disenchanted

i asked a man to draw a swallow onto me flying into my heart to remind me to hope that I could believe in God. that in time i would get a better understanding of what that meant for me, and a hope that he keeps his promises.

this fucked up world kicks us back over with mumbai bombings and waking up to death not healing. now the very words hope and promise feel like a mockery. the unknowable 'they' told me it would be easy, implied there would be less pain with an eternal perspective. don't for one moment imply this world is not inutterably wrong, no matter how we strive; if we all strove simultaneously.

a mechanics model says, therefore, there is an equal and opposite resistant force. physics models of the universe say there is a tendency toward chaos, disorder. everywhere i see a tendency toward complacency, apathy that angers me until i too become stilled, chilled.

this is where hope matters. what a fucking easy thing to say. it's darkest before dawn. god of the dark places. no; where the hell is he, come, please. let's not take the lazy path and assume god is the orchestrator of what is happening, to me, to my friends. this glossy christmas colored world owns you and you own it. isn't that what you read in the magazines? you have so many choices, and you're so lucky, let's cook an M&S advert dinner and watch a blockbuster film. you are the world.

we're all captivated by this pretty world. I'm trying to tell you that these past few days I've spent seen more of her, and she's a bitch. you won't believe me because one time she said she liked your belt, your hair looks nice like that, and it made you feel good. like a gullible school boy enchanted.

on somnus

usually i seek to feel more intensely, to attain heights, become more animate, stay up late, alert always, louder noise, technicolour. all i want tonight is removal, escape by suction into a vacuum. when i think about vacuum i think of the shrinking and pulling into a small space but in fact in a vacuum one would silently stretch so thin there was none of you and all of you.

life feels dull but i want it more so a sleep we can fall dead into a cold to freeze the blood in our veins a warmth to lull and dull us, something anything to soothe us so i no longer know that raw anger of wound laid bare to desert winds - salves she rubs on it scratch the sandstorm in. this is so wrong so wrong why do we go on.

debussy's my new opium, see how cultured i've become and i'm turning into my mother who in white floor length dressing gown guards the early morning hours of our home. no matter how much exercise i take my brain's still awake as the clock ticks on past twelve. this body complains and stream's of consciousness are bitter, soured. no aspiration to forgotten beauty content to sit in this worldly shit playing rhymes as they file in lines to the wall. their sacrifice my human right to affordable opiates, smother our nerves some more. cells line uterus walls and we rejoice when another is born into this captivity?

Letters

I'm not lazy. When people get famous, their letters always get published. I'm just skipping a stage, and conveniently telling you about life as I know it.


Letter to Adam Dixon, of 24th October

Have I failed you as a friend?
Is there any point in trying to make excuses for not getting back to you?
I was initially going to use the line "I was waiting til I could give a satisfactory answer'', but I think we both know that your message was just buried under a load of facebook crap, and I probably replied to many less worthwhile things. Sorry.
Anyway, moving on. Bath is much better than I expected in the month I moped at home. I am at home on a friday night, which is not usually a springboard for a positive letter-writing session, but I'm feeling nice. Because.. I don't think I'm staying. The more Chemistry I study, the more certain I am that I am going down the wrong path with this one. I'm not ready to specialise; I want to diversify. Really, truly, I want to write. But I'll need things that I know about, to write about, and I want those things to be politics, art, literature and history. I'll always like physics, but synthesis of compounds is not my thing.

I've been keeping myself afloat by rowing, and the visual arts society. Have gotten fitter than I've probably ever been, in just a month, and trying to get sketching skills back on track. Most of the late-night activities don't interest me that much.. But I've seen some good bands, and worn some good costumes. It's not that I've gone off drink, you know I like to party. Just in comparison to the big wide beautiful world it seems sort of a silly way to spend time and money.

Today I met a girl who is Bangalore born and bred. Reminded me that Alicia is heading back, and are you, too? It's strange that it's really not that far away. How do you reconcile the two worlds in your one head?

I have a third world, too. America. Do you remember how I wouldn't ever let people get away with calling all Americans idiots? That's because there's a few of them I'm incredibly fond of; a best friend and someone who's recently been given the title 'boyfriend'. I don't mean to imply he doesn't deserve the name, merely how taken-aback I am that someone should want that word, especially someone who really does know how pathetic I am. By December 18th I'll be over there for a visit.
The continent is also synaptically linked to the course-dissatisfaction in my head. If I moved there to study, this inter-disciplinary plan of mine, could actually happen, let alone be approved of.
I don't want to show my hand so much as to reveal how serious I am, but I think we should record an album together as soon as possible, so our fame will precede my travel.

Write back in depth, please.
Lizzy

Fresh from the Womb

click here for


pictoral representation of the more aesthetically pleasing moments of the last month

Lists

New Academic Year Resolutions:
Or, ways to get through an unwanted year of university


European Cities to visit
Stockholm

Prague

Venice

Bruges

Berlin

Hobbies, Activities or Societies to involve self in
French lessons

Volunteer at a museum or gallery

Rowing Club

Visual arts society

Learn to cook without frying with liberal amounts of ginger and lime juice

suggestions for new lists or pastimes gratefully recieved

Last Night

I dreamt there was a train I needed to catch. I was meeting Georgia on it, like when I travelled from Agra to Delhi, but this time, it was my Dad warning me how imperative it was I catch it; it was the last train of the night.



I left the platform to get chips, from a neon lit multiplex takeaway that seemed to be in a Northern English city, although it was the main shopping road in Bangalore. I used my card to pay but took it out of the machine too soon in my rush, and so fiddled with cash. The woman behind the till was kindly, fat and slow, with bleach blonde scraggly hair and a cratered moon face.

When I returned to the station, the train was there. Most of thee carriages were full, and there were big crowds coming off - so I waited. They dispersed and I shuffled around trying to identify my carriage from the outside. Then the porters were shouting and the train started to move but as I willed my legs to obey their call of "All aboard" they were glued to the floor. It accelerated and I removed my white trainers which are a bit too small and started to run. I thought I'd make it to a door but I couldn't keep up.

I met my Dad and Grandad later; they'd been watching from the waiting room unbeknownst to me. They said I'd missed it on purpose, that they'd seen me check my wristwatch as the train left, and were angry at my nonchalance.



(A tribute to Shaun Love, who always writes up his dreams)

This is reality, Greg (Bristol)

Having been home for a week and a day, I feel in a position to assess reality.
These days have mostly been spent in bed, where thinking is best done.
On the few occasions when I have stumbled blinking outside - or into other darkened artificial spaces, my path has crossed with that of former friends and acquaintances. I say former, not to suggest they are no longer but that I was doubtful of what we would have in common anymore, I don't know if they are of a former life, or real life...
Certainly other 'travellers' give me a dazed slightly mournful smile that I'm sure is mirrored on my face, implying some mutual understanding. Not just that we had a lovely holiday but now we are poor and we have to get jobs before we whisk our relenting selves to uni.. It's that we saw something. More than 'suffering is terrible and universal' or that 'we have it so lucky'.. You can see that on TV if you want to. Its hard to make this sound normal, but its that the places that we can see in pictures are real and you can walk there and eat that food and talk to those people. Because you can know the topography of Iraq from the maps of offensives, and how the famine in Eithopia was precipitaated by climate, or how Muslim women are treated in Saudi Arabia but how much are these just facts to you without ever being within those places.
Now before I come off all pretentious (oh, too late), that wasn't really what I was thinking about under the covers. It mostly cycled around; how am I going to get enough money to afford a laptop so I can play on the internet from bed, are there anymore crisps I can eat, why do I feel unhappy when this is home, why am I signing contracts for a year in university that I don't want to pursue further.
I got out of bed for 24 hours and in that time, got a trial shift in a french restaurant on Glos. Rd. (tonight - wish me luck)and went to our old Wednesday night hangout. I kneww this was a bad idea, guaranteed to compound my depression about all things souless and local. It's always been full of underagewannabeindie's but that didn't use to matter because that was me and everyone I knew. They're very sweet and charming, and I'm not entirely happy that age's over - I found a wrinkle under my eye before we went.
I wish I could say what's different now.. are we more discerning and less awkward or just pretending to be?



(Dedicated to Neni & Bacsi, inc)

Hottie (Agra & Delhi)

Back in the land of chai and thalis:

Two little girls arrived in Delhi around midnight to heat and fights on the street.

One little girl has gone to Agra, to see certain popular mausoleum, and talked into buying rugs. Finally found disposable camera, and have gone crazy. Feel my heart has gone so fast and my eyes been so wide open! I'd forgotten that I can manage in a city on my own. With Sri Lanka's laidback spirit and D&Gs good ideas, I had pretty much floated along these past two weeks.

Speaking of floating - on Monday 11th August I reached an unspeakable age, and those two darling people gave me a beautiful day. They woke me up singing and led me to a bath filled with fresh tropical flowers, overlooking the rainforest. Red and orange and white and purple and luscious green and sky blue (haha). Then a breakfast of pineapple and banana with curd and treacle. Curd is my favourite thing in Sri Lanka, and if you saw my surfer, you would know that's saying a lot. Its creamy and a little bit savoury and smells like babies.. in a good way. Drank fresh coconut water from champagne glasses.

Then there was this bundle of rags, which looked a lot like the hippy clothes Geo had been buying downbythe beach. And I thought Aw, she's giving some to me. Confession - the thought was probably a bit less nice than that. But no... Inside was a shimmering creature, or maybe I was a shimmering creature when I wore her. I'd seen a black dress/coat (debatable) in one of the beach second hand shops. Totally out of place, ridiculous and fantastic. Covered in sequins.. Knee length with sleeves to the elbow. I didn't try it on but I had a feeling. Went back the next evening and it had gone. Georgia and I discussed what terrible tortures we'd inflict when we saw the batch what bought it on the beach.. But long story short, that minx had gone and bought it, and sworn the shop owner to secrecy. I love her.

So now I'll stop these reminisces and get on a train and she'll be sitting there waiting and then in two days we'll be home though I don't know if and why that's a good idea.

Music

I left my generic mp3 player behind, thinking I would be more able to appreciate eastern beats if I wasn't plugged into songs that remind me of home. So for two months, I haven't picked what music I listened to. Such a strange feeling!
However... One of my dear treehousemates lent me his yesterday morning, and I sat for hours playing things I knew and things I didn't. This is something that made me happy. I can't embed it, because I'm a fool.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHNAFRg6jYA

Birthday cards to treehouse, jungle, sri lanka

If I havent written for a while.. it may be because I've turned into a lazy beach bum whose major exercise is walking around Galle Port shopping for vegetables in an old Dutch market.

Unexpected exercise (Kochin)

It became clear we needed to reach Kerala (the southernmost state in India) as quickly as possibly from Kodai Kanal, our hill station in Tamil Nada (bordering state), in order to fit in everything we want to do before that dreaded August 15th.
The four of us pored over train and bus timetables and thought about when to check out. We're trying, without much success, to do everything as cheaply as possible. Someone joking suggests, why don't we walk. And then after a practise trek of 5 hours to break in our hiking boots, we did. That first walk was wonderful, our guide told me everything I wanted to know about the flowers, helping me with a certain nerdy project going on in my journal, and the views were stunning. We took regular smoking breaks, never fear, and met the Indian version of Blazin' Squad (subsitute 'numerous-overdressed- irritating-loud-noise-making group of boys with attitudein their early twenties' if you haven't had the pleasure) on a jutting out piece of rock which would have otherwise been a tranquil meditation spot. Anyway, we realised that the guide was a very nice, funny man, and trustworthy, and that we were all physically capable - although me possibly not mentally capable as that first day I sat on a rock and whined about athsma attacks - of walking to Kerala, to Munnar in particular, over two days. So, we threw the Lonely Planet into the bottom of our lugagge and were content to follow one man along mountain tracks though misty cold 'natural' forest, skyscraper eucalyptus (artificial?) forest, across waterfalls, down sandy mountainside, up through small villages where we drank chai and played with schoolchildren with talc'ed faces, scrambling over boulders and past some of the craziest trees, and a tea plantation . Every ten minutes it seemed there was a new country surrounding us, the climate and vegetation and road surface changing.
We (myself, Georgia, our luggage carriers Shaun and Dan, Francis - a french man who joined us for kicks - and the guide Shaika) ate lunch on the ground on freshly cut banana leaf, the most appreciated food there's been lately.
Those two days I felt very at peace.
Until the leeches that we had given homes to when we swam in the waterfall started to swell to visible size and had to be pulled or salted off, which produced much blood and hysteria. Georgia and I managed to escape, in fact but at the time this worried us even more, thinking they must be in more hidden places than arms and legs.
That's enough for now, tomorrow we taxi to Aleppi to get a house boat for 48 hours, to punt through the backwaters and read the 15 books bought today - in the Jewish District of Kochin where as Shaun put it (and probably would prefer I didn't repeat) the shopkeepers have the wilyness of a Jew and the stubbornness of an Indian.

Today was a good day (Kodai Kanal)

Whilst you haven't really heard about the unexpected pain of leaving Bangalore (and Jai), nor the strange mix of comfort and excitement of finding Georgia and Dan just walking along Rue de Gouberd in Pondicherry, the wonderful if unlikely commune we visited one day, an internation commune for human unity that focuses on serving a divine entity and the funeral procession that passed us just as my moped ran out of petrol in the middle of nowhere, no, not even the government bus that took us away from Dolce & Gabanna (renamed by Shaun's memory), through a few horribly hot and tired hours in Madurai - that I couldnt enjoy because of Kodai anticipation and sleep deprivation.. I think we're here now and I ought to talk about it instead.
Wound and tottered up the mountain as fog closed around us and light home rain spattered on the window. The temperature was so natural that we wouldn't have commented on it, had the last few weeks not pulled so much hydration from our bodies that we had to walk in the shade and buy litre upon litre of water hourly.
And its beautiful and tropical and homelike all at once. Staying in a stone and cement one-floor building with darkgreen painted wooden front door, window frames and pillars, and there are white cloudlike flowers and purply red and green leaves surrounding the terrace. Woke up this morning -freezingcold- and peeked out the window by the bed to see mist hovering shadowing the mountains curves, ground falling away metres in front of me, just past Shaun writing his journal in the faint sunshine - which does incidentally make you feel a lot warmer.
Ate omelette and toast in those same weak rays and thought about what to do. I was having shoe issues.. I am not usually some one who doesn't have enough shoes, but it seems the various cute things I brought will not cut it on the hike we'd like to do. So walked along Cloaker's Walk which is paved and thought about buying patterned jumpers and shotguns that lined the left hand side, and then remembered what was on the right.. more of these stunning views, now dotted with towns and as puffs of cloud cleared, some taller peaks. Just been to buy some brilliant trekking boots, which I have justified to my sensibilities by also getting some peacock coloured earrings, for which I repierced my ears on the side of the road while a cow watched.
Using dial-up internet in the tourism office to communicate with you now. Its half twelve and hungry again so off to buy some sandwiches for a picnic by the lake with bicycles. My companion is wearing shorts and teeshirt and I don't think he will survive the trip. Nevermind.

Pottering around (Pondicherry)

Going to the beach, reading books aloud, riding mopeds along franco-indian streets, eating croissants, lying under ceiling fans in a beachhouse suite of columns, lounges and curtains, lying under ceiling fans four to a messy dark room, buying shirts and sunglasses, trying on jewelery, smoking beedies, drinking chai poured from jug to cup to jug to cup in smooth arcs to cool it down, sweating, running away from beggars, washing clothes on the bathroom floor, looking for Bastille day celebrations and finding a film set. And being photographed by locals whilst doing all the above.

Anticipation

has a habit to set you up?



As of tonight, Bangalore is no longer home. Six of us head to Pondicherry to meet darling G and her entourage. Some of my posse will go back home and back to work, but as for me - I am free! Pondi is a former French colony on the east coast and apparently looks a bit like this. Expecting to meditate at the ashram, swim in the sea and then have fresh fish and wine in a shady courtyard.






Celebrated last night here regardless of dehabilitating illness, with a rooftop party at a friend's house. Shaun and Adam - British boys volunteering with i-to-i as well, worked at a music magazine called Rave, and a lot of the staff were there, so the DJing was taken very very seriously. I brought along this unbelievable man I have met. We (myself, Adam and Nerrel) decided in the rickshaw home that he is probably married with children, because he seems far too perfect. I promise to write up the expose asap.

Infection

I have a lung infection and I'm quite sure I'm going to die any minute soon, so I wanted to at least write a blog about it.
My doctor is a bit suspicious, as she has prescribed syrup which local kids use to get high, and is full of food coloring. Slightly annoyed because I'm fevery anyway and the syrup makes me talk about rubbish and sleep all the time. Oh no, wait..

They called it escaping - and maybe they were right.

And I'm going to talk about myself but all I have thought about for the last few days is other people. I suppose that in a way, all of us who go travelling alone are looking to temporarily get out of relationships that add complications to life. No matter how similar and agreeable your friends are, you have to compromise on plans and wont get to do all you want to. There's also something very very cool about the independance you feel navigating new cities all alone. It's not all about isolation, but also having friendships that don't put many demands on you. You meet people just for a day or a week, and you each have your own reasons for being there. It's only a shared experience if you think it will enhance things. There's really no commitment to somebody that you meet in a Budapest hostel one day- unless you want to follow them up. If you decide that you'd rather not hang out with somebody, then its fine, who says that you should. Living in the Big Brother house (locally known as Katary Villa) has created intense creative and inspiring relationships very quickly, for all of us. There's a very talented bunch of people here- a lot of music, writing and relating. But I was talking to a friend of mine t'other night, who came alone for similar reasons and we realised that there's no way to escape the emotions and occasional tangly mess that come with being around people. And that we probably wouldn't want to because it makes us feel alive. I am not a sight-seeing orphan-feeding machine, I am a person. And I hope that's okay with you.

Hampi, or the best weekend of my life thus far

After a week of work and parties we decided to chill out in Hampi at the weekend. Unfortunately it turned itself into an adventure holiday.
Hampi is about 7 hours north of Bangalore, and is the former capital of south India, when it was a Hindu empire, 14th to 16th Centuries.. Technically, it's a wreck of a town, nothing compared to what it once was, broken idols and empty market places.
What they call imagination rocks litter the landscape in a way that's beautiful and surreal. We arrived at 6AM on Saturday morning by coach. I was grumpy from all kinds of deprivation and ready to chop off Bobby's legs for taking up too much room. The six of us on the trip to briefly introduce, were all i-to-i volunteers; Shawn, Bobby and Nerell from my house, plus Libby and Nabeela. Immediately set upon by rickshaw drivers when we got off the coach, we were driven the half-mile we could easily have walked and pressured into looking at a half-dozen hostels. I lost the will to live, or at least to care about which hostel we picked.. the others did a pretty good job. We ate breakfast (pineapple porridge and chai for me) with a plan of going back to bed but then got energised by reading out our ridiculous horoscopes for the day.

Since I arrived in India it has been a group joke how much I want to ride a moped, and believed that I could despite bad roads and no license. So, seeing as they were available to rent, we did that biz. The city of Hampi is down in a valley with 7 mountains around it - a lot like Rome as our tourguide repeatedly pointed out.

We rented 2 bikes and a rickshaw and a guide, and drove between the ruined temples and statues. At a good few of the places we stopped, whilst we were having elephant heads explained to us, family groups (Indian) asked to take our photo with them, and with their children. After a while we realised we could only take so many variations on a theme under the hot sun, and whilst we sung a lot of the Beatles to keep us going, it was definately time to break for lunch.



So we hopped to the Mango Tree. Which is a total home for hippies, like the desert island house everyone wants to live in, with a view over the meadow with a river and grazing beasts, more of those huge rocks and women washing their colourful saris in the water and little boys swimming. We ate a lot of fantastic food and nearly fell asleep. It's an idyllic place to eat, and pretty good for checking out hot fellow-travellers too.

After lunch Shawn and I swam in the river right next to a huge rock that was inscribed swimming is danger, with a skull&crossbones - I include this incase you haven't picked up I'm trying to sound hardcore. The little boys were delighted when we got in the water, and sat on our shoulders and waved for the camera. The current was very strong and there were nice little rapids to get pulled through the rocks by.


We sat around at the hostel for a little while, admiring the monkeys that were scuttling around us.Then we hired another moped and five of us went out for a scrambly ride.

Then the sky started to get just a few shades darker on the right and we were enjoying the cooler breeze, but it started to spit and then started to pour.. So we turned back and rode faster through the rain, clothes soaked through and sticking to us, eyes full of water.
Back in the village we ran through the rain back to the hostel, water pouring out of chutes and off of buildings like a water ride in a theme park.
The power promptly went off and we sat out on the porch with a Dutch couple, admiring the rain and darkness. Once it eased off, the power remained out but we managed to eat by candlelight in that same restaurant as breakfast, listening to cat power, as the computer managed to work anyway.

Sunday morning we woke up at 5 to catch the sunrise which we'd heard is fantastic. Climbed a mountain, and saw the sun peek over it, resting on the jagged top like a marble about to do a run. Bobby recited some poetry for us up there and we poked at bugs and it was generally a nice experience. Headed for breakfast and asked a man in the restaurant to join us, who was spending a lot of time in India, and is/was an artist from Australia. Then we took a powerboat across the river for ten rupees and a rickshaw to a mountain. Climbed 600 white steps, some of us more quickly than others, to a temple. It was sparkling white in the hard sunshine, and there were monkeys running along the walls, and opening my bag, and a view for miles over people working, as tiny and busy as ants are, and little lorries and fields. Oh and many more imagination rocks, but it was very green and lush. I had a peek inside the temple, and there was the ultimate guru looking man sitting skinny limbs folded up on a mattress, hair and beard just how you'd imagine, and a sleek mobile up to his right ear. I like to think he was counseling some businessman in the States. I sat out on the rocks for what must have been a few hours just looking and thinking and praying and subtly sending out threatening signals to the monkeys. They're pretty much the Indian version of Bristol's seagulls that snatch your food, or just parade around looking menacing. Eventually the rickshaw drivers got fed up of waiting -even though we hadn't asked them to- so we had to leave. On the drive back down to the river, two guys hop in next to the driver and start chatting to me and the boys. End up getting offered ganj wrapped in newspaper - the same way prescription pills come, as it happens.
Spent a lazy few hours in the Mango Tree again, just gorging ourselves on the food and the view. Then wandered around the market streets, and bought an anklet and had henna done, by the same woman who also makes and mends clothes in that shop. It starts to get scary when you think about how multi talented you'd have to be to survive financially. Walked around using only my right hand for the rest of the day, I was so desperate for the henna to stain well.
At the railway station in Hospet, a nearby town, we were more stared at and begged at in half and hour than we'd been all weekend. Myself, Shawn and Nabs bought yellow spicy rice from a moving stall, reasoning that as it felt warm it was okay. Ate it Indian stylee (with just your right hand). I like to think I'm getting pretty good at that now, but you know it still doesn't excuse how silly that was... As my orphanage women told me with amusement and horror a few days later, after recovery, "even we don't eat at the train station!".
The train was something else. Well, perhaps not something else if you spent your life in an asylum from Girl, Interrupted. But it was all exposed metal and blue rubber beds and smelt like piss and unwashed people.. Also we had to fight for the seats we'd reserved and even then there were strangers sleeping directly below us, snoring like crazy, and I slept with my head on my rucksack and my arm wrapped around my bag, terrified someone would take them or touch me.

international facebook

I'll rewrite this, but for die-hard fans

weell we arrived in Hampi at 6AM after sleeping nothing on the coach, and then i pressured everyone into hiring mopeds for the day, and we drove ourselves round the mountains looking at temples.

4:09pmLuke

I don't know how stable this internet connection is by the way, if it cuts out...

woow

that sounds surreally amazing

how was it.

? I meant.

4:11pmLizzy

with a guide telling us things. but he was a bit restrictive and we sort of just wanted to play so we hired a third one, and i took a girl on my back and two others came out to drive around in the afternoon and it started raining and then it was an absolute monsoon and rode really fast getting soaked on these bumpy windy roads.

oh gosh and i forgot to say that for lunch time we went to this place that looks out onto a meadow with grazing buffallo and a river and big rocks* and then shawn & i jumped in the river and little kids came and played with us

4:12pmLuke

wow

that sounds like a fairy tale

4:12pmLizzy

AND after we came back from the wet riding there was a power cut so we sat out on our porch smoking and looking at the rain.

and also on our porch there are monkeys!

overload, sorry

4:14pmLuke

oh my word!

not at all, I can fall asleep in a moment thinking of smoking and monkeys and mopeds and rain and you etc.

that really is incredible.

*The type that pile up ontop of eachother improbably

Man who live in glass house should change clothes in basement.

That was a billboard advertising some sort of house building, but no I don't know if it was a glass house or a better solution to the changing clothes dilemma.
But it reminds me of two important things to tell you about, houses and clothes.

On Sunday I met everyone to do with the project, and moved into Katary Villa, which is across the other side of town. There's me and four boys staying there, two of whom were new as well.
Anyone who I spoke to will know how much I was dreading the other people! But it's been better than I dared hope for. Our three rooms are on the upstairs floor of this house, and join onto a communal space with dining table and all that, I believe there is a TV but I haven't watched it.
We can also hang out the roof, which is flat with two levels. Its a wonderful place to watch the sun go down, have a poetry recitation or talk and talk. Sometimes somebody has a bit of a revelation moment "Oh my God, I'm in India..Awesome" And I try not to giggle. I'm getting those moments too but it tends to be more whilst speeding around in a rickshaw, which is my favourite activity. It slightly helps that people are looking in at you, and little children wave. I likes that.
That night (Sunday) the 'older' housemates - well, actually I am the youngest - took us out to a bar called take 5 . It was here we learnt that dancing is illegal. Still trying to figure out how exactly this translates into life. Because we were offered dancing lessons, and the kids at school dance. But apparently if you stand up in a bar, you are asked to sit down again. ALSO, we heard there are places you can go where the police are paid off and don't come. But the funny thing is everything shuts at 11.30 so we will need to avail of the roof space either way.
As I am writing this it seems more and more like a joke the big kids have played on us.. So I will go home soon to find out.
Re:Clothes. I was slightly fuming yesterday after being told that my teeshirt was too low cut to be appropriate. And then when the person who told me also told everyone else on the project to remind me. I haven't fully collected my thoughts on this, but I'll try.
I know that there are different standards here of how to dress, and I wouldn't dream of showing cleavage. Furthermore I recognise that by being one of a minority here I am responsible like it or not for the way they will think about people from my country/ of my colour.
So this is why from now on, I will wear what they would prefer, at least to work.
I guess the confusion in my mind is I genuinely felt I had chosen a demure option, and so to be treated as though I was trying to sneak in a bit of sex appeal seemed quite ridiculous and I was little upset.
In general also, I don't like the idea of controlling my appearance to fit people's stereotypes. I mean, if somebody thinks that having a tattoo equates to being a lower social class, and having loose morals, and that because of this they wouldn't take the time to get to know me anyway, well, I don't think I want to have that person in my life.
So similarly, if showing my collarbones makes me a slut, and because of that somebody would rather not spend time with me, I have a hard time getting over my dislike of their prejudice about it.
Of course they're also using the reasoning about male attention, and saying it's for my own good and safety to dress as covered up as possible. Oh gosh, I don't know where to begin with that one. If it's truly about my personal well-being, I would still prefer to have the freedom to make this decision, because I know that a comment or even someone touching me does not bother me too much. If it did, I would have never gone clubbing in England, or worked in a bar, or gone to a party!

19/ 06
Oh I need to cut this short and not even consider the male populations potential opinions, and tell you that I went illegally dancing! And there nobody was wearing as much clothes as me :P It was a brilliant semi-famous DJ and we danced til we were liquid and until it turned 11.30. But then there was an afterparty with a local girl dressed like Amy Winehouse and a beautiful penthouse apartment. At this point I realise I have not said anything about the orphanage, which works as a total day/night contrast with this, but I need to do it justice so will wait til Monday.

And finally, we go to Hampi for the weekend, 6 of us volunteerers. I expect to get blessed by an elephant and climbed on by monkeys. And roll into people in my bed on the night bus. yesss.

X

Bangalore, baby.

Oh gosh, am I here?
I keep napping in the hope that when I wake up it may have sunk in a little further. During these naps, the mosquitoes at least have sunk in, regardless of the fact that I embalmed myself in spray and roll-on and wrapped up in my net like a mummy. They have found my ankle - which was already swollen from a fall on a wet doorstep in Cluj - and my left arm.

So I arrived 6AM local time Saturday morning. Located my assigned taxi driver, although many other people offered to take me home, or at least somewhere. I don't know that I can describe the scenery, but I'll try. Its a two-week old airport, built just for me, in the middle of flat flat land. The soil is reddy orange but there were lots of bushes and grasses and people standing by the road and trees which tops are flattened, with orange blossoms. Then the palm trees begun, and they are shockingly slim and tall compared to the rubble at their feet. As we got into the city, the roads filled with yellow rickshaws, turquoise trucks painted with faces and symbols and letters. Also, a million scooters, mostly silver. I was safely in a taxi what was a car, white.

Arrived at Casa Bella, and the taxi driver tried his best to overcharge me, but the landlord was having none of it. My room is a little white palace, a twin room with ensuite. The air is darker, if not cooler, and the floor is shiny. I accessorised for bed with earplugs and eye mask - thank you mummy and daddy for insisting, you were right. Slept until four in the afternoon.
To wash - do you want such personal details? - I knelt on the floor of the bathroom and poured jugs of water over myself. It felt quite picturesque, and also virtuous because it takes only about two or three liters to do it this way. I have my easy dry towel, which looks like blue felt, feels like blue felt and smells like pee. However it does dry up everything.
I went out for a walk, because British Airways recommended that this would make me feel better. Actually I was very tempted to stay inside the gate at Casa Bella, and just peek over the wall at the people filling up buckets, but then I thought, it's best to get it over with. The first scary walk alone, I mean. Well, it was not so scary, although it was as they say an assault on the senses. There are shops all down the road, bike maintenance and groceries and all sorts. All of these have at least 6 people standing outside, some doing something work-like, others just hanging out. There were lots and lots of children, and one group spoke to me, just saying hi, how are you, and showing me the bike they had. There were cows tied up by the pavement (sidewalk, american lovelies) , and the pavement goes from a half metre above road height to nothing. And it's right dusty of course, and the smells are wonderful and terrible. I walked past a place where they grind spices, and there are people selling melons, papaya and jackfruit by the side of the road. So this is sweet and rich and exotic, and contrasting with the smell of sewage running down the road, animals, and rotting food on the street, covered in flies.
I went to bed again - and when I woke up my landlord was very helpful in myriad ways. First, he lent me 1000Re. to survive on until I could change money, and when I mentioned I'd like to get a SIM to use here, he drove me in to town.
Ohh!!! It was incredible. And you know, I don't use exclaimation marks very often. But it was dark by this time, and I've never been on a scooter before. Let alone helmet-less and on Indian streets by night. All the shops, the groundfloors of bigger buildings were lit up, and there were people walking everywhere. Even more people were on scooters to, and it was so fun to laugh and smile at all the children looking at me (I always knew I was worth staring at). There was this balmy air like a florida night, and so much beeping it could be new york. There were people 's carrying all sorts on their shoulders, ladders and bundles and bowls. And obviously, there's no ridiculous right-hand only overtake system, so you can weave to your hearts content. I felt so alive.
Later that evening I ate dinner with the landlord and his wife. Vegetables called drumsticks that tasted a little like pickle, which you have to suck out the insides of, fried slices of sweet potato, and tuna and beef. And then, several types of mango. So good and so spicy and flavorsome. Oh and also I tried some of the red wine that the wife makes herself. She said it was very sour, but it was very sugary and fruity, more so than Hungarian wines, and I tried to explain that compared to English wine, this is very sweet, but she was most content when I conceded it did have a sour aftertaste.

And today is Sunday and I've been to commercial street in a rickshaw. That was bare jokes, and I know I was overcharged and he didn't take me right to where I wanted, but nevermind. I spent half an hour walking down a street looking for the number, only to find that there was no #96 because this was not the correct street. Showed several people the business card of where I was looking for. A little boy about the height of a ten year old asked me for money or food, calling me Ma'am, and it well sounded like he was saying Lizzy. I didn't have any food, but I was hungry too after no breakfast so I bought us some sweetcorn with butter and salt mixed in.

Attempting to get the rickshaw back I was harrassed (this is sarcasm) into checking out a handicrafts shop. It was actually very lovely, and air-conditioned -yess- and I bought a silver bracelet. I was so so tempted by the star rubies.

I know from reading the jewellery book in the Guild that they are as special as the salesman said they are, and they are so beautiful, that whitish star is from the light refraction. Anyway, maybe another day another dollar.

Tonight I meet my 'co-ordinator' and everyone else who's here to teach. I'd much rather hide in my room.

Today I leave England again, for India.
(This post is not live, mother)

Schedule: Four weeks in Bangalore, teaching English at a care centre for abandoned children under 12 years old. I am staying in a guest house where you can of course call when you miss me.. However, as it has a television and ceiling fans, I may be too busy to come to the phone ;)

1220 ist Main, 4th Cross,	Tel	++91 (0) 80 2528 6992
HAL III Stage,
Bangalore
India 560 075

And afterwards, one of my most favourite girls in the whole is coming down from Delhi to whisk me away to Sri Lanka for a week (our house, below). Then I believe the plan is to avoid the monsoon across the south and west areas, heading into the mountains north of Delhi.

Bristol

I'm here and it's gert lush. Just how I left it.

Walked down Gloucester Rd in the sunshine and people were speaking English and pushing prams and not recognising me. Not that I knew them.. It's just I felt they ought to.

Now I'm off to the old hangout for mohijitos and parsnip crisps. Yessss.

Lately

Words are not enough, plus I havent given an update for so long that you have probably given up hope. I have been..

Hanging out with these attractive persons.
Like in this unattractive photo.




And attempting to go to this - TIFF. I have managed to see one film called Losers, which starred puppets. We were confused by the translation which talked about fried chicken - was this some turn of phrase with unknown implications?
No, the narrator was a fried chicken.

An impersonal essay

To my muse:

1.
The backbones of their chromosomes disalign, unwind like spines of tired lovers will.
The haploid cell has 32 instead of 64; if they were not each half the recipe, the number of chromosomes would exponentially increase through successive generations, a big ancestral burden.
Prophase Anaphase Metaphase Telophase
Excepting Oedipal complexes, a child's love for a parent is based on drilling, repetition of the supply and demand, habituation establishing neural pathways thus it cannot help but comply, with the conception that its parent is divine, demi-god.
Old age, young rage
Deity offers protection and redemption. A child carries forward their legacy: looks and personality. Do I verge upon cliche? Perhaps because what is written has already been thought - every child's now taught and caught - Intuition is encoded in your DNA.

2.
A four-step guide to achieving emotional intimacy

The evolutionary benefits of this state are clear. It is the foundation of social cohesion and life that precipitates reproduction.
We shall begin with romantic attachments, our generation's obsessional ideal.
The selection process for a partner is largely a chemical affair calculated to preserve genetic variation and thus improved well-being of future generations. The human parfum is, if not individual, at least sufficiently variegated, the pheromones emitted based on genetic coding. Receptors and neurological processes are 'programmed' - no, forgive the intelligent design -speak - have developed to recognise as most attractive the most different chemical cocktail.
First, anecdotes on the subject: One wonders if the prevalent use of aftershave and eau de toilettes suppresses these instincts, containing aphrodisiacs - molecules with no imprint of the genetic character of the wearer - which confuse the brain's sensible system, a new form of witchcraft.
Research has shown that women on the pill have dulled receptors, and this results in falling shockingly out of 'love' when she ceases to be medicated,and recognises the turn-off hormones of her mate.

On the subject of emotional intimacy we must first make an assumption (because discussions are no fun without assumptions). Say that our sould is a projection, a hologram created by the established thought patterns of our brains, the systems of electrical pathways - neurological processes.
In this case, when people find themselves 'on the same wavelength', is it that these patterns and thought associations are similar. And is this mesh a result of the conditioning of their childhood; links forged between right and wrong, truth with ideology, freedom versus captivity. Or does the structure of the brain owe a larger debt to DNA, carrying forward a legacy of ancestral personality?

i. For persons to become emotionally intimate they must first betray some secrets of their structure, through honesty, intended or accidental; values and ideals (if when these things aren't 'real').

ii. I theorize the next step is - disregarding the idea of empathy - a pleasing similarity in thought pattern. All humans long to inhabit the mind of another if only for a minute, and when they encounter one who processes the same way that they do, they feel as though they have.

iii. An appropriate next step is a shared experience, preferrably one which engineers a mutual trust and feeling of togetherness. This could be the fight for women's rights (in the nineteenth century especially), hunting together to support their families, or feeling like its us and them against the world of toxic politics and apathy.

iv. By this stage the humans will have become convinced of this elusive illusion of understanding one and other, and as their grey matter establishes these habits, so they establish these habits - sharing confidences and worries and finding a form of validation in their easy reception by the other.

Within writing i recalled what intimacy is not, however hard we might have tried:

Name checked the same things on our facebook pages
Went on some dates
Made love made haste through what we knew to be appropriate stages
I'd've liked to fall in love with your handwriting, liked to fall in love with the way you sing
But you only sang with the Smiths while you were driving me home, as if in anticipation of being alone
Wrote the Valentine in pencil, pretty transitory,
much like the placement of our pen and ink story.
If we agreed on the film we watched it was all well and good, and when I didn't get your music, well who said that I should.
Awoke from shared dreams with some stifled screams, rejected raised levels of feigned intimacy.

3.
The shadow milky moonlight threw was longer leaner still than her sleek silhouette. He told her as she stretched of the papers he had read. Understood the world, had seen what it held,
Cat's best plan is to experience all he can.
Said he was a cynic and he'd tell her in a minute why this was the only conclusion for one without delusion.
She surveyed as the cosseted cat was scooped up my puffed up palms; strolled further along the fence to view through yellowed lace the Kitten.
Obliging enough to refer to him as this, still she smirked as his dried-out tongue lapped up the cream poured from a labeled jar:

Miss and the Kitten stood in the kitchen eating their curds and whey.
Miss crushed too many pills and told of all her ills to the silent cynic at her knee.
They laid down together, the two of them so clever.
He dreamt of birds, and she of their feathers on a mask she wore once in a marquee

Of the bitter moment

It's partly that I'm bored of the retrospective blogging, and partly that I don't have any photos of what I've been doing.. and I know my writing alone cannot sustain you!
There's soft music playing from outside my window, and I feel like living in the moment. But I don't feel smooth and warm I feel prickly, so I'll plug in headphones and listen to what scratches the itch.
I'll tell you how I feel now not what I felt last Saturday.
Today I saw a picture. Now if a pen is mightier than a sword, what is a machine gun compared to my keyboard?

Well we're all so fucking nice and I wouldn't think twice about kissing her either.
Erasing the evidence
Trusting that providence
Must have some influence
Must be meant to meant to be
Kissed us in that mirror too but if he says with her its all Brand New, I believe it.
And when her arms wrap his waist it's not six just two
I taught him to smoke Wendy taught him to roll perhaps she can pump nicotine straight to his soul
But we were all so fucking nice
It's not such a vice to slam doors pick fights book flights
I hope you use the same sweet lines and I hope you know, by me it's fine.

One day

23/05

Tranzit House Missing Since 1944 Exhibit

Remember that this art house used to be a synagogue?
Piled up on a table were photos of Cluj Jews who were deported in WWII and didn't return. Moreover, these photos have not been named, so there is no record of who they are.
I was unexpectedly interviewed while I was holding this picture. I felt like such a fool because looking at these photos, most of which were family portraits, you did not see the victim in them. You were attracted to them, they could be your family.
I was thinking he was rather handsome. It made me really happy to be looking at the pictures, feeling in my gut that I knew these people.


So when they asked me what I saw, you know, I became the least articulate person ever, well aware of how insensitive (or just insightful) it might sound to say 'ordinary people'. But I did.
Three older people spoke about the exhibition. I was impressed by how they didn't feel first the need to praise everything the exhibition stood for and attempted. Now, I want to tell you they had spent time at Auschwitz, but without pulling your heart-strings - which is why I'm putting it in this long sentence, because this is how they told us. No pride or fuss.
It was too late for them to remember, they said, and that even if names were reconciled to their owners, their stories would not be. They said it was too late! And seemed annoyed, albeit in a patient way, knowing that this attempt should have been made twenty years ago, when memories were more fresh, survivors more prevalent.
Drawing our attention to the images they remarked too on how well they seemed. No fore-shadowing of the future in their faces. However, the speakers did not use this to bring a sense of impending doom - more that we must look and see how in a life yes, igen again the dark fruit ripening, but also a persistence of good.

Uncle Vanya

Wasted lives in a country house, going manic with the frustration (in this production), desperate for a satisfying fascination.
When I read the text they seemed so desolate and moping, and whilst it was poignant it didn't the finger at the way I live in such a way - my distractions - thinking one is in love, or working, when only repeating and regurgitating.
I must tell you, I never thought I'd see this play! Since I arrived everyone has been talking about it. If you went to the ticket office and asked for literally any day in the future, the woman would still just laugh. It's appealing not just because of the plot, but because of the way they use the space of the theatre. This one is designed in a common European style to strictly dividing the truth portrayed on stage from the audience, who are in turn divided into those who pay more and less for their seats. In this production, in the first act you are led to sit on the stage, facing the auditorium. The seats aren't assigned - if you get there early you may have your pick. The actors sit in the stands watching you arrange yourselves, feeling so uncomfortable and obvious in the bright lights, as they look like a placid audience waiting for entertainment. The first act is in this set-up. They move through the rows, dance in the aisle, and walk on the tops of the seats and along the balcony's banister.

Aux Anges afterwards (with those students who have finally arrived, and are not at all a disappointment, thank goodness!) - it's very laid-back noisy bar with caricature angelic and demonic figures on transparent plastic over the ceiling. Talked so intensely with Melissa about denominations and abortion and Obama* that we may have scared the others. I love it when you meet somebody that you can jump straight into this with, though.

*I just taught the spell-check 'Obama'

And if I tell you that this all happened within about 4 hours, and that this is what most of my days have been like, may you can empathize with some strange feelings I have of indigestion. Although its not so unpleasant!

Snapshotz

Garibaldi híd
Dancing on the bridge at 11 at night. Clap-Clap Stamp.

White Night
The museums open for free until one in the morning, one night every month. So we dress up, run around. Its anarchy - children hugging statues, people shouting on their mobiles and even taking flash photographs(!). Onto The Avenue for a bottle of whiskey and to dance on their tables. Our accompanying gentlemen got us into trouble by taking their tops off. I'd like to think this is because they were so moved by the bronze age weaponry.

Mert en Visky vagyok?
My Hungarian has developed as far as for me to construct sentences with some meaning. Life is beautiful. I am well, because I don't need money. I think that my little brother is bad.

When I'm cleaning windows
At 11 again, it seems all the best things happen then. The school was having an inspection so myself and Saci Néni (you can call all older women Auntie) scrubbed a lot. Also, some of the windows were broken so you know, we put new ones in. I am a bit sad to be moving out of their house, but Dorí has promised to put braids in my hair, and I know that Bensza needs my help with his math homework. Howsoever the much-awaited NIU students arrive today/tomorrow, a further distraction from painting the apartment

;)

A sentance

"However, I most probably said, Auschwitz did - that is does - exist, and therefore there is also an explanation for it; what there is no explanation for is that there was no Auschwitz, that is to say it would be more impossible to hit upon an explanation for Auschwitz not coming into being, for the state of the world being such as not to be reified in the fact that we call 'Auschwitz'; yes there would be no explanation for an absence of Auschwitz, from which it follows that Auschwitz has been hanging around in the air from long ago, who knows, perhaps for centuries. , like dark fruit ripening in the sparkling rays of innumerable disgraces, waiting for the time when it may at last drop on mankind's head, for in the end what is is and the fact that it is is necessary because it is..." From 'Kaddish for an unborn child', Imre Kertesz.

The sentence doesn't end there but I'm trying to show this style which I have never seen before, and feels to me like the way I think, the way of thought, a turmoil of reasoning but with an overall progression, or at least so we feel; because after all the progression too is in our mind.

I keep thinking about this mind, would you like to see inside mine? The room I show is the reception, disguised as an office, with high vaulted ceilings, painted a dull green;my paintings on the wall, and books I love in shelves and piles on an old writing desk. Maybe though, you'd notice the floor. You might not comment, thinking it's an interior design trend you will too follow. Textured like an aero bar, and the same colour. Smaller holes like bubbles, and the earth has in places crumbled further into man-sized tunnels, covered up for your safety and mine with planks of wood and sheepskin rugs.

Other people's poetry
knows me better than I do.
I am rather careful not to fall down that rabbit hole.
I will follow
boys
books
I know I will find in those depths of my mind
Not escaping my brain, to some higher plane
Only more self.
Mephistopheles strokes my hair.
Myself Mephisto lulling myself back to sleep.
I dig my largest toe deep into the mattress,
arching my foot and rubbing slowly but insistently.
I point my tongue at my smooth sensitive gum, rubbing slowly but insistently.
As I think I'm waking up, I'm just touching myself.

*

On another note, more pleasant and familiar, today a much-anticipated package from one I love arrived in the post. It was stamped, 'small package' and it reminded me of this photo.

So 'til Sunday I'm staying with Anna. This is bad for blogging but good for learning by immersion. Some phrases to learn in my virtual absence:

Hungarian Phonetic English (I expect you know these three)

Szia Seeya Hello/Goodbye

Köszönöm Kersenem Thankyou

Ez szép ez sape It's beautiful

Mért széretlek Mairt sairetleck Because I love you

Tudom too-dom I know

This is the only conversation that I have. And if you believe that, reexamine the last post.

X

The problem is

..it's not just about nice buildings anymore.
And how do I know if the people who are my life and experiences will mind casting their shadows onto this cave wall where I paints.

The other weekend I went to a conference. It was about the internet. It could have been so terribly clichéd, a Christian, youth conference. It really wasn't, and it made me introspect, to the point of navel-gazing. As to why I use the internet. Being here its easy to claim I'm just keeping in touch, but when there are people around me, why do I insist on talking to those i 'escaped'. The internet was not demonised, we were told all about how it works.. Like a university lecture though I confess I've never attended such a thing. I knew the facts already, but it was good to remember, that anything on the internet is there because somebody communicated it, posted it. Its a little mirror of humanity. Porn, bomb-how-to's, suicide pacts, ana websites. It was/is all there within us.
So, refreshing. Also the way in which, you could pick up the God references at your leisure, nowhere was it said 'build a christian firewall'. Also challenging: how much do we use the internet as a concealment of identity. The security of anonymity. But then, how much do we use (insert your social networking site here) to project a particular aspect of our identity. I know I do, or even to try on a new identity.
The sermon pulled on this thread. The preacher wore a t-shirt saying 'good guy'. The verse was from numbers, about cities of refuge for man-slaughterers. He started by saying 'Friends, we are not killers.' I whispered back to my translator, "yet".

I made friends with two guys who were also listening to my whispering translator. One Romanian - who spoke no Hungarian, which the conference was in - and one from Saudi Arabia, who's at university here in Cluj. We had no small group to go to, so formed our own club of card-playing and henna-painting. Now readers, this is where my honesty is challenged. Shall I tell you only of the laughs we had, the coffee's we drank, or shall I confess that I was frustrated by their lack of emotional or intellectual response to the lectures? Here were the two men who could understand my fast, metaphor-loaded English, but I couldn't open up to them half as much as those who I knew would respond in a mixture of slow English and German. I'd like to blame them, but in this introspective spirit maybe my probing fingers will discover that I prefer to talk to people who don't fully understand me so I can pretend I have an untapped message, that if they don't agree or respond appropriately its because they have failed to comprehend the gravity of what I say.
Speaking of gravity, my dear friend Anna gave a testimony one night. Not the sweet testimony suitable for a Cairns Rd baptism, but a brutally honest, here are my sins and I still struggle, God help me, testimony.
Since coming home, she and I have met up a few times with these boys, and its been cute. The first time, we were summoned to meet, and were taken to a café near my house, then into Central Park, where we ate candy floss, went on the trampolines, the bumper cars, swings and slides and just messed around. I felt like I was watching us, four kids on some double-date. We wandered up to that hill with my cross, as it got dark. The local boy showed me where the town walls were first, and second. The church spires, the neighborhood that was built under communism. The lights lit it up like a multicoloured map, a postcard of this city where I live now. I know those sights by day, at night they project themselves up into the sky. We went to a field behind the hotel on the hill. We looked at the stars. The sky was clear and the trees framed little plough. We played wistful songs and danced. But I don't know, maybe I missed you, I felt something lacked. We ate ice cream in a café near the cross. I had tiramisu, but I don't know that I like that café because when I went up there to pray, it was playing some recognisable dance tune, and it was all wrong for an easter sunday morning.

I'm sorry if this writing seems mournful or slow to make any point. I guess you could blame the book I'm reading, where a sentence takes one or two pages to end!

Where I live now

This city is getting into my heart as well as under my fingernails and into my shoes - it's quite dusty. These cars are DACIAs. The only car available under the Communist regime. And those, unsuspecting reader, are the romanian colours. Formerly displayed on benches, bins, and now, anywhere you look hard enough.

Sometimes I try to make friends with strangers and take their photos. Here are the results.














This is your run of the mill dark alley.

This is the Orthodox cathedral, which is in space between the two parallel roads that run through the centre of town.

When I get to this building, I know there's only one more block til I'm home. The sign in the door says NASTIMED. Sounds goood.


This is in Central Park, I could see it out the window if there weren't so many trees. People go boating in the lake. I sit at the side and look jealous, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time until my girlfriend takes me.


Szia
See ya

We used to Vacation

Last Tuesday night: cookout

I met the boys - Oti, Sam and Benji. 2 filmmakers and one poet. I made them tell me all about themselves and then said 'yeah, I'm going to do Chemistry'. I won't write too much about them because it seems a bit invasive, but they are very exciting and all that. Stayed outide very cold and late watching Oti jump around talking about a filmmaker who is very close to his heart. Can't recall the name, began with T.

Wednesday - Sibiu
Two hot hours on a dusty potholed road through mountains and ramshackle villages, south east in Transylvania.
Made our way through the very picturesque and conveniently named Large Square to a restaurant.










It was trying very hard to be traditional, like my dress . Underground, low ceilings and I could have sworn I saw a waiter in traditional peasant garb though maybe I imagined this. Liberal use of sheepskin and strange soup based dishes. I escaped lightly with fried Zander and mixed vegetables. Have I mentioned the wonderful Anna yet? V.A.'s daughter, who is my dream come true. We got on rather well on this trip, she would go so far as to say we fell in love. She's teaching me Hungarian, now I can count. Anyway we shared some strawberry pancakes as well as jokes. For example, the Hungarian word for camera is picture machine or some similar, and her mum referred to it as photo-taker. Also, computer is counting machine. So we make up lame names for anything technological.. phone is 'voice taker maker communicator' and laptop is 'carriable counting machine'. Everyone else was so serious, we were the comic relief.

Visited the Brukenthal Museum, full of still lifes (yes, like a bowl of oranges) and family portraits.
Watched a spectacular Faust in an old warehouse, specially converted into hell for our amusement. The cast was the size of the audience, and the leads were fantastic.
We took candid shots when we were ushered through the stage into hell behind by men in doctor's coats and pig masks. Or as Anna said, " Candy picks". Or maybe I just pretended to mishear her.

Monday, although it's Thursday.

On Sunday evening, Sarah G., an American play write/director who lives in Budapest (for a few months more anyway)arrived. I liked her. Monday we explored this shut-down town. I finally got to sit under one of these white parasols outside the cafés. In our walking and talking we made it as far as tranzit, left.


It's a converted synagogue, with an internet café, bar, exhibition space and they show films too. The walls of the café are decorated with cartoons. I could compare it to several places in Bristol... Attila T. was asked to curate, but he, S & C have a proposal to open a restaurant in the space upstairs. This would be so beautiful... If they do, I'm coming back next summer to work!

That evening (Monday), we went to Long Friday. It's based on Imre Kertész's 'Kaddish for an unborn child'. Kaddish is the Jewish memorial prayer. Aaron Dimény played the central character B. The play opens with the others reading a psalm. The background is the Holocaust and in particular Auschwitz. There was a lot I didn't understand.

On the most basic level, B. and his wife, played by Hilda, survived Auschwitz, she goes onto divorce him and marry a 'non-Jew' and have children - which he didnt want to do. B had isolated himself in his writing - in the middle of the stage was a phone booth containing a typewriter. H slams herself against this, climbs on top of it, trying to get through to him. She throws herself into the arms of men watching. It almost looks like suicide attempts, seemed she was aiming to run off of the stage.
You see the faces in the picture? B tells a story about his childhood, walking in on his aunt, finding a bald-headed woman in a red dress. This is reference to a particular sect that shave their hair. The theme continues throughout, he says "I'll always be a..". It's shameful, intimate. It's also a haunting image, the skull masks. As though they're carrying around memories of the dead community, as part of their identity.
In another scene, the chorus line call out the names of places they were moved to, walking around the stage grinning at us, "Siberia, Andrássy Ut.." One man (not B, he and his wife are watching) says "Auschwitz" and the others applaud, shake his hand. Proud self-pity. They talk about how they'll never forget the atrocity.
B says it would be more strange if it had never happened. Man's inhumanity is inevitable. He tells a story of surprising good. When he was sick and couldn't get his ration, he thought it had been taken. He was angry but understood. It turned out that somebody else had collected it for him.

After the show, we ate with András V. and two gentlemen from America who will feature later. I had a pasta with truffle- or rather 2,4 -dithiapentane infused sauce.There was a lot of shop-talk and dropping names that meant nothing to me.. well, actually even I knew some of them. Plus I have a worse confession.

In the show I was listening to the audio-translation (S did it this time, very well), entirely oblivious to the fact that Aretha Franklin was singing Respect out of my bag. It got to a quiet point in what was quite a quiet point in the monologue. I realised, and turned it off.. Not before noting the four missed calls, and cringing even more. Given my front row seat - and it was a studio performance again, this personal performance was very obvious, and I'm sure once the post is running again I'll receive the death threats. Or, my idols will blank me at the party, not sure which would be worse.

OK, there's a brother who's turned 16 today that could do with a phone call, before it's tomorrow.

Teaser

You wouldn't believe who we dine with these days

Things I wouldn't do in Bristol

Have peas kicked over my feet; make a spectacle of myself in public; have a topless sweating man run into me. (Well, maybe the last one, but I wouldn't pay for the privilege)

Was thrilled by Woyzeck last night. The fire curtain was down and we sat just inside of that, so it was performed in half the normal space of a stage. The play, for those of you too lazy to follow the link yesterday, is set within an army, and Woyzeck (played by my favourite actor in the company, Zsolt Bogan) is the main character.

Those in authority are abusive, and in turn the men break each other down. In one of the first few scenes a dozen soldiers run back and forwards as in a drill, and they're throwing all their energy into this. I was sitting in the front row in the middle seats, and because the floor was covered with piles of dried peas, when they reached the front they would slip and nearly end up falling on us. The air was rushing back and forward too, very intense moment. It wasn't the last!
The doctors torture Woyzeck for medical research,which he takes part in for money, to look after his child. His mistress and the mother of his child grows tired of him, his disorientated state and she is seduced/raped by the drum major. Woyzeck kills her and he himself is killed, by the clown figure in the story, who also played the seducing soldier. The play was unfinished (by Georg Büchner), so if you ever get to see it, you may find a different ending!
This performance was brilliant.

This morning, no taxi available to take us to church so listened to sermon by AV, from the computer instead. It was about Cain, and questions that God asks us. The first question, as he asked the Mary's at the tomb, is "Who are you looking for?".

Eoin and like-minded, you should stop reading now.

I walked up the mountain (literally, Dealul Cetatuia) this morning looking for Jesus, thinking about that question. My legs ached from the dusty worn steps and my mouth was dry. I had a sip of water before, but I'm desperate for more. Mary says she's looking for a body. At the top it was hot, but the big dark birds no longer circled my head. The city cranks and wails, but a cool breeze shook the surrounding trees, and church bells sound 11.30. Come?
- At this point, my pen stopped working. I put down the black notebook that's hitchhiked to Scotland, driven to France and made it this far -
There was this metal cross on top of the mountain, and I knelt down in front of it. Have I come to the wrong place? Where should I find you?
I hadn't seen another person up there, but while my eyes were shut, there were footsteps. I didn't look up, and I'm not claiming to have met Jesus, please bear with me. What I am saying is, when we call He answers and I remembered what Jesus or the angel says to the woman next, "Why are you looking for the living among the dead?" There I was at the foot of the cross, when this is the day of resurrection. The bells rang 12. No answers, but a reply and another question.

Easter, Take Two

It's orthodox easter. On Thursday, I saw a procession on one of the two main streets. I saw it from the back first, and there was a mixture of cheering and moaning so I thought it was going to be something nationalistic...

Maybe soldiers on parade, like I saw in Hero's Square Budapest. That's a strange memory, it was raining and no one was watching.

Anyway, this time it was baking hot, and there were soldiers, but they were of the roman centurion, first century variety. There they were, smacking up Jesus, while everyone photographed. John was carrying the cross, women were weeping. An open-backed van at the head played out moody music as they moved along. I wouldn't say I enjoyed it the spectacle but I was glad to be reminded of the idea of Bad Friday. In Take One, I was working so much, wrapped up in imagined heart break and travel plans, and the excitement of a visit from my Grandmother; I hardly noticed what we were remembering. Skipped the crucifixion and didn't notice living without God.

My designs on this one-week holiday include Woyzeck tonight, and a trip to Sibiu midweek. Also, painting the apartment and writing even more postcards. If you haven't got one yet, you might still get lucky!

I talked to my family this morning. There's been a promotion, French revision and drama. Eoin was thought missing, presumed dead. Before being found in his bed asleep, having come home even before his curfew. He wants me to mention his knifed remains being found under a bush on Horfield Common. This blog needs spice, not you talking about bridges. Dad has a new job title and responsibility; I can't say what but I can tell you he sold out on his anti-PC principles to get it. Actually used the word 'inclusive'.

PS. I love you.