Smoking

It is all red on the top, fire and tabacco, it is all white and slim in the middle and at the tip of it, there are my red lips, huggig the brown paper wrapping around the plastick, and there is thin grey smoke sliding in my loung and out.
In and out.
In and out.

All about the cigarett.

Lighters in the pocket.
Lighters in the bag.
Ashtray on the table.

I am smoking again.

It is terrible and terrific.

Summertime

In april nevertheles.
My blood is heavy but circulates faster.
My hair is really messy.

I am going to see my own show today again. It is a fasciating thing, theatre is - you sit with many people in the same room and the lights are all pretty and everyting that happens on stage you know, most of it you created and everybody is looking at that for a whole hour.
Nobody talks.
Nobody is on the phone.
No computers either.

It is a fascinating microcosmos of fictional reality.
It is a very rare and intensive encounter and experience with starngers, theatre is.

Yet there was this person, a little woman with bare feet and curly hair, she had red wine and soure cream in front of her.

This person farted.
The fart was short but loud.

Theatre is really funny sometimes.

Out of the blue

..comes anxiety and takes you by the throat and your skin turns grey. An elegant shade of grey that serves as a backdrop to your moth that mumbels, your blue eyes that loose focus and it gives a place of origin to those sounds, like:

I am sorry.

Don't keep telling that to your self.

Lets eat something.

I am smoking again. I am fat like never before and I am back at the awful habbit of putting burning cigarettes into my mouth.

The mother of my friend died.

And I would like to smoke another cigarette and I would like to hold my mother and not speak bitternes with her but take her to the Eden Project and other places she wants to go while she is alive.

It is a thin white line that connects us to the rest of humanity, it is so fragile.
I go to Tesco.
She goes to Tesco.
Life.

I am in london in a non-smoking hotelroom and I started smoking again with my lover. Every time I desire a fag I have to dress my fat body and go down the stairs, out on the cold street to join all the other loosers.

He is falling asleep.
I cant help but waste time.

Some people said that they read this, and that was really nice, so I thought I would share some thoughts.

I am sorry they were a bit selfindulgent.
But it is difficult times ahead and that creates less inspiering blog entries.

But to make it up to you I will insert a picture, you children of visual culture will be sure to enjoy.

Sorry didn't work.

Things Happen

You know, I have this life.
I don't always sit in front of my computer in the dark of night.

So I have a job and that makes me do things.
I go to school and I have to take exams.

I am an amazing student. I am. Bright as the sun - my mother would tell you.

And I am working on a performance.

Things happen all the time. For instance there is this woman, with the curious name who keeps on calling me on the phone. We talk. She asks me questions. I answer them.It is only polite to do so.

I don't know who the fuck she is.

On Monday she wanted to meet me on the Octogon.I didn't go.

Things happen.

To Kill a Blog

I keep on thinking of my blog as if it was a tamagochi or a bonsai.
I have irrational anxieties about it.
I feel this rootless senseless fear, that it will die:
Because I don't feed it.
Because don't water it.
The blog will die.
Budapie will be no more.

And after it dies it will be sad.
Like standing in an empty room where many were waiting for you, but you just couldnt go, and than you are alone.

Than you write alone.

But the blog is not a tamagotchi. Or a bonsai.
It will stay a blog even if the tram cuts down my head tomorrow.

And that is comforting. That is reassuring.

You always write alone.

Granada

So I have decided to name my unborn child if she will be a girl: Ganada.
To call her Grana. Or Ada. Or Nada.
So this fire burns every time her name is spoken.
So even her signature will resonate duende.
But nobody likes it.
I am not pregnant.

This issue is not urgent.

Shakespeare and Chili con Carne

There is an endless list of what goes on in my domesticity.
I cook in my kitchen.
I direct in my living room.
I write in the study.
And in the bedroom....
In the bedroom...
In the bedroom...
Love sleeps on the pillows.
Love wakes in the morning.
Life rests at night.

Tragedy and Terror in a Mug

The tragedy is when everything is sick: from God to the last pebble everything is wrong somehow.

In tragedies people do things and than they die.

Tragedy is a sort of dramatic form with misfortune or bad deeds at the center.

A real life tragedy is however that I have have no milk for coffee tomorrow.

I will wake and I will despise my empty and cold fridge.

The day will not start. It will benign without me.

And naturally it is minus 40 degrees out, so I can not just buy a semi-pint of milk from MR and Mr vegetable man in my PJ-s.

The silent and objectless terror a winter morning.

Freedom

"Freedom is when you can consume countless chocolate pretzels in the dark of night in your bed.

Another manifestation of freedom is when they don't shoot you ten times when you speak up.

Some freedoms we have, others we don't."

Breath

In such a weird place wright now.
I breathe all funny.
My biorhythm is like a jazz-piece.
My social life is carrot-like.
I don't eat sugar.
I am manufacturing great creative plans.
I am starting a new carrier.
I am having exams at university.
I am temporarily broke.
I am addicted to the internet.
I am addicted to the internet.
I am addicted to the internet.
And I breath all funny.
What is all this about?

I should

I should

- take a shower
- wash my hair
- brush my teeth
- dress up
- make a sandwich
- eat it
-leave the comfort of my flat
-distance myself from the keyboard
- face the world

I should.

2009.01.01

And the morning after thin virgin snow fell on the empty streets.
And they were all sleeping.
And they woke and they didn't want to wake.
Ant they moved the time forward and set their numbers back.
And they feasted on leftovers.
And they listened to Kossuth Radio.