you are just like me who have never really had a home

 

ez a blog az emlékhelyem 

amikor nyaranta negyven fokban levegőtlen panelszobákban

írtam ittam filmeket néztem 

délután útnak indultam

hol maradnak a kirándulások

vajon a város megtartja

a lenyomatokat

útjaim vonalát 

alagutakat vájatokat járatokat

a szív belsejébe 

puha tenyérben a hideg szike

biblában felejtett kikerics 

nagyot koppan amit itt felejtenek

there will be no love for me

I can recall the very first day of school: it was the beginning of September, soft air enveloped me, like the smell of cake that has been left out to cool slowly on the window porch. Also, the teachers were extremely upbeat for no specific reason, unless they expected us to be somewhat recklessly enthusiastic for school. Well, I was not excited whatsoever, only my stomach hurt because I had a very quick and nervous breakfast, something totally different than my usual white-bread sandwich that my mom would always made for me and my sister. I had, or at least this is the extent to which I can recall this, a huge bowl of sugary cereal, extremely chewy and smacky for me to properly enjoy it, so I just rushed it down, chewing just every other bite.
Ich habe tschüss zur Mutti und Vati gesagt, sie sind in der Vorgangstür gestanden, beide zu nervös zu sagen Wiedersehen. Ich erinnere mich sehr klar daran, dass Mutti die Hand meines Vaters geholfen hat, wie es ein Brötchen gewesen wäre. An dem Tag, den ich bis heute als 'Doomsday' nennen, war ich voll mit Begeisterung, Erwartungen, doch nichts hat gut herausgekommen.

trickster

Forms of movement: having three languages to pick a word from. The freedom of expression it is, one would suggest, however, my tongue is split, there are too many boundaries that stop me. Or as Kafka'd put it: "your love is a knife with which I am exploring my body." How can a sentence daunt me into oblivion? Or an object? Is there a special set of boundaries that make me whimper, scare me, trigger me, humiliate me? Is my fear only viable when I have boundaries to face? What is crossing a boundary, how can I overcome such a limitation? Does learning a foreign language mean less or more borders, boundaries?
Grenzen, man muss so zu sagen.
And what is up with questions, what is this tradition of asking questions? Is this first and foremost because of Descartes? Will I ever un-learn my ability to doubt, to question things in their form, their boundaries, to reflect on the special set of objects, whether material or virtual ones? Is doubt, endless questioning a good thing at all? Or would the world be a better, liveable place without self-doubt? 

My language has come a long way, it has evolved into a multi-dimensional tool of self-expression. Kifejezni magam a világba.
A határaim, noha nem tudom őket pontosan megnevezni, az érzékelésem által többé-kevésbé megállapíthatók.
The body in pain, it has certain boundaries, borders, too.
Actually, I have just recently bought a book on the body in pain, on how it is defined or at least pseudo-defined by language.
Whatever. All my focus is set on learning German, I will see how it turns out.
Let me be a seated guest at your house, I promise, I will entertain you at all costs. 

might seduce your dad type

honestly, around this time of the year, i simply go nuts. may, the month i mean, is so damn problematic, there is the finals, the neverending job-finding sessions - e.g. when you are trying to squeeze your resumé in to whichever platform you find, literally praying your guts off in hopes of receiving at least one single feedback, but obviously job market per se is a basket case, so to sum it up, your guts always tell the truth, listen to your gut-instinct, duh - and there comes the urge to diet your ass off, too. all in all, i am a big and unorganized mess of dieting sprees, reading, studying (sort of) and also, finishing my thesis, as it is really high time to hand it in. huh, and simultaneously i am trying to learn german, as the vocabulary part is a mammoth-sized gaping hole in my head. i have to expand it. and here i am, yet again with them lexical problems of mine. how boring, how predictable. anyways, i have just finished Wasted by Mary Hornbacher, she is a true genious, albeit i am no sucker for that english word-wizardry. but she does it in such a flawless, effortless way that my heart breaks whenever i read one of her sentences. the good thing is, she is writing about something cruel in such a minimalist, cold, down-to-earth tone, almost emotionless so to speak that it rips my heart out, what a coincidence. i would chop my leg off  (just kidding, always watch out what you wish for) if i had the tool she has in writing. in german, in english. poetry, prose!
bruises on both my knees, the language i wish to use is difficult to obtain, duh.
also, which is my favourite german word as well, i am officially off to the german part of my brain, bye, so long!

love is a doing word

látta a sárga fényben, ahogy a szélek megindulnak felfelé, valahogy kifúródnak saját magukból, és mintegy felpuffadva, akár egy érett szilva, szétrobbannak a falak irányába.

téli