good news, bad news, haiku

there are more
of us than them

but

they have

more guns

The Spectacular World of Post-Fact Demagoguery (love letter to Guy Debord)

I watched on television, like everyone else, and wondered
if the word "carnage" had ever been used in a previous address?
I heard words with no fixed meaning congeal into

alternating 

sen

ten

ces

that would sound 

equally comfortable in

millennial Burlington

or

Munich between the wars.

I watched out the window, like a party insider, and wondered
why they chose to host 30 Republican Governors
overlooking the parade route's designated protest area?

A truly amazing American idea:

"the approved protester"

g

n

i

t

s

i

o

h

a sign reading:

FASCIST

as the motorcade passed by.

Three blocks away

"anarchists"

set fire to 

one car

one trashcan

and smashed

two windows

(no coffee was injured)

Remember what "anarchists" looked like at the end of the last millennium?

 

 

Before the "revolution" of social media?

I watched the following day, like a voyeur, as 

groups gathered in Cumberland Park to raise 

signs and voices and pose for the camera.

Facebook

Instagram

Twitter

ex p  l   o     d        i           n                    g

images

of protests

images

of solidarity

images

of change

"Liberal" media outlets proudly compared:

this inauguration to that.

I watched on Sunday, bleary-eyed, as the Press

Secretary admonished the media for misrepresenting

the image and the absurdity of his admonishment

led to the propagation of more images:

protest

and 

celebration

These images

deafening as cicadas 

left 

me feeling

more sad and afraid

than any time since that cold

Wednesday morning in November.

"The spectacle is not a collection of images... 

it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images."

on Wednesday

Mourning

[sic]

I woke
soul-

sick 

and nauseous

remembering the night before

when I told my three-year old daughter:

tomorrow 

there may be a lady president;

that she might be president someday

if she wanted.

I was overcome by the realization:

her first memories

of the presidency will be of

him

of pussy-grabbing fame
the wall-builder
endorsed by the KKK
the star-spangled banner waning

[sic]

over Mar-a-Lago some years ago
the Muslim banner waxing some years to come.

The bad hombres and

nasty women

have been sharing their

sorrow and fear

and it struck me:

if

things had gone differently
the outpouring would have been
vim and vengeance.

They are all right:

the system is broken

a broken man will lead it.

The Vaccine

Two hours awake

two hours sleeping

two days waiting

– the joys of parenthood

do not include

warding off pertussis

or diphtheria.

Every two months

the dreams of Jonas

colonize my own.

Still on Our Honeymoon... Epilogue

After any experience of duration and interest, the mind seems to have this natural tendency to begin comparing one part to the other – beginning to end, before to after, best to worst. Taken to the extreme, this type of analysis can fragment a single experience into so many pieces that it may never be put back together again, but at the same time this discrimination of the mind is also what allows us to learn, to tell stories, and to play with our reality in a way that prevents us from becoming utterly powerless to the ever-changing world around us.

But this is beside the point.

(Or, at the very least, far too heavy for 9am on a Sunday morning.)

The point is that, almost a month after returning from Europe, whenever I think of our trip I can't help but still feel a special place for Budapest. Pressed to explain this, I find words elusive. It's not as beautiful as Prague, nor as sophisticated as Vienna, but there's something about it that still won't let go of my imagination.

Maybe it was our morning ritual of pointing and grunting at pastries at the neighborhood bakery:

Or perhaps the appreciation for the sensuality of garbanzo beans:

Maybe it was the city's quirky graffiti and street art, which sometimes seemed totally familiar:

And other times made no sense whatsoever:

Don't throw away babies?

The use of English was as concrete as it was creative:

And the city has an appreciation for pink pay phones like no other:

Going to the post office, for instance, becomes an adventure unto itself because even the simple act of pushing a button and taking a number in line takes on epic proportions:

Hmmm....

There are abstract sculptures throughout the city:

Understated memorials to the victims of the Revolution of 1956:

And echoes of communism still reverberating on the rails of the subway:

Where people quietly wait for the next stop as if it were 1977:

And do not eat hamburgers or smoke or snatch purses.

Mustaches, however, are a whole other story.

There is yarn bombing:

And padlock art:

That tells a special kind of history when subjected to closer examination:

Sometimes urinals have advertisements for baby chickens:

And even the airport conspired to frame things differently.

But most of all I remember that language, that beautiful impossible language:

That sounds like this, no matter what was actually said:

Still on Our Honeymoon... Budapest, Day 10 (St. Stephen's Basilica, International Design Show, Danube Cruise)

My yin and I started our last full day in Budapest by heading down to St. Stephen's Basilica:

Where rests the 1,000 year-old holy right hand of St. Stephen himself ("Ishtvan" in Magyar), the first Christian King of Hungary:

Now dismembered and mummified appendages is nothing special for famous European churches, but there was a nice touch to this one: you could drop in 100 forints (about 50 cents) and the small box would light up, illuminating the relic and allowing visitors to see the hand without the glare of the glass case. I wonder what Ishtvan thinks of all this:

"You're going to do what with my hand?"

Anyway, we took obligatory shots of the altar:

And domed ceiling:

Before finally finding our way to the candles:

I don't know why, but ever since I first went to Notre Dame more than a decade ago, I feel compelled to drop a few coins into the box and light a prayer candle whenever I visit a Catholic church:

When I first started this, I didn't attach any specific significance to the act – it just seemed like a nice thing to do.  But this trip I found myself appreciating the ritual itself, and I suppose this is a large part of what draws people to organized religions in the first place.  They fulfill a very basic human need to organize and make sense of a world that often appears to be without order or any guiding force. This is an illusion, of course, but it is a very persuasive illusion. Simple acts like these, repeated tens of thousands of times by tens of thousands of people, connect us back into the larger truth that we are all connected.

[lapse]

When we exited the church, I stumbled onto the bank my yin and I would use if we lived in Budapest:

Any financial institution that has art nouveau on its facade:

And crazy fish holding up its awning is good enough for us:

Next, we hopped a metro and headed away from the city center so we could go to Hõsõk tere ("Heroes' Square"):

Behind my yin, you can see the Millennium Memorial, which was completed in 1900 and exemplifies the same turn of the century exuberance that we saw at the Municipal House in Prague. On one side of the square is the Museum of Fine Arts and on the other is the Palace of Arts, neither of which we visited.  The park behind this monument is home to one of Budapest's famed thermal baths (Schéchenyi), but my yin and I had to pass on this because hot tubbing, even funky geothermal Budapest hot tubbing, wouldn't be good for sidecar. So, we decided to take a walk down the tree-lined Andrassy Way:

Having maintained a pretty ambitious pace for the entire vacation, my yin and I decided to take it easy after lunch and check out some local boutiques:

Which were clearly geared for Western tourists, but still had that funky Budapest vibe:

I'm not quite sure how to describe this atmosphere, except to say that it is halfway between American indy craft culture and post-Soviet aspiration. During this jaunt we stumbled onto a eco-design fair:

 
That epitomized this same impulse – repurposing the past without obfuscating it – and in the process creating an intoxicating, quirksome aesthetic:

Blister pack Tiffany lamp

Mason jar and table leg chandelier

After this, my yin and I went back to hotel to shower and rest up for the main event, a cruise on the Danube that allowed us to see these breathtaking views of Budapest after dark:

Parliament

Chain Bridge and Buda Castle

Matthias Church

Liberty Statue

 

Hungarian National Theater

Palace of the Arts

All set to the sounds of live music:

Suffice to say, we loved it:

And when we finally returned to the dock, we crossed back to the Pest side for a late dinner:

We found Macska our first night in town, calling upon the wisdom of the interwebs to find a vegetarian restaurant. As you might guess from the marquee, macska translates to "cat" in English:

Funky hand rails in the upstairs loft.

The first time we went to Macska, it was a quite Wednesday night, and the own (who spoke excellent English) made us feel more welcome than any other restaurant on our vacation. The hand-written English menu had several vegetarian takes on traditional Hungarian cuisine and, for reasons still unclear to me, burritos. She gave us salty biscuits called pogača, which might be Magyar for "delicious."

This was Friday, however, and the entire downstairs was packed with Hungarian twenty-somethings playing foosball and drinking imported beers.  (Hungarian wine? Yes. Hungarian beer? Not so much.) My yin and I were able to find a spot upstairs, though, and plopped down on the cushions strem across the floor of the loft. Next to us was the funkiest radio I have ever seen, which allowed you to tune into countries as opposed to frequencies:

We spent the next couple of hours lounging and eating and savoring our final night in Budapest. We gave thanks for the opportunity to travel, to be together, and to be embarking on the next chapter of our live. At times it still seems almost like a fairy tale:

Erzsébet Bridge, Budapest, October 2012