Wallflowers

Time to show you something comfortably disturbing again.
Something terribly beautiful.

For much more visist: www.raycaesar.com

EAT

I eat everything that gets in my way, so be careful:

Do not smell good or look appetizing when I am near.

You will be wise to do so.

Back to civilization

It is the 28th of December today and I welcome the fact that tomorrow morning I will be able to trot down to Mr and Mr Vegetable man and buy some peppers or tomatoes or whatever I please.
My corner shop, my corner shop, my beautiful corner shop.
Mea maxima culpa, I know, because the baby Jesus and all that, but honestly, when I tuned on the TV and Miklos Fenyo was doing a Christmas Special cinningly entitled:
Roll up the Carpet!
And there were dancers with visible underware, some big cotton and white, some thongs shiny fake-silk, and the 36.th murderous cover of let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...
Why sing in English when you dont understand the words?
I know you might ask me: Why write in English when you can't spell?
Just becouse.
This is my virtual playground.
Nobody visits it anyway.
I am all alone in cyberspace.
The lonelyness of strats...

Christmas 2008

Samuel Beckett sat down every December and has given the detailed account of all twelve months of the year gone. This precise documentation has helped him to summarize and analyze the events and move on to a new exiting chapter.

I sit down every December and eat. Fried meat, fried mushrooms and fried potatoes. I munch - even though I hate the bloody word - on gherkins. Pickles. They are the best.

And we watch things on TV. Baby Jesus is being born. Pass the ketchup will you? Mary is all happy and virginal. Is there more fries? The three shepherds arrive. Endless commercials come on, cars, toothpaste, shopping centers. The three kings give their presents. We are on to dessert.

It is all golden.

Actually I am named after the event. FYI - even though I bloody hate shortenings - my name is Natalia.

Natalia is derived from Deos Natales (well, from something really similar anyways) which means
'The birth of God'.

- Isn't it the birth of Goddess? - people joke sometimes.

I pretend to blush by sending an extra shot of my divine blood to cruise around my cheeks.

As if God would have to decide what sex God is.

Silly.

The Drunk I Am

The drunk I am only drinks Martini Bianco.

The drunk I am barely drinks, therefor the thirst of my inner-drunk is great.

Once my inner drunk gets to drink some Martini Bianco she does not hesitate to down the glass like a peasant.

The drunk I am does not enjoy the taste of alcohol it just wants to get smashed.

Not tipsy, piss on that. Smashed. Wasted.

It never happens. when is was a teenager I would happily sip my way to alcohol poisoning and back. As every healthy fifteen year old on the block I would down alcohols galore. And not get a black-out. I never did that. Don't really believe in it either.

Neither do I believe in having one drink with dinner. Why have one glass of wine with food?

So you don't get drunk?
So you can pay twice as much as you would have for a soft drink?
So you can pretend to be a wine expert? Oh, is that white wine you drinking there with fish madam? Is it really? Let me congratulate you. The choice of choices you have made.
Or is it to properly dehydrate yourself?
Or is it so that your mouth smells foul and you don't have to snog your dinner date?
Just stop dating the ugly bastards, will you?
Or is it so you can spiel red wine all over your white shirt because you are in a washing-powder commercial?
Or would you be one of those obsessive-compulsive full wine glass lifters? How interesting.

The drunk I am never drinks just one glass of anything.

Burn the Bejgli

Burn the Bejgli is what comes before the Smack my Bitch Up in December.

Bejgli is a must eat item, as displayed on the Hungarian Christmas table by our mothers.

You consume it 67 bites after the first urge to throw up in the festive season.

And you like it.

You like it more when it is filled with poppy-seeds.
You like it less when it has fucking raisins in it.

Because we hate fucking raisins.
Idiots' food really.

But bejgli is great. A real hungaricum.

I give you an other visual:



You are welcome.

For example

http://ajourneyroundmyskull.blogspot.com

I was reading this blog for example and I liked it very much.

4 days

Today we got a tree.
It is small.
It is green.
It will be our Christmas tree.

The Wooden Spoon****

One of my lifestyle fantasies is to be a restaurant critique.

So my job description would read: to be wined and dined, to be served and smiled at, to be fed 3-5 courses of meals, never having to pay.

But than I also think, that I am capable of so much more than deciding if the spoon was clean and the salmon was pink enough.
And than to actually write about food.
It is like talking about sex.
Like reading about adventures.

But as a self appointed Budapest guide, I know I haven't done much of that - but it is my blog, OK? Do you have a problem with that punk?- I feel the need to share one special place with you:

The Fakanal. The Wooden Spoon.

The food is cheap and tasty, there are no toilets, service is cheerful and prompt, and the place is visited by university professors and homeless people alike.

It is right next to the Szabo Ervin library, brown iron shutters, in the basement, you cant miss it, down you go.

Letters, Words, Sentences

Ok, so I have been overdoing the pictures bit.
Have some letters, please enjoy the words, dwell on the sentences.
Am I writing about nothing again?
Saying nothing?
Shut up my inner critique, and let me play on my virtual playground.

Exciting times dear Blog, new jobs, lots to write, it is all about Shakespeare, marketing, theatre history, media, and I just do not know where to benign.

So I start by writing this blog.

To make sure that my theater project is stagnating.
To minimize my chances of passing any of my exams.
To risk my shiny new job on the very first week.

Sounds like a plan. Good idea. A new post. As long as one gets the priorities right. Blog it is.

My Margit Sziget

This was where I took my very first steps.
Come and walk there with the old Danube to your left and right?
Are you in Buda?
Are you in Pest?
The sun.
The sun.
The sun.

My Pest - Varosliget

My Pest - Benczur street

G.L.D.

I have found the Gold Leather Diary for 2009 and i bought it.
I am happy.
It is hand made and inside it has the finest paper with watermarks and golden lining.
I will scan it for you, and also next time I will write about something more interesting.
Promise.

Sunday in the City

I enjoy a good 7th day of the week Sunday.
It is quite.

One gets up, drinks 3-4 coffees, reads all papers she didn't have time to read during the week.
Showers for on our instead of going to church, eats pizza instead of cooking a real Sunday roast.

Than there is WAMP - the Sunday artist market twice every month, where you can find everything and more.

www.wamp.hu


This week I will go there and hunt down a gold-leather diary for 2009.
It will come from Pecs.
Keep fingers crossed.

The green armchair with grandchild

This was taken on my nameday by my grandfather.
I was one of those little girls who kick the ball and climb the trees.
Family bought me dolls.
I held them and smiled into the camera.
I didn't care for dolls much but I was very happy.
My grandparents lived on the hill.
12th district of Buda.
Their balcony overlooked the city.
I loved being there with them very much.
I loved them very much.
Most repul a kismadar...

Day of my Name

Today is Natalia day.
My nameday.
The 9th of December.
Very special.
I hope nice things will happen to me the whole day long.
Today I start a new job.
Today I got to the book party of my favorite author.
Today I go to a Christmas-dinner-thing hosted by British Council.
Eventful day.
Happy day.
I hope.

Addict

I need to get off the web.
I need to get away from the computer.
I need to face the real world.

Now.
Now.
Now.

Go and read a book for goodness sake.
Ok, i am going I am going.

Now.
Yes, now.
Now.

Addict exits her cyber-queendom.
Abandons her toys in her virtual playground.

Now. on three:

1. I am
2. not
3. here

Riddle

I am soft.
I can kiss and cook.
My ovary belongs to me.
I am a woman.
What am I?

Curtains Up

Close them curtains and let the show begin.

If you have been at my humble Pest residence, you may well know that I have no curtains.
And no lampshades.
And no proper furniture?

Yes, yes, they sell all those things in Hungary, and I am sure at some point I had the money too, and one can always find time to shop and buy stuff, but no, no, no there were no curtains up until now.

That gave the people in the house opposite plenty of opportunity to stand and stare, to see and to behold my naked truth, my whole truth and nothing but my truth.

I was a one-woman gratis peepshow for the select few who lived in the right building on the right floors.

I was an instant hit. People in my immediate neighborhood

- witnessed their property increase in value
- inhaled more wholesome Pest oxygen due to open-window observation
- had an accelerated libido and very noisy sex to follow
- planned house parties around my bath-time
- Bla, bla, bla...

I also became naturally not only a conversation-piece, but also a selling point. Estate agents kept on pointing me out to potential buyers.

But now my curtains went up, all red, Persian and velvety.

So that's all folks.
Back to your miserable life.
Time to move.

Sunday Morning

Morning kiss. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Newspaper. Coffee. Talk. Coffee. Pee. Coffee. Coffee. Poo. Coffee. Kiss. Coffee. Blog. Coffee. Blog. Blog.

Ars Poetica no2

Do not have wisdom teeth.
Have wine.
Have outstanding moral fiber.
Have orgasms.

Ars Poetica

I deny my milk-sucking, ball-kicking, pants-pissing past and ignore my pebble-gray, winter-slow, grave-quite future.

Until the doorbell...

puts an abrupt end to it, I shall tell you that I have ladies on my mind.
Ladies, who snog, get married, loose their virginity, knock themselves out for days, than commit suicide, whereby there shall be peace in Verona.
And I am waiting for Sophie who is one of there women in my head.
And she should bring wine.
And she should be here already.

And the Christmas market is already up at Vorosmarty square.
The smell of bacon is really unexpected in the underground.
A lot of pretty little dust collectors, neatly displayed and somewhat overpriced.
Go and walk hand in hand with a dark Hungarian and his deep voice, drink mulled wine, and buy some festive crap.

Doorbell.

Jewelry and dried vegetables

Today was good thank you.
I have a big smile on my face.
I went to an interview and it was the professional equivalent of oral sex.
I had a pleasant walk from Kiraly to Raday utca.
I walked out of free will and personal desire, but I must say that walking seems a way easier option that finding any of those tram replacement buses.
They never come.
Even if they do come, you either ignore them because they have the wrong number or they ignore you because you are waiting at the wrong bus stop. Silly.
And if you manage to get on they will take you somewhere utterly unexpected and very inconvenient.
BKV.
Anyway. Walk people.
Than I have found my other Julia. We had a drink.
After that I came home and cooked some truly amazing mashed potatoes - try soured cream, rose peppers and boil the potatoes with "Rona" dried vegetables (szaritott leveszoldseg keverek)
2 spoonfuls. Wonderful.
Anyway.
And I have seen a piece of jewelry that I now desire.
In a shop where you simply must go - if you haven't been yet.
It is all Hungarian designers, Raday 31, www.sterling-galeria.hu, go-go-go.
You will love everything from their staff to their green bespoke display cabinets.


I have seen this ring there.
I can not forget it now.
It is 68.000 Ft.
It is not even for sale but I must have it.
It has a tree on it and it is timeless and flawless.
It even fits my tiny fingers.
I still suffer from parting-anxiety. Shock. Trauma.
Never me mind.
Here is a ring very similar from Krisztina Stomfai. My new favourite.
Object of desire indeed. And fish seems to be my theme today.

Object of desire?

Whoever has thousands of pounds to pay for this -

By the by do you know what this is?

Can you guess?

It is a functional object...

so whoever folks out my yearly salary to posses this thing should surely be forced to work in
McDonald's. A 25 hour one. In Romania. Yes, in suburban Bucharest.
No doubt in my mind:
16th century ornate seal my butt. Get me that quoter pounder and smile, rich person! - they will the him loudly in Romanian. It will be terrifying and very humiliating.

I feel it is safe to be mentally cruel to people I don't know.
I didn't say it was healthy, but it is safe.

Not just now

I wanted to write about something, but I am not going to, only later on, when it will be still outrageous, but a bit more allowed to be vulgar.
I am taking a save approach of only tenfinger-mumble about life in general, sparing you the painful details.

For now it goes like:

I have watched my Brigit Jones DVD today because:

1. It was just one of those days. Ok? And yes I did have chocolate.

2. I have still 6-7 years before I hit her age, and the moral of the story is that there is still hope there. In fact for this fictional character life seems to just begin when she is 33 and that is very comforting.

3. It is very funny.

4. She looses and gains weight as she pleases and that is also hopeful.

I guess us Hungarian woman are more the desperate housewives type than singletons cum spinsters in their London lofts covered in crazy wallpaper.

And when I say housewife in Hungary I don't mean somebody who lives in a house and is married to a man. Not as defined by HBO and pop culture, but as determined by everyday chores, duties and strict gender roles.

Bla, bla, bla...

Off to bed with foolish me, may my dreams tear me away from my computer.

Red

I am considering becoming a redhead.

How very dull of me.

Ignore.
Forgive.
Ignore.
Forgive.
Ignore.
Forgive.

I shout up and cook dinner, the kitchen is where I belong. Next to the stove is my place.

But

On the upside I have finished looking up all the unknown words of Mr Shakespeare and that was really fun.

I thought you might want to know.

I didn't want to cause you any more sleepless nights over my progress with this doorstopper of tragedy.

Don't worry, now I understand all the lines Julia says.
Calm down.
Go to sleep.

Gloomy Sunday

It is cold.
It is raining.
It is dark.
November in Budapest.

My flat is a mess, my beliefs in the good will of humankind are a bit shaken and I have now forgot for 4 consecutive days to buy toilet paper.

I have promised to be honest with you.

Budapest is...

...the Paris of the East, you know - I told him walking up Szondi street.

- Budapest is the Paris of Hungary - he replied.

I punished him terribly for being so very cynical.

Than we walked on home through the city of lights, the city of smiles, the city of history.

I feel that the posters that supposed to celebrate the 135 year old city are actually making a mockery of her.

Picture of the week

Bookssssssssshit

If you read back earlier posts you will see that at one point I was working on ideas on how to inspire people to read. (If you have already read that than naturally you don't have to go back to earlier posts and I will love you until the oceans come up mountain high)

Anyways, I am about to take the last step towards blissful employment at a fair advertising company if I take my three apparently best ideas even further.

1. Recommending books with wine.

2. Books as fashion accessories.

3. Books. No spam. No viruses. No pop-ups.

I am stuck. Complete creative block.

Help!

Ha-ha-ha

Are you familiar with the emotional juxtaposition of wanting to write something funny and only being able to think of the lesser entertaining fact, that you have slept through the whole afternoon.

Oh, stop it, hihihihihi

That you picked of all the peppers from your frozen pizza.

lol, lol, you are killing me, lol

That the push-down soap dispenser is almost empty.

Mercy, mercy, have mercy on me, I have already pissed my pants, I have drooled on my keyboard you are so freaking funny.

Sleep...pizza...soap dispenser, how do you come up with this stuff.

Sometimes I split my narrative ego to illustrate my point better.
However it is very dangerous.
Please don't try this at home.

Oh, you did, it again, huhuhuhu, it hurts, it hurts, it is so humorous...

Fortuna

by Batykó Róbert

After you have walked around in the National Gallery - and tried your utter best to ignore the hideous red marble, on the floor, on the bloody walls too and all the way up on the stairs, for crying out loud - you may want to find out even more at:

www.irokezcollection.hu

Little Miss Hairy

Surely you must have wondered what a little girl must look like covered in beast-hair.
All those sleepless nights.
Hitting the brick wall of ones imagination.
I know.

I might just have a little something for you:

You dont have to thank me.
I am generous.
Just take me out to that very expensive place I like and buy me necklaces.

Naturally you might want to have a better look at the little female freak - we wont tell no one - so I will give you a link to find out more.

http://www.mng.hu/kiallitasok/idoszaki/irokez_english

But let me tell you the inspiration behind Csaba Ungars little doll-lightbox instalation, that will help you tap into the darkest pouches of your unconscious - fun, fun, fun! Here is the story:

Hainau has bought a big house in our fair Hungary somewhere, that was stolen and destroyed by the locals after his death, but while he was still spending time there a rural-legend spread about a daughter he hid in the celler. Legend has it the poor thing was born covered in hair everywhere as a punishment for her fathers sins...

Castle

She went up there with the tiny blue bus that leaves from Moszka Ter.

It has been a very long time since she has seen the gallery - last time that wing was still the ever so progressive Ludvig Museum.
She was 16 and with her best friend at that time Szava Lakos they jumped on the bus no 40.
They were only supposed to go one stop and than get off and go to school.
But they stayed on and went up to the castle to the Ludwig.
Picnic on the ancient ruins and than some modern art.

An other friend of hers who is rather promiscuous at times had a threesome once where they had pick nick with Szava.

Personal histories put places in endless context, his historical place is my table and her bed.

Anyway, I have seen a good exhibition.

Yes.

Never trust a buda bulb

Whaaaaat????

I hear from the kitchen.

The manly process of changing a light bulb - way up high, there is a land that I hear of once in a lullaby - was interrupted by sheer shock.
He is holding the bulb and looking at it in utter shock and disbelieve.

Only 40 Watts?

I can sense he is keeping his voice steady, but the dramatic gesture gives it all away.

Is that not enough? - I dare ask.

You Europeans just don't believe in light.

Thanks Giving

I once asked, him whom I love, what this special day was all about.
Food.- he said.
Sure, but what would be the historical event and the cultural relevance of it?
Food.
Nothing big happened on the Thursday before the last Friday of November?
Well there was this really hard period where people were dirt poor and than they got good at producing food and they had lots of it.
So they celebrated that they had food.
That is the spirit of Thanks Giving.
Thank You for food God and Mother Nature.
Lets eat.

Life is so clear and uncomplicated in the land of plenty.

Enough

Feed me to the tigers of Pest.
Roll me down the hills of Buda.
Send me pearl-picking to the depths of Danube.

Thank you.

Wisdom 1.2.3.

1. Life is a kiss.

2. Coffee is brown.

3. Love is a beauteous flower.

You are welcome.

Future goals

Every so often I find myself searching for a job.
I put big, bold as well as little white lies in my CV, write cheesy and dishonest letters of faked motivation, and wait for the phone to ring.

And so it does and so an interview is scheduled.
And I go in there dressed up like a professional, using my corporate vocabulary, smiling like the very desirable workforce that I am and off they take me to HR to sign a contract.
I whisk them away.

Every so often I find myself in a less desirable interview.
Like bloody today for instance.
Company website good.
Primo location.

But the interview was bad. The talking bit was a piece of cake. I thrive on mentally mutilated questions like Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

But than they wanted me to order around and generate data in an Excel spreadsheet. I am an urban entity, but I would sooner milk a cow.

Than there was translating. Easy.

And than they gave me a precision test. There were about 50 rows, 3 words in every row and I had to circle the one that would come sooner in an alphabetical list.

I don't really know the alphabet. I mean, I am OK with the first bits abcdefg, but than it gets mysterious. I worked in a bookshop for a while and there I had to get better, Shakespeare after Schiller, but I forgot it all.

It was humiliating.

A good interview is a full-ego massage, a mental pampering session, the professional equivalent of oral sex.

A bad interview is the opposite of that.

I cant help but wonder:
What is the opposite of oral sex?

Hunyadi Market

It is therapeutic to walk in there.
Just me and the old ladies during the day.
Tomatoes so red, cucumbers so green, fish, meet, flowers, fresh bread and palacsinta.



Cooking is one of the great creative outlets of everyday life.
Shopping is the foreplay. Markets are sensual.
Go Pest and flirt with robust butchers and handsome man who sell you your carrots.

Theatre is a Peepshow

Have I told you that?
Well, it is.

Snow and cold and lipliner

It is white.
It is cold.
When I was little we used to build a snowman with my grandfather. Nose out of carrot, the works.
Memories in the corners of my mind.
I like snow.

But it is closely related to the true terrors of winter.
Gloves for goodness sake.
Bloody hats - yeah if I didn't look like a midget until now, now I certainly will.
Scarfs, terror, jumpers, horror, thermo underwear, not that I have that, no-no all black lace and red silk naturally, but drama, tragedy, drama.

Like the absurdity of going somewhere important, and you are dressed to kill, and your makeup is flawless, grace-beauty and elegance lingers around you bla-bla bla. And you step into the warm room coming from the cold November streets of Budabloodypest and your nose starts running. Over the Christian Dior lipliner, over the right shade of lipstick. And you keep on smilimg but you know that you will have to blow your nose after the "very nice to meet you"

Or when you panic-stripp in front of the toilett. Three layers of clothing and minimal bladder-control left.

And sometimes the bus doesnt come for the longest time, or an icecicle almost kills you, and you either dress like a lady and break your neck or look like a tramp but be save.

I know I know.

Would Would Not

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0 Comments

Does this blog exist if nobody reads it?

Oh dear blog

Oh dear blog, there is nothing to say, is there?
Oh dear blog, writing for writings' sake does not always work.
Oh dear blog, does the cat have my thong?
Oh dear blog, will I be pretty, will I be rich?
Oh dear blog, can I keep up my cheerful spirit as autumn turns wet and cold?
Oh dear blog, why the festive lights?
Oh dear blog, send me for a walk.
Blog off.
I shall.
Thank You.

Romeo and Juliet

In my hand there is and old book, from The New Penguin series.

It was printed in 1967 in Suffolk, Great Britain.

I bought it in 2001 in Black Pool for £1.

Juliet and Juliet

What happens when you cut out everybody from Romeo and Juliet but Juliet?
Does she stand a chance on stage all by her self?
Does she tell a story alone or i she a mere component in a whole?

She falls in love.
She looses her virginity.
She is forced into a marriage.
She pretends to die to escape it.
Than she wakes too late and commits suicide next to her young loves corps.

Do her words tell this story?
What happens if she doubles?

I wonder.
I shall find out.

Art Fair 2008

Hajdu Kinga is the artist.

It is in Mucsarnok.

Images talk a 1000 words.

Say it with flowers.

Crossover.

Touch.

Touch.

Touch.

Life.

Ildiko the Talented

Here you are.

Here it is.

Here you go.

There you must go for more.

http://ildikomezei.blogspot.com/

Contemporary. Hungarian.

We like.

Gift

I want to put here nice things.
For you.
I wish to please your eye.
To visually stimulate you.
It will be always theft naturally, I do not draw or take pictures.
Actually I do sometimes, but they might not please you.
They are not very nice.
That wouldn't stop some people, but it does stop me.
But stealing is ok. Cultural kleptomaniac.

Should I?

Maybe I shouldn't.

P.J.

Nails burning in soundless sand.
Posters freezing in dark nights.
You left on the light in the hallway.
They are after my blood once again.

Your back is like a naked gravestone.

My, children, my children - do not judge.

Bloody Books

I have this task.
This thing to do.
A question to answer.

How would you get people to read more books? - the Polish executive creative director asked me.

Lovely task. Books are my bread and butter, my cup of tea, my things on my bookshelf.

Well, people would read more if:

You blow up their TV, PC and bin their mobile phones.

You teach them a little line called the alphabet and the magical uses of it.

You bully them by calling them an embarrassment in public places.

You lock them in a room and don't feed them until they read like a fox.

You pay them large sums of money and offer them sexual pleasures.

You make them believe that having a degree will get them somewhere in life and send them off to university, and let the academics take care of it.

You bribe your experts into coming up with a research saying that reading books prevents all mayor illness.

Threaten them with sharp objects and Chinese milk-products.

That was easy enough.

Bright future ahead of me I can see in advertisement.

Criminology

I buy any just about any DVD for 999.

Hungarian television has hit rock bottom.

So I watch Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple.

I escape the televised Hungarian celebrity-culture. One simply must.

Last time I have turned it on.

A midget was balancing a 80's beauty queen on his tiny but muscular shoulders.
The porn star was whisking up a take-away gulyas in the kitchen, leaving her guests with the grueling task of making conversation while using cutlery all at the very same time.
And there was actual wood-paneling on the wall behind the pseudo-famous cretins.

Murder and crime seemed such an agreeable past-time after that, that I have promptly inserted Mr Holmes into my DVD player.

Tuesday You Sweet

One gets to wake up and smell the coffee.
One has things to do, people to see, places to go to.

On the metro, undertown.
On the combino tram, sliding on Korut.
On the blue, blue buses of BKV.

I am visiting my suburban Mother today.
I will sit in the room that used to be mine.
That room with blue beds and Swedish curtains.
That room is still untouched.
As if waiting for my return.

But once you live in Pest you never go back.

Read Me.

I have been writing this for at least 36 minutes now.

Pushed the button.
Pushed the button.
Pushed the button.

I have. Yes. Yes.

Where are you people? Having wine with great friends? Snogging some fat academic on a documentary screening? Buying food, washing you hair, reading to your children?

That's just not good enough, is it?
No excuse, is there?

The only good-enough reason would be if you were attending my one-woman show in which I teach my Hungarian rabbit, Karoly, to eat his carrot like a gentleman.

No. 2

Oh, the infinite uses of a keyboard.
Oh, the wast infinity of the world wide web.

I have developed a healthy addiction to cyberspace.
My young spine is starting to bend forward.
I listen to the hardware hum.

I type into endless spaces, onto whole fields of virtual paper waiting to be marked by me.
Me.
Meeeeeeeeeeee.
Hear my gentle scream with your virtual ear.

I shall not cook today. Neither pasta nor rice.
I shall write this blog.

I shall not go out. It is getting cold. I am a room-person until April.
I shall write this blog.

I shall not do all those other things necessary to a wholesome life.
I shall write this blog.

I am aroused.

The Taste of Town

I always loved Buda.
I have learned to walk here.
My dear mother Anna gave birth to me at this very place.
12th district indeed.
A trying day that has been for both of us.
And I always enjoy a pie.

The End