Life as we will never again know it

I am now thinking about the time we first went to Amsterdam, I think it was a warm January, we were jumping on the bed to Madonna-songs in the sauna-hot Apple Inn: he told me a lot of times afterwards, that that time burned into his retina, so many times actually, that the expression got-burnt-into-my-retina became a part of my everyday vocabulary. And now I am thinking about the time when he fell asleep in my lap on the plane to Amsterdam and I realised that one of the stewardesses was my classmate back in high school. I saw mountains from the top for the first time with her. And now I'm thinking about the time we were sitting by the shore, watching those huge ships turn west. We were sitting in a bar on a Budapest street, and he said he was surprised he had found a friend at this age. And now I'm thinking about the time he fell asleep holding my hand. I can't bare to think about whether he was told what was happening to him or not, because I'm sure he knew. I look back and I now understand every single bad decision he made. And now I'm thinking about the time he first came down to the beach and we saw the Danube sparkle, and he screamed out, look, there's a small lake! How cute! And now I remember the nights we worked together, the pink corner, a lot of jokes that only we understood. Now I'm thinking about the first time we went to Brussels. That's when he decided to move there. Paris, windstorm. Amsterdam, club sandwich by the window looking out onto Ej. Brussels, Plattesteen, night sandwiches, bells ringing, chilling, boring-town tempo. At our place, between two chemos, he is planning our trip to the village, so we can rest after this ordeal. Cows, silence with his daddy, chatting to his grandmother. Now I'm thinking about the first time I went camping. I put the tent together in the evening, we ate, we washed ourselves and I waited for the calls, because at night, my sister always called me, and he always called me. That night neither of them called, I stayed up late, cried a little, then fell asleep, and realised the next morning that my phone was out of battery. When I recharged it, I called him and he helped me get home, he knew the way so well. I just finished browsing through his laptop, because I wanted to reach out to him, he can't just leave me here: when I saw his photos from the mountain, that was the worst kind of pain. But it felt good at the same time. Now I'm thinking about the fact that when Constance was hyperactive, he calmed her down by raising her above his head. It worked every time. And now I remember the last time he came home, the walk from the taxi to his bed wore him out so much, that all he could do was collapse and after we put everything away and organised the room, the dog climbed up onto the sofa and watched him from there, longing for a pat, and he actually forced himself to raise his hand so he could caress her.

People from old stories start appearing. Weird, alien manly voices over the phone, shaky, crying voices. Really? Really. Could you call me when ...? Yes. Thank you. It seems so easy to be cool calm collected, I'm standing in front of the pastas in the fucking supermarket with blank eyes and I tell a stranger-half stranger over the phone that yes, he is dead. I wait a little, I say I'm sorry. She asks me, can I tell her how it happened. I tell her. I promise to let her know about the funeral. If I recignise her from his stories, I will call her. She collects herself, says goodbye and hangs up. I go on, I buy a little milk, I pay. I want to kick his bed until I can no longer stand. I try to write e-mails or texts to his friends, to let them know in a discrete way. I throw out the tea he asked for when he was in the hospital. Everywhere and nowhere. It hasn't even been two days. And I knew very well that it was going to hurt this much. When my sister hugs me, I cry a little, almost in a calm way. I swallow my tears until my nose starts bleeding.

The only person I really loved with all his annoying bad habits, is dead. And I feel fucking sorry for myself because he's not with me. Anguish, that I don't want to understand. I knew you, I saw you, I loved you.

Kosher love

I was asked to give a presentation about sexuality, sex, sexual orientation.

What a challenge! I've been blushing ever since.

This is the question humanity just can't deal with most of the time. I've suspected this for a long time, but now that I studied the global history of sex, I am more and more convinced.

I turn the pages of different scientific books, confessions, poems, philosophical, ethnographic, psychological and religious studies with burning ears and an overwhelming interest.

Frigyes Karinthy wrote an awesome play. It's called The Magic Chair and it is about a chair, that if you sit on, makes you tell the truth, makes you start speaking honestly about all those "sinful" thoughts that you keep a secret even in front of yourself. This play, if I remember correctly, ends with the chair being destroyed so the world won't come to an end.

I've been sitting on one of these chairs for two months now, and I have no idea whether I should be embarrassed, or whether I should laugh, be surprised, be amazed, or maybe if I should drop down on my knees in front of the wonder of Life, which was created to fool us (or perhaps to challenge us?). The neverending fountain of the tragedy and comedy of our lives is sex.

It is our greatest value and our greatest misery, all rolled into one.

And there's no way science could be right about this matter, because it never takes into account the deeper layers of our souls, our imaginations and the divine - the metaphysical knowledge of man and woman. In sexuality, the sensual-carnal part of our being cooperates with our most divine part: we encounter each other via our bodies and at the same time we become Creators, we can bring new life to this Earth.

I am only going to mention what I last read.

It seems to me that Jewish tradition understands this complexity. The law states that a man owes his woman three things after getting married.

Food, clothes and sex. If he cannot provide one of these: the marriage is invalid.

Obviously, there were different rabbi schools.

Talmud talks about an argument.

The Samaj school says: if the husband doesn't go near his wife for two weeks, he can be forced to divorce her.

According to Hilel's school, the deadline is one week, which means that the maximum amount of time that can be spent without sex is seven days.

Since married life duties are religious duties in the life of a man, Talmud laws clearly state how many times members of different social layers have to have sex.

Economically independent men have to have sex every day. (Wow!)

For workers, it's twice a week.

For mule-drivers, it's once a week.

For camel-drivers, it's once every thirty days.

For sailors, it is once every six months. (According to the Misna.)

But that is not all.

If a worker lives at home, or works near his house, then it's twice a week for them, as I said.

But if he is forced to work in another city, his wife can legally keep him from working because he wouldn't be able to fulfil his manly duties.

All these things seem funny today. A man of our times would actually think about whether it would be a good thing to be economically independent under these circumstances. The price to pay isn't small: at least once every day by law! That's something ...

But these are only the complicated rules. The metaphysical parts are prettier. Tradition has it that it is not only reproduction which is sacred, but also making love. So the value of making love doesn't depend on whether the man and the woman get a baby out of it or not.

It is a known fact that Saturdays are sacred.

But to hug your lawfully wedded wife or husband, this day seems like the perfect time.

"Let the sacred day be the time of the sacred act."

"Wise men of other nations teach that our sensual experiences are to be kept a secret" - says a Talmud-teacher from the 18th century. - "We say that having sex is good and it is the act of reaching a higher state. It benefits both body and soul - and it is sacred. If the act is done in the right state of soul and with the right intentions, then there is no human act which is at a higher sacred level."

Language also keeps a deep secret, which is relevant to the subject. Making love in Hebrew is called: yáda. It means: getting to know. Adam got to know Eve - and that's how little Cain was born.

If you think about how many obscene words we use for sex, which should always be talked about with respect ... And if you think about the fact that among all these obscene words and expressions, the most acceptable is probably the very scientific-sounding sexual intercourse, you will see where we have sunk with our false preconceptions and our enlightenment.

Getting to know has three stages.

Understanding. When I know with my brain, what the other is like.

The surprise factor. When I realise, "Wow, I know him/her!"

And the third and deepest stage is what Plato calls "remembering".

What do I remember? That he is mine, and I am his.

I remember you, it's just that I forgot you. Of course! We lost each other, and now, in the ecstasy of our hugs, we found each other. We are one again!

"Flesh of my flesh, soul to the soul."

This must have been what Adam experienced when he "got to know" Eve. Of course, this familiar woman was created out of his ribs. She was wripped out of him, while he was sleeping. But in the garden of Eden they were still together. He remembered her back then. And now, he is starting to recall her again ...

This is what people experience when making love is real: "I am now going to hug you back into myself, if you cuddle up real close. And you will find your place, inside of me."

Language of love

I think we don't tell each other enough times that we love the other. Or that we appreciate what they do.

I know, it's so cheesy that in movies people are constantly saying "I love you." or "I value your personality.", but what if that's actually a good thing? What if everyone actually needs that? What if we encouraged each other more often? What if we "loved" each other a little more?

I know myself. I need words. I need people who are important to me to support me.

I've always felt and known that my family loves and supports me, no matter what I decide to do next. But nowadays I spend most of my time with people who are not part of my family.

And I need exactly the amount of support at work and from my friends that I got from my family back in the day. I really don't think I'm the only person who feels this way ...

Not that I'm so good at this. I've been working on it for years. To always express what I feel, what I think, even if it seems irrelevant. I don't think it's been going too well, but I'm still trying.

Obviously, one has to be able to accept those kind words. I mean, if I tell someone that they rock my world, but they don't believe me or my words don't mean anything to them or they constantly reply to my compliments in a negative way ... well then, it seems like there is no need to say the words. But the truth is, these people are making it so much harder for themselves, not for me.

I say, "You look good today!", and they say, "Oh, so I don't usually look good?"

Sometimes I think we are hopeless.

So: Whoever you are, if you're reading this, I'm happy you are here. I'm happy for you, I think it's great that you take the time to read my words. Feel yourself at home, and please come again anytime! :-)

Human nature

Everything gets solved phisically. No way can you understand something and then be calm in it. They either humiliate you in your body, or they praise you, or they rape you, or they accept you, but everything has to happen in the body, otherwise it will never be truly over. That which doesn't happen through the body, will always be something on hold, something pending. That's just human nature.

Sad and Angry

How to make missing him bearable. First of all, it is prohibited to think of the fact that I miss him. I have to let minutes, hours and days pass by. At times, they go by fast, other times they go by slower. I live from e-mail to e-mail, from conversation to conversation, I drift. And it works. Usually.

And then the world's worst feeling strikes in. At night, on a ship somewhere in the middle of the sea, after havin had a bottle of wine, in the middle of a concert. And I realise that the bad feeling that keeps my daily routine going, comes from missing him. I'm not strong enough, I'm not brave enough, I'm not happy without him. I'm ... I'm just not without him.

And it's fucking hard.

To be born an astronaut

My friend's daddy got a telescope from his son for his 50th birthday. It was a clear summer night so we put it together in the garden right away.

I looked into it.

Outer space opened up right in front of my eyes. It was a good telescope, I felt like I was holding the sky in my hands. I stood there, watching, for a very long time. I studied the Milky Way and I searched for constellations.

The Moon amazed me. I marvelled at it, I was stunned by the view.

But at the same time I couldn't resist the other planets. As soon as I caught a glimpse of a pretty planet, I got lost in it. And the ones I found pretty were the ones that were close to me. I felt a peculiar fraternity, which filled my heart with warmth. I reached out for them, and I stroked them in my imagination.

I was an astronaut, going through millions of years, with ashes of lost civilizations under my feet. Mistique. Fantastic. Gripping adventures. I opened my arms, and I knew that everything I saw from here, was going to be mine one day. I felt the intention and the power in myself , but then the Sun came up and rid me of the buzz. That is when I learned that we always have to fight for our dreams much harder than what we first imagine.

I asked myself, how could it ever be possible to bathe in the beauty of the Moon all the time, when Saturn, Jupiter and Venus are also here? Dear god. They are all so marvellous, I wish I could trace them with my fingers. I am small - I thought -, I am so tiny, how amazing is it that I can take in this much of what is up there with these two little button eyes of mine? Who is brave enough after all this, to tell me that tomorrow I am not going to find a planet even more beautiful than these ones? And if I do, then as sorry as I am, I am never going to be able to give men a home, I will always remain an exotic island. Why? Because I was born an astronaut.

And you are the supernovas. I ask you not to be angry with me for wanting so badly to touch all your surfaces.

Mug

She gave birth to her child. She complained. Yeah, she was really good at that. There was a child, coz she had wanted one. But there were problems with the sex. The problem was either the fact that there was sex, or the fact that there wasn’t or the fact that there was sex, but not the kind she wanted. How long should she have waited? Then they got divorced to top it all off. The man, and the woman. At one point they got divorced together. And some of them even had a second child.

There are people, who are happy. But what is happiness and where is it nowadays? Why does she say that? Back in the day, there were wars, they took them to fight, to Vietnam, there were single parents and all. But she didn’t know of that. And then there’s cancer. But then again, cancer existed back in the day as well. The kids are hyperactive. So what can she say to that? Let them run it off.

Look. There should be a tradition in every family, where every member shouts their pains into a mug, the woman, the man, then later the child as well, when it grows a little. Everyone needs a mug, she says. I should go to bed, she also says. Yea, yea, that bloody ambiguity. Not go to bed like that, I mean, I’m tired. So shout it, she says, holding the mug in front of her. The bills, the unpaid bills, but you know, I don’t always say these things, because you tell me I’m complaining. Stop whispering. But I’m telling you, she complains. You complain. The woman complains as well, she gave birth. Or she didn’t. Should she go to that goa party or should she enroll the kid at school? The unborn kid, who might never even be born. Where should I go?, she asks.

I have a different problem. Not the social networking sites with all the photos from Tunisia and the dated wedding-photos and pictures of the newborns, but the fact that my hands have started to wrinkle. My hairdresser, this wonderful little creature, she’s 22 and she’s complaining and she took the woman, who is really 30 years old, for a 24 year old. I mean, that’s something, right?

But you know, that’s not all. Like, remember all the stuff? Like when we were sitting in our rented flat about 12 years ago, full of libido, when we thought nothing of nothing and especially not of something, although I majored in Hungarian and Esthetics, and the other one majored in American Studies and gender studies, and that third chick cried so hard while on the phone, because she had a broken heart, but while crying really hard, she was looking at herself in the mirror. And we didn’t believe her. You can’t just cry into a mirror, especially not when you have an audience. And next year, she wasn’t living with us anymore.

But if you look at it close, stuff happens in the world, to women and to men as well. It’s like a computerized squash-game. Like, commodore 64 in the graphic-section. Dollar-sign, comma, eight, colon. There was ratio in that. The woman hits the wall, he fucks her, the woman doesn’t hit the wall, he doesn’t fuck her. That’s a way of looking at it, right? Of course, she remembers.

Life is cheaper in the countryside, we have to keep that in mind. And then there are glowing eyes, and commitment, we have to keep that in mind as well. But then you need a car, because otherwise you’re forgotten forever. The happening is always in the six and in the seven, just pay attention to it. Pay attention to it. You are too big of a snob for eight. And you’re not smart enough for twelve.

You think you’re so special? Nothing has any effect on you, is that what you think? Toilet paper, eight-pack and all the stuff on sale in your own brand anywhere? Come on, look at yourself!
Noone is above anything, some of us get ruined one way and others get ruined another way. Yeah, I mean, every bad thing had its good moments and vice versa.

Wow, how fucking smart she is all of a sudden.

She complains, she gave birth, she complains, she didn’t give birth. Just let her shout it into the mug. Just make her stop bothering me with all the mugs …