare commodity.Maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s me, but especially in Szatyor’s case it seemed to be a little off-putting.
Another place worth mentioning is Moha which can be found farther down the street towards Gellért tér, and which is also inclined to entertainment beyond the food and drink on offer. As a place for breakfast it works, with ham and eggs amongst the choices, and there is an atmosphere which suggests something greater bubbling just beneath the surface. The grand piano in the corner may have something to do with it; my interest peaked. Of all the places I’ve mentioned it is the one place which I have not had the chance to sample evening time, so as to what to expect I can only fictionalise. A sign indicating a movie theatre hidden somewhere out of the morning’s grasp leads me to conclude that this place is aspiring to something bigger. As to whether it will achieve this, well, that remains to be seen, or will perhaps remain forever relative, because afterall, what is success? How can it be…blah blah blah.
That there are plenty more places to choose from goes without saying but to a man who has now got two children and too little time, such voyages of exploration are somewhat staggered, at least in comparison with what has gone before. These days memory must serve in place of accuracy, perhaps, and so I leave you to ponder and, if you wish, to contradict my words, for afterall, and in the end, there is no right nor wrong, just subjective truths:)

http://szatyorbar.blog.hu/
https://www.facebook.com/MohaCafe?fref=ts

 

*UPDATE: Since writing this review I have been down that way again and found two changes, not to the locations but to the names.

Nevada is now Osztrák Söröző: https://www.facebook.com/osztrak

 

and Moha is The Rabbit and the Duck bar, with a great logo to boot.

http://rndbar.com/

https://www.facebook.com/rabbitandtheduckbar/info

 

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Me too

Me too

 

 

I had skinned knuckles once too.
I even tried to express this as significant;
It wasn’t, anymore than I was,
in the sense that I was me.
I had the marks of brutality upon me,
they remained long after any sense of bravery.
If you display yours to an intimidation,
remember I did that and I know what lies beneath.
If, however, you pick at these in shame,
like somehow they are wrong for you,
like somehow you are better than these scabs,
then I have nothing to work with –
dare I judge?
I’d judge thee, judgement being… what?
A penchant you might say.
I have tonight tried to contradict myself
but it’s so much easier to believe the fallacy,
so much easier to reason to your passions
than to the core of fact itself.
Half-informed I’ll rage in dreams
against the dying of our rights
but if ever proved I will not stand against the foe
as I perceived it,
and therefore vacant,
impotent,
I may as well
stand for nothing!

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Just In That Moment

Just In That Moment

 

Ding dong one witch is dead

and another scales the closet

and hurls abuse from up on high

at all of you below.

Ding dong what’s wrong, revolution’s dead

it’s with O’Leary raping Darwin’s ghost.

The future is a certainty but the past is unexplored.

The mode, the chicish mania

soon will be our shame

new morals, lies, define them such

will amount to much the same…

 

©TheHairyTeacher2014

Keeping A-head

Keeping A-head

I race against the bitterness.

I’m just ahead –

it’s catching.

I’ve grown to recognise – yet

I’m still quite prone to it.

It’s easier sometimes, I guess,

not to keep the darkness in check.

It’s wiser to observe, I know,

I’ve done this too, many times before.

But drink, and this shall be the key,

it makes me strong but leaves me weak.

I’ll build again a resevoir,

then pull the plug as oft before.

I’ve tried, I’ll try, and conjure on.

Till death – the parting,

and my swan song.

©TheHairyTeacher2014

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