I wear the coat of one brother
and perhaps even his jocks,
the jeans of the other
but I think not his socks.
My jumper is my brother-in-law’s
and the undershirt too,
but perhaps the shirt only
was bought somewhere, new…
but not by me:)
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Friendship is the well from which we draw when our loneliness becomes unbearable.
It is the bank into which we deposit without ever a single care.
It is the salvation in the doom,
the guiding light within the darkness.
This is friendship, and nothing more.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Somehow Othello-an I gently breeze the dawn exclaiming that if indeed it were now to die then most happy I would be.
I grasp this notion as I hold dear my child, close to mé in a punch-drunk embrace.
Her proclamations of an hour before have subsided.
The carpet demon subdued, lured now into my arms,
She finally succumbs to dreams, only thought of by adults, realised plainly in the minds of young children.
Maybe there there be dragons too! ensnaring the barest of innoncence,
giving creedance to the horrors of nighttime and loneliness:
maybe beyond all the notion of things soft and fluffy, the furious truth is a scaly opponent.
The early líght shafts in through the window, sheening the room to create my reflection.
I note the brighter side of mé, I see a vision of this moment.
In truth I can now say, that I have sung my child here back to sleep
and in so doing have fulfilled a dream I had never even thought of;
perhaps this is the essence of fatherhood.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Beneath the feathers of every raven there hides a rainbow, the old man had said, but Billy had just put it down to one of those things that old men said: some thing that pretended to wisdom but was more probably nonsense.
The old man had died that night and Billy had given his last words no more thought. Huddled together with his best friend Sammy at the bottom of a mist carpetted field, each trying to keep warm by rubbing up against a tree trunk and letting the cigarette ends close to their encasing hands, both wearing jackets that were designed to stand up only to summer showers, Billy found the words coming back to him.
The bare trees veined the sky above him and not for the first time did he come to the notion that they looked very much like bronchioles, or at least the diagram of the trackings of a lung as he had seen in his biology book at school.
“The lungs of the earth” he muttered; Sammy grunting, used to his friend’s inner monologue escaping.
“What do you think the purposes of crows are?” Billy suddenly asked.
“Crows?” came the reply.
” Crows, ravens, whatever. I mean what purpose do they serve?”
” None according to my father” Sammy replied “Pests he calls them…Pests!Pests!”.
Billy smiled. What else could he do? Sammy was eccentric that way, but when asked if he’d ever thought of a career in theatre he had answered a firm “No!”.
That was his father speaking, Billy’s mom had said. It was well known that Sammy’s father, a military man, had no love of the performing arts, but his rejection of his eldest son’s sexuality had been the subject of much debate. Needless to say Billy’s mum was not a fan. “Poor Ivan,” she used to say. Wasn’t it hard enough growing up without a mother but then to be shunned by his own father…
Sammy for his part didn’t speak too much about Ivan beyond the boundaries of memory, a fondness of childhood, a time long since gone. When pressed he had matter of factly stated that all queers are diseased, but this had definitely been his father speaking.
Billy’s father, on the other hand, was cut from an entirely different cloth. As happy, if not happier, to be among the wilds, he had often taken Billy with him on his expeditions, in search of nothing as his mother put it.
To not understand the nature of others is no reason to call it unnatural, Billy’s father would often retort when pressed by his mother to justify his long days in the woods. Later Billy would realise that there had been a little jealousy on his mother’s part, Billy’s father having the lion’s share, as it were, of Billy’s company.
“Do you ever wonder why people seem to want such different things, especially people who seem to have so much in common?” Sammy suddenly asked. “Look at Ivan for example.”
“To not understand the nature…” Billy began.
“Oh would you shut up!” Sammy lambasted. Billy face took on a pained expression.
“I’m only messin’ ya silly clot! Don’t be so sensitive!”
“I’m not. I’m only…” Billy began.
“I’m not. I’m only…”Sammy parroted.
God, how Billy hated that, that ridicule.
Oh, how Sammy loved to see such squirming.
“All I’m saying is, why do people with the same upbringing change so much?” Sammy continued.
“Other circumstances,” Billy began.
“Ah, don’t give me that shit about all the little things that could affect us.” Sammy snapped.
“Why not?’ Billy asked.
“A butterfly’s wings bollocks!” Sammy replied getting quite irrate.
Billy never knew how to control these situations, getting angry as he usually did didn’t solve anything, but staying silent only allowed Sammy to feel smug, as if he had won.
Wisdom could have told both boys the pointlessness of their undertakings but, as they say, youth is wasted on the young.
“Well, since you have all the answers” Billy snapped.
“I don’t” said Sammy “but I’m not about to surrender to some hippie dippie shit, neither!”
“As opposed to doom and gloom!?” Billy volleyed.
“Yeah yeah whatever!”
“Whatever!? And there ends the conversation.” Billy was beginning to get very annoyed.
Changing tack Billy decided to let spill the old man’s last words.
“Ravens and rainbows. What rubbish! I mean fair enough if that’s what he said but seriously, what crap.” Sammy stood in cool repose but Billy had no defence. Afterall, hadn’t he also been considering the whole thing nonsense.
The silence laid waste to the cold, both friends grumbling their own righteous state. And then the last of the cigarettes was spent and so they had no more reasons to sit perishing in that place.
Passing down through the golf course on the way home Billy ventured a question, an opening up of dialogue.
“Do you think Ivan is really that different from you?” he asked.
“He’s a fuckin’ faggot for Christssakes; or haven’t you noticed” he snapped. “Maybe because you’re one too” he added.
“I’m not” Billy protested, but he could already feel the blush rising from his neck line.
Sammy just sneered, derision etched across his face.
The rage now welled in Billy and without word he scampered ahead, cleared the fence and marched off taking the left fork, and the shorter route home.
The thought suddenly came to him that it was Sammy who had the money for cigarettes, and he, Billy, had been planning to spend the night in his friend’s place. A regret rose but was buried by the fury currently at large.
©TheHairyTeacher2013
On Mészáros utca, in the 1st district, there lies a pizzeria of some renown, Don Francesco by name. and it was to this place I did find myself arriving having disembarked the 105 bus just outside its door, or as good as.
Of course, as is the order of my quest I went in search of the margherita pizza. Well, let me tell you it has a certain herbie good taste with slices of real(!) tomato adorning the top. It certainly had its appeal, but on an empty stomach much can be deceptive. In truth it had all the finery necessary for a good margherita pizza but not for a great one. I scoffed it down nonetheless, and released my tastes buds to a drop of red wine, the selection here being varied: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I got the plain:)
Downstairs at the entrance, where I took up temporary residence, it was much like a fastfood diner while upstairs there was the more restauranty feel, the ambience intended by the recommendation I had been given. Ah, but they really didn’t know me. Tucked away late afternoon in the solitude of a dimly lit recess was not my style. I crave life and with the comings and goings of the take-away people I had material with which to work.
The service was quick and friendly, if a bit subdued or maybe it was that I was expecting something which I hadn’t even put words nor image to. Was I being unreasonable? Probably. It was Poetry Day and I was off to a book launch and somehow that had me feeling important.
Overall: The pizza gets a 7/10 while the atmosphere restaurant-wise is yet to be seen. Weekend nights upstairs must surely be different to late Thursday afternoons by the entrance. As for its location: easy in and out of town, just off the 105 bus stop either way.
Most definitely poplular with the locals for takeaway and, as has been my experience in the past, any place the locals go to is a place to be, unless it includes a length of rope, a gallows, or an arena and some freely prowling lions.
Don Francesco’s could be a single man’s teatime and chat, or a family’s mid-week treat, and with all the potential upstairs I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the young folk would venture in at weekends enthralling first dates with their understanding of Italian and economising in the process.
For dessert I had Madártej fagyi (an ice-cream of sorts) which was a tasty affair and just to take the edge off my criticism concerning friendliness I was given the cup and saucer in which it came for free.
A thought has also struck me:
What if all those serious faces are not indicative of general grumpiness but rather of pained attempts by locals not usually exposed to foreigners trying to speak Hungarian to understand what I am saying. Maybe I’ve mistaken their concentration face for a moody one! Stranger things reputedly have happened.
©TheHairyTeacher2013
I cannot leave behind what I have not forsaken
And so it is, that
While the distance grows most physical
I’ll be by you
As you by me
Our hearts not tempered
By the sheer
Logic
And bitterness
Of other people’s
Fears!
©TheHairyTeacher2013
All you need for this game is a baby, preferably at a younger age (more on that later), a set of eight balls (note plastic or sponge are more advisable: more on that later too), 2-4 players, and weather permitting, a garden
Played much like the normal game of petanque, boules, petanca, or whatever name you go by, baby petanque has one minor difference. Instead of using the cochonnet, or jack, a baby is used.
Another discreet difference is that baby petanque is not confined to the outdoors, unlike the original, although I’m sure there are venues outside of the sunny Mediterranean region where lovers of the sport have adapted this too.
Overall the goal is very much the same with the player who lands their ball closest to the baby being the winner. This is why a younger baby is more suitable unless you feel like upping the stakes and playing a more challenging game of baby petanque, clueing in the factors of baby movement, and ball disturbance. For further information on baby movement and stakes purchase visit our official (non-existent) website Just Kiddin’ .
Now concerning the material of the ball: apart from damaging a tile floor if played indoors metal balls also hold the risk of harming the baby!
One last factor. A line is drawn at a minimum distance of ten feet from the stationary baby and it remains the constant starting point to which players have to return to after each round as, in contrast to normal petanque where the cochonnet is thrown back from whence the players have come, it is not advisable to go throwing baby around – however much you may be tempted sometimes!
As with all sports for active and imaginative parents the primary goal is to have some fun.
Everything else will be just a matter of happenstance and babychance.
In the early months I can remember Andi suggesting that we copy everything that Tara did as she lay on her back on the bed between us. Lying flat on our backs and holding our legs out and up at a 45° angle for more than 10 seconds was pressing, more than 20 was testing, more than 30…well who am I kidding, but little Tara could hold them up there in that position for far longer, bring them back down and raise them again. We endeavoured to mimic her as best we could and, well, it was from this that an idea of baby-driven yoga was spawned. Now let me be clear about this. When it was formulated I was under the impression that two great minds, Andi’s and mine, were at work but as it later turned out Libero had got the jump on us by some years. In fact, it is quite possible that Andi had seen the advert herself and had been inspired by the trace memories. She’s in the business afterall.
Well it all came to pass that during a class with a particular student the topic came up of baby-driven activities and I mentioned the yoga idea. Imagine the horror when I learnt that the concept had already existed! Imagine the thoughts of conspiracy as I had in the earlier days of Tara been teaching a woman from the SCA marketing department. Storming home that evening the winds of fury driving me along I poured out my fears of betrayal, and such, to Andi. “Relax,” Andi proffered “that ad’s been out for longer than Tara’s been around.” So matter of factly! But nobody told me. The fury became a pout and I sulked off into an evening beer…and began to dream again of schemes and things.
Comment: The activity itself of baby-driven yoga is actually a good fitness test, as are most activities concerning babies and young children. I can only imagine the older kids are more psychologically challenging but let’ wait and see.
In order to get the most benefit out of it one needs to do exactly what the baby does up to the point of reason of course. Babies are, by their nature, much more flexible than us adults so don’t push yourself into a contortion from which you can’t return!
Enjoy!!!
Trying to nappyise…
Made difficult if she decides she is not interested in cooperating. She’ll then employ all tactics necessary to fight the good fight which can be daunting if she is set down on her nappy-changer. The fall from there is about a metre to a tile floor. Worse still is if it’s a particularly messy present nappywise and she refuses to stay still. Altogether a tough discipline with points dropped for letting the baby fall, putting the nappy on backwards, or just getting all too messy. Drawbacks even if successful: A broken nose from a heel first, bruised body, or just ego. Other unpleasantness can be imagined.
and dress Tara….
A feat in itself this compromises trying to pin her down while trying to prize one of her legs out from under her coiled up body, flicking her over and getting at least one into a pyjama leg. But even this is not enough because if the wait is too long she’ll have wriggled out again and scattered across the bed, giggles in her wake. While not as messy as the nappyising this has its challenges when it comes to all out physical endurance. Points dropped for putting legs in to arm parts of pyjamas, and vice versa; for making the baby cry!!!; for getting one or both legs in and losing them out again. A special penalty point is incurred if you have actually mistakenly put her pyjamas back on instead of her day clothes after changing her nappy in the morning.
“A masik kusz, nem szeretem!” Tara announced defiantly.
She didn’t like the ‘other’ bus. Well, I knew what she meant. A funky-blue bus – air-conditioned – has arrived in Budapest and appears sporadically on our bus route, 129. That I, and Tara, both, prefer the older, smellier, rattlier models is to understand our traditionalist values…hehe.
The new one as we entered was immediately declared wrong by Tara as I lowered her into her seat. Was it the A-C? Maybe. The constant beeping, however, I fear was the real culprit, and the fact that there is that blackout on the windows. Her view was obstructed – she being every bit the explorer already, this was tantamount to blindness in front of the Greats (visual artists I mean though Pele or Messi would necessarily apply).
We suffered the journey, needless to say, songs and reassurances doing the bare minimum to provoke subsidence, and yet the truth was plain to see. She was unhappy. On the way home later, an older model, still expressed some reservations but this may have only been due to the lingering memory.
Next time she missed the funky bus deliberately with Andi and it crashed. Maybe she knew. Later the following day she began to profess a love for all motorised vehicles, at least as long as they fell within the range of securely familiar. No fancy schmancy. At least not till she turns three and wants to impress the Kindergarten ‘bastard’!
Homeward bound on the newer model now I find myself curiously inclined to wondering – what is it that is fundamentally wrong. The seats though tiered are more coach like which provides the comfort. There generally seems to be a more logical layout even for the prams, but something in that intercity feel only to the suburbs may be a little disconcerting for the tormented traveller while furthermore the air-conditioning is not exactly tip top, well not down the back at least. I’m beginning to feel the nausea as once I did on the school mini-bus we had, all huddled in together on those day trips to the beyond. Heat stuffiness, vomitessness. I’m merely implying a discomfort but I’m willing to heed my daughter’s senses more than the rationality as proffered by those in the know. Haven’t some of those clowns also condoned GM foods – those soulless, tormented miscreants, whose eventual suicide is their only true gain. The yields initially astonishing are recorded, in fact, as depleting rapidly in each subsequent year. The super pesticides used, and flaunted airborne into neighbouring non-GM fields, are developing an environment where super-pests are slowly but surely ensuring the death of everything.
Our technology, I fear, has only given us the illusion of comfort because it tinkers with our memory and encourages us to think that we cannot live any other way. Now where did I put my phone? I know: I‘ve got a map app on it and GPS, but really what use is that if I can’t even find the phone. And no, I don’t have that whistle-and-it-beeps key-finder either! Damn-it! Well enough of this. Here’s my stop…
My Site for another perspective
