Dear July, seventeen to twenty: Budapest heat.

Dear July,

Today, a rather dark rainy heat-up-some-chicken-soup-to-make-yourself-feel-better kind of Monday, I’ve been thinking about Hungary.

The year I turned twelve, my family spent the summer in Budapest. My Dad was working over there for a few months, so we went to be with him. It was hot. The hottest it had been in years, apparently. We watched a lot of BBC World in our little apartment (the only TV channel in English and we grew thirsty for words we recognised) and there were continual cries of ‘Heat wave! Heat wave!’ on the news. On the days we went into the city – our feet clapping in flip flops, collecting dust from the streets – we’d practically sprint from one café to the next, buying bottles of cold water or Lipton’s lemon iced tea to gulp down. We spent all of our days in shorts or swimming costumes, jumping and splashing into the blue pool outside, diving for coins with goggles sucked onto to our faces. We had to sleep with the fan on full and windows cracked open – the sound of crickets and dogs barking and the opera singer next door practicing scales echoing long into the night.

We wiped watermelon juice from our chins, and licked peach juice off our wrists. We ate lemon sorbet ice-cream every other day. We put ketchup on pizza like the locals. We ate the best thing I've ever eaten - a big deep-fried fritter-type thing topped with sour cream and grated cheese called 'Lángos' - and have never found again since. Almost every time we went out for dinner, we’d order 'cucumber salad' as a side: cucumbers soaked in a vinaigrette dressing. One time we ordered ‘Grandma’s special cucumber salad’ because the name made us laugh, but when it arrived, it was just a plate of fat dill pickles (which forevermore made us suspicious of food described as ‘special’). They had bizarre translations for things on the menus. ‘Diced curd with graves’ was one option on the desert menu (literally no idea). ‘Chicken throat shaped pasta’ was another.

We went to the circus while we were there – silver clad trapeze artists, cats jumping from great heights onto red cushions. We visited a park full of old communist statues. We went to Lake Balaton and felt the mud squelching between our toes. We went into supermarkets so big the staff had to roller-skate from one end to the next. We bought vegetables that came straight from the fields, meaning they hadn’t been prettified, meaning the closer you got to the produce stalls, the stronger the smell got, meaning sometimes you’d pick up a nectarine and it would look deliciously juicy face up, but when you turned it over the reverse side would be crawling with flies. 

♥

Living in a country where we were constantly faced with things we didn’t know – food, words, buildings, customs – could have been a small disaster. The three of us – my brother, my sister, me – were still quite young so were prone to whining, as children sometimes are (‘Whatsthat?’ ‘Idontlikeit.’ ‘Idontwantit’ ‘Whatsthat?’). But that summer knocked it out of us, I think. We had so much fun, and my Mum taught us to think of everything as "an experience".

‘We might not like it,’ she said. ‘But it’s all an experience, so we’ll just give it a go.’

‘It’s an experience,’ has now became short-hand for: ‘That was weird, but strangely wonderful’. By the end of the summer, we’d all grown a few inches; our hair had turned a few shades lighter, our skin had turned a few shades darker, and we’d stopped complaining as much. We spent the last few weeks laughing our heads off at things that no one seemed to find as funny as us when we got back home – ‘Well, you just had to be there, I guess.’ – but that was okay. We didn’t mind (#heatstroke).

♥

I came across Anya Silver’s poem 'Doing Laundry in Budapest' today, which set me off on this path of reminiscing. (Forgive me. I hope this post isn't too long or self-indulgently nostalgic to read.) We have no photographs of it – they all got lost – but it’s a summer I remember in warm bursts of colour. Orange and browns and reds.

Silver (the poet I was reading today) writes about pickles, and covering her shoulders to get into churches, and the begging ladies on the street who sold half-dead flowers to passers-by and I recognised the images in her words: I’ve been there, I thought. I’ve seen those things. I’ve eaten those pickles. I bought those flowers. 

♥

(Pictures - letters of the Hungarian alphabet - by: Anna Kövecses. 

Also: this song by reminds me so much of being there - it was 2003, after all. My sister and I listened to Delta Goodrem's album on repeat the first night we were there. We'd somehow managed to convince ourselves that there were terrorists running about outside our hotel so were trying to distract ourselves. Like I said, we were pretty young and had poor geographical knowledge so we had no idea where in the world Hungary actually was. Ha.)

an ordinary mystery.

So I want to write about my pumpkin-spice-infused visit to the States last month (I don't think I've fully adjusted to being back in rainy Glasgow yet. Such a good trip and such lovely friends). Before that though... I wanted to write a small something about the literary magazine I’m involved in setting up at university.

It’s called Quotidian (meaning ‘ordinary’ or ‘everyday’), and will be launching online in Jan/Feb 2015 with poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction and beautiful images from students across Scotland. (Cue part where I look directly into the camera and say in a velvet voice: ‘If you’re a student studying in Scotland and are interested in writing then check out our website at double-you-double-you-double-you-dot…’ Ho ho. Just kidding*). Anyway! Just to say: keep an eye out for the magazine. I hope you'll like it. And here's a fun thing that happened relating to it:

On a drizzly Wednesday afternoon earlier this week, we (the 'Quotidian team') took a group of students (willing volunteers) on a ‘mystery field trip’ to help them gather some writing-inspiration. It was a ‘mystery’ in so far as we didn’t tell them where we were going until we’d stepped off the bus, got our feet wet walking through puddle-filled car-parks, and crossed a busy road or two till we found ourselves staring at...

IKEA!** Land of the Everyday. (The obvious location for a writing workshop, right?)

The idea of the day was to try and encourage everyone to look at ordinary things with fresh eyes. To slow down and notice – really notice – the things that most of us, most of the time, don’t really pay attention to. As one writer's put it: 'it's not so much interesting things but unique ways of seeing ordinary things that makes the most original and satisfying fiction' (words: Lesley Glaister). Hear hear. (Although I think her words apply to all writing, not just fiction).

We sat in fake kitchens, we noticed clocks and lace curtains and identical bookshelves. We watched people testing out mattresses, we got lost when we strayed from the arrows. (We did not eat meatballs.) We looked closely, listened deeply, tried to see the 'familiar things' all around as unfamiliar, as new and unusual. And some pretty good writing ideas were born (we sat round a fake fireplace when we all came back together again and chatted about what we’d noticed.)

A jolly fun day. Here are three things I spotted:

[one.] Mirrors. Lots of them. I kept catching myself just walking ‘out of frame’, like my reflection was made of the same stuff as Pan’s shadow. Like it didn’t quite belong to me. Like it wanted me to chase it.

[two.] A red-jumpered three-year-old sitting in a shopping trolley being fed chocolate by a (seemingly body-less) arm as though he was a little monkey in a cage.

[three.] These Characters from Red Riding Hood toys (above) with tiny eat-able grannys. Slightly disturbing I think. (But if you buy them, one euro goes to UNICEF apparently. Good to know that even if your child is traumatised, at least someone else’s is benefiting).

Stay tuned!

Notes:

*(Seriously though: if you are a student studying in Scotland interested in writing for us then you can find out more: here. Or @quotidianmag on twitter.)  

**Is it IKEA or Ikea? I always want to capitalise it… but I’m not sure if that gives the impression I’m shouting. (“IKEAAAAAA!!”)

come away to a quiet place

This weekend, I took the train to Perth for a silent retreat at St Mary’s Monastery, Kinnoull. 

It was a trip with two intentions: One.) to take focussed time out of my regular routine to be still, reflect, re-centre; and two.) to pay close attention to the sounds, textures, light quality, atmosphere etc of living in the house itself (...research for the novel. The monastery is an example of neo-gothic architecture and shares aspects with the house in my story).

Sitting on the train up – suitcase on the seat beside me, my journal open on my lap – I felt slightly apprehensive. Travelling alone is always – I hesitate to say ‘nerve-wracking’. That’s too strong. But there’s something different about going places alone. There’s no one to hide behind or lean into. 

You have to pay attention in a different way than you would if you were with other people. You have to stay alert – stand boldly and speak up. I also wasn’t at all sure what to expect. What was I going to do when I got there? What would I say? Would I have to explain myself? What if I went that shy way I go when I’m nervous? Why exactly had I decided to come again? (etc, etc.)

My worries, though, were unfounded. Such a restorative ‘enriching’ weekend (which went far beyond simply being ‘useful’ for gathering authentic story details). It was beautiful. Quiet. Peaceful.

Birdsong filtering through the wind as I wrote by the window in my little room. The sound of footsteps scuffing on the stone stairs. The warm smell of varnish as my fingers slid down, down, across the wooden banisters. Light silhouettes from arched patchwork-glass windows falling across the carpet in the oratory – appearing and disappearing, appearing and disappearing – as the priest read aloud psalms in the morning in his deep voice.

The smell of roast chicken filling the whole house before lunch. Eating in silence and tasting, really tasting, each burst of flavour. Whispered ‘thank-you’s in the kitchen. Plates clinking in the sink. Walking in the gardens, sticks and pinecones cracking underfoot, apple blossom branches dipping and bouncing in the wind. My fringe blowing across my face. Closing my eyes: the feel of air rushing against my skin, the force of the wind almost knocking me back, back. 

Back inside – the sound of someone whistling in the hallway. Golden light causing the trees below to glow. Sweeping crumbs from homemade scones into my hand. Daylight fading as we – me and nine other women – sat together in silence. Latin words sung without music. The window in my bedroom rattling, shaking, at night. Waking, after a deep sleep, to the sound of birdsong. Again. Their song coming gently through the wind.

Ah, it was beautiful. And interesting how refreshing just being quiet was. Being quiet, and listening. Not checking my phone every three minutes – not trying to think up chitchat while eating dinner – not playing music full volume while I got dressed. Just being – paying attention and finding space to think and let words from the day properly soak in. I want to leave more space for silence now that I’m back home. The world is noisy, but there are moments of quiet. I just need to listen out for them.

(Pictures taken on my iPhone throughout the weekend. My phone is the main reason I am unable to be still and rest most of the time. It beeps and purrs and flashes and whistles and I have very little self control when it comes to leaving it alone. It is a great Time Waster. But I am grateful for the camera. It helps me see ordinary details as artworks.)

I was once a tall tree

I noticed this toilet-door graffiti in the Mitchell Library in Glasgow*. There were the usual graffiti suspects scrawled over the door (e.g. ‘Yer maw!’ or ‘Lucy + Gregg 4eva!!’ [enclosed in a crudely shaped heart] and so on), but I liked how a few of these were quite poetic (and uplifting). I've never met anyone who has admitted to writing on toilet doors. I wonder what gives people the urge to do it:

('If you are reading this then be happy. 'Cause, hey! You are alive')

('One day you will be loved the way I am. You deserve it, trust me.')

('Choose life.')

('I was once a tall tree/I was once a child')

♥

*Incidentally, I was at the Mitchell Library during the Aye Write! Festival – a wonderful book festival which runs every year over a few weeks in the spring. Over the past few years I’ve heard lots of interesting writers including David Aaronovitch, Germaine Greer, Julian Baggini, Susie Orbach, and others. (I’ve yet to go and hear a poet or a novelist. This will be a must for next year...)

The evening these pictures were taken was quite exciting as, rather than going to listen to a reading, I was actually giving a reading along with two other students from my year at university. (I’d received an award for a piece of flash fiction as part of Strathclyde University’s writing completion: the Keith Wright Memorial Award, judged by Ewan Morrison.) An amazing – if slightly nerve-wracking – experience! My first ever public reading, and also the first ever time I've been given a spot of money for a piece of writing. 

good news! good news!

I remember having a conversation with my friend at the start of third year. We were on the way to a lecture, waiting outside the library to cross the road. I think it was raining because I seem to remember looking out at the traffic* from under an umbrella. We were wondering who would take over the editor positions for the university newspaper next year and I can remember saying something like:

‘I don’t think I’d be able to do it. It would be good, but it seems like so much work on top of everything else.’**

[Flash-forward to a few months later (the 11^th of May to be exact) where I’m at an AGM meeting, standing in front of a group of students giving a speech about why I should be Features Editor]

So, this is a post just to say that... I’ve been elected 'Features Editor' of the Strathclyde Telegraph for the next academic year!! I’m very excited (and a little nervous... there’s a lot to learn)! It's a fantastic opportunity! I’ll keep you all posted on how that goes!

♥

*Speaking of traffic... my mum was showing me these roadsafety videos from when she was a wee girl. Hilarious, and slightly disturbing.

 **It’s funny the things you think you’ll never be able to do! One thing I’ve recognised about myself is that my instant reaction to most things is:

‘No! Absolutely not. (But thanks all the same.)'

(Not quite sure why that is... possibly a symptom of being an introvert, or a born-worrier.) I’ve been trying to hold off saying these words out loud as much as possible and give myself time to properly mull things over. Once I’ve thought about them I often come round to liking whatever idea it was I was so determined agaisnt earlier. O! to be one of those fearless, instinctively brave sort of people. (I guess, though, those sort of people, if they exist, are a rare breed...)

♥

(Pictures from: Oh My Cavalier)

exciting news!

I am a Features columnist for my university newspaper this year (the Strathclyde Telegraph)! Very exciting! I’m writing a 650 word column every month along the ‘something I noticed’ theme. The first edition is out tomorrow... just thought I’d pass the news on!

♥

(picture from: here.)

the difference between wine and tea.

♥ 

Our kitchen seems to have become host to a plethora of flowers. They are quite lovely to look at. Cheerful. I was finishing up an assignment over the weekend and decided to work in there for a change. Less stuffy than my room, and no internet connection. (I did manage to find another way to procrastinate, though. With the camera. Ah dear.)

We found tea in the cupboard that's twelve years out of date. Twelve years! Ever one's to do things 'just for the experience' though, we still tried it. Suffice to say, it wasn't very nice. It tasted like smoked cheese. Yuck.



♥