Dan's Words

So you wake up one morning and nothing is pouring out of you except manic free writing and feelings of confusion like rain. Delving into the deeper nature of verbal jazz and arriving at the door with a handful of fluff to offer your hosts, and they kick you out, saying "get back to your houses until you can learn to write like Burroughs and make it WORK." So you shove off towards that known horizon, realizing the plan was only ever in the back of your head and maybe written on the back of your hand, if you were feeling responsible that day, but never really realized. You do not truly Know that horizon, only imagine it constantly and speak of it. You lost the touch of divine inspiration and out of you now flows foolish self-contemplation, which proves useless to your listeners. So instead you tune into A Love Supreme and try to lyricize your own narcissistic eternal internal ballad in a way more easily identified with for those who prefer the cynical yet hopeful tongue-in-cheek method of communicating. And here it is.

I’ve borrowed these lines above from someone who once captured the vanity and paralysis of creation at its most vulnerable. A perfect picture of a moment, a photograph of a situation existing only where there is a need for fulfillment. The heart, the head and the hand working in unparalleled symphony just to brush the feeling with a stroke on the canvas. And there I laid unable to move, for he said everything I am feeling right now. He had words to help him live through the rough. I’ve always imagined I had words to help me cope with his absence. Even on a foggy day, when he saw no direction and was crying out for help, he used words to channel all his excess energies from bad to good. I’ve borrowed these lines above from someone whose ghost I’m getting ever closer to taming.

I have a rose. I have a rosebud. I’m loving it and feeding it and watching it grow. It’s growing tall, it’s growing beautiful. In my spiraling soul mutilation that I carry out as a ritual from time to time with the aid of my past love, I manage to entwine objects and cities and feelings and words and thoughts with only him. Offering nothing exclusive, the rose becomes just an object of memory. The symbolic nature of everything that surrounds me sometimes burdens the wings of my imagination, but I feel I need to be fuelled by the things gone through me so there’s meaning, at least for me. The rose was I. The Rose was the Little Prince’s. The story was ours and the book landed with him. So the fact that I now nurture a rose, that I have a rosebud who is only mine and who will bloom only for me, is greatly symbolic in me facing the ghost that he is, that his love is.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

This is more of a burden than a sweet memory. I long to shed the things that lock his name forever in my memory. I hope my rose will help me. I hope he at least suspects that I do feel and will forever feel responsible, that feeling responsible can be nothing else than feeling love. But I’m free and have for a long time been walking away and that makes me proud of me and of my rose and of my memories and of my love for him.

"Good morning," said the roses.

The little prince gazed at them. They all looked like his flower.

"Who are you?" he demanded, thunderstruck.

"We are roses," the roses said.

And he was overcome with sadness. His flower had told him that she was the only one of her kind in all the universe. And here were five thousand of them, all alike, in one single garden!

Do You Remember?

Moz and I were on our mini holiday in January 2002 visiting London. Not only the prospect of spending a few days together was exciting, but more so the fact that at the end of that trip I was going to see my biggest star perform live: Jewel. We saw what we had to and on a Saturday we went to Notting Hill. It was a Saturday because we were at the Portobello Road Market. Everything was new and busy; it was quaint – though I most distinctly despise to use this word to describe anything of significance or value-. Somehow it sparkled. Emma, Kate, Bruno, Moz and I were wandering the streets and suddenly the sky turned purple and we were caught in a hailstorm. When the inexplicable phenomenon subsided and our excitements wore off we realised that Kate’s bag had been robbed of her most important possessions. We searched for a police station and spent another hour sitting there, filing a report. My phone rang: “Hi mom! We’re at a police station in Notting Hill. Kate’s stuff’s been stolen.” – but my enthusiasm didn’t wear off. Another unfortunate lady before us was trying to find sympathy: there are pickpockets everywhere. Emma made sandwiches and we had them in the waiting room of the police station. Those were the best egg mayonnaise sandwiches I’ve ever had in my life.

It was around 2 am; it must have been a weekend because I was up as well. On weekdays when I pretended to be an important BBC employee I was in bed sooner. It was one of those warm early summer nights when the balcony door was open and Babs, Bruno and I were having a world changing conversation. Diego was taking a shower. He liked to not only listen to music, but sing along as well. He knew little of the lyrics, so Madonna’s “like a prayer” sounded something like this: “I’ll take you there………..I’ll be there………take you there” with continuous humming in the middle. That night he was listening to Capital FM full blast to drown out the sounds of the water splashing. The doorbell rang. A furious neighbour who wanted to sleep at 2 am came complaining. Bruno opened the door: “It’s not me. Calm down, I’ll take care of it”. Lots of shouting till Diego heard we wanted him to turn off the music. The neighbour probably never forgave.

There is video documentation of this event. My 19th and Moz’s 18th birthday party, April 2001. My house in Birre, Cascais, Portugal. We were young and my parents were away. After about 5 tequilas and when most people went home, the champagne appeared. Moz, Bea, Catherine, Bruno, Andy, Taki, Miguel and I. I’m sure it was one of the boys who thought of the great idea to not drink the champagne, but shake it, sprinkle it and shower each other with it. We were soaking and were having the time of our lives. Running around on my porch, sticking of the sweet cheap champagne that we bought that day at Jumbo. There was a lot of screaming and a lot of complaining mostly from Moz, but Andy got his share as well. Then came the whipped cream: chantilly. How that got started had nothing to do with me. I was just concerned that the whole house will be covered in it and I’d have to clean up the mess. In the end, all out of breath, laughing and sticking and stinking from alcohol, sugar, cream and sweat we started munching away on some crackers in the kitchen. Bea was drunk because she was hugging everyone. Catherine was traumatised by Mico attacking her. Moz fell asleep. Bruno never ceased to be funny. Miguel was filming all along. Andy had cream in his hair and decided from then on to use that as gel. I was just happy and silly and young.

Summer of 2003: an amazing festival in Kapolcs, a tiny little village in Hungary. The Valley of Arts. Dió, Feri and I headed out there to enjoy the arts and to enjoy each other’s company. After getting up early, travelling by train - which was packed by like minded young people all heading down for the opening of the festival like us - we arrived at the city of Veszprém to change to a bus going to Kapolcs. The bus was full and it was hot. We were carrying bags, food, tent, all the supplies needed for a week. Finally we got there. Finally we got to the garden we were going to camp in. We were tired and sweaty. Then came the realisation that none of us had any idea how to set up the tent. It was a borrowed tent – we’re not great campers. We looked baffled as to what to do with the wires and knots and nails and ropes. It was the most fun I’ve had, setting up that tent. Photos record the triumphant looks on our faces afterwards: yes we did it! Then lots of little adventures awaited us those coming few days, like brushing my teeth at a street water pump and stirring up the silence with my electric toothbrush. Like the torrential rain that left our shoes and our everything soaking wet. Like the endless fun we had and still draw from as friends. The deep friendship that I share with those two people.

A Saturday, we spent the whole day together: Diego, Nadia and I. It was just one of those days that started with a coffee in Coffee Republic. I arrived with my newly bought books, among them F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby”. Great friends, great coffee, great conversation. We were deciding whether Nadia should go to New York or Boston for her PhD. I was an advocate for New York, solely for the merits of the city, not because I know anything about the Rockefeller Center. Diego was pushing for the “red brick” university. For a while we wondered the streets of Marylebone and then decided to go back to Nadia’s place. We ordered pizza – Diego had his with mayonnaise and swore by it. We watched a movie “sidewalks of new york”, with no intention to sway Nadia. Our trio is a great one. A few months later we went to Brussels to stay at Nadia’s parents’ house. Then we went off in different directions: Nadia ended up in Boston, Diego stayed in London, and I came to Budapest.

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”