Nyílik a szem (The eye opens)

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This morning, on the way to the Dallas Institute, I was listening to 1LIFE’s song “Kopog a szív” and getting caught up in the phrase “nyílik a szem” (“the eye opens”). The song lands on it, by surprise, and repeats it, and returns to it, and stays there; the song is about a lot of things, but part of it is about suddenly seeing what is going on. To me, its montage of images tells a story, or two; different listeners will hear different stories in it.

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It fit well (though unintentionally) with today’s discussions of Sophocles’ Oedipus the King and yesterday’s of Aeschylus’s Eumenides, both having to do with the opening of the eyes (as tragedy generally does). When things (like a song and a play) come together without planning, they set off many thoughts. I was thinking all day about having the eyes opened and what this can mean in different forms and places: in the plays we are reading, in this song, and beyond. When your eyes are opened to yourself, whether in tragedy or in song, there are two sides to it: you realize what you have done, and you realize who you are. Also, this opening of the eyes can’t be taken back. It can be terrible or joyful, but it’s there for good.

It isn’t just an intellectual consideration; I think of vivid moments in my life when my eyes were opened in some way, through a meeting with another person, through accident, through loss, through poetry, through learning, through mistakes.

The song opened up to me slowly over the past months; I enjoyed its melody and rhythm from the start but needed some time to grasp the lyrics, since I am still far from fluent in Hungarian. I remember hearing it in concert (at Európa-nap, I think) and suddenly understanding “nyílik a szem.” The rest came from there. It is now one of my favorite 1LIFE songs. (I have previously commented here on “Maradok ember” and “Kapcsolj ki!“)

Here is a video of the song, which contains the lyrics; and below it, my tentative translation. I took a few liberties and may have made some outright mistakes. It is a start; I will make corrections and improvements over time. “Szem” can be taken in a singular or plural sense. I first translated it as “eyes” (“the eyes open”) but later my eye opened and I changed my mind. “Eye” in English can also have a general or plural meaning, and all the other images in the chorus are singular (or archetypal).  “Nyílik a szem” could also be translated as “the eye is opened,” but that suggests that it has already happened, whereas here it seems to be happening right in the moment. “The eye opens” does not fit the rhythm of the song, even in translation–but it is more vivid and direct than the alternatives I considered. So I will leave it as is.

over the housetops, the sky
in the lonely streets, the wind
see our brain does not converse
gut and feeling, what goes with them?

infinity is in our cells
fear resides in our bones
suddenly a stroke of luck
makes our fingers interlock

winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, the heart knocks

this is all that our eyes see
from the sky a cloud cries onto us
the truth has no clothes
our empty room is overcrowded

winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, it stands in the door,
it waits for the key, the lock gives way,
quiet in the room, order on the shelf,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens, the eye opens

winter comes, summer goes
it would come but can’t find its way
on goes the light, click of machine
the ice melts, but the heart knocks,
the heart knocks, it stands in the door,
it waits for the key, the lock gives way,
quiet in the room, order on the shelf,
the eyes opens, the eye opens,
the eye opens

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I took all three photos today. The first and third are of the Dallas Institute; the second, of the dashboard of my rental car. The video was made by Zsombor Papp; the song “Kopog a szív” is by 1LIFE, and its lyrics are by Marcell Bajnai.

I made a few additions and an important correction to this piece after posting it: “kopog a szív” means “the heart knocks,” not “the heart beats.”This correction is important because first of all, it’s accurate; second, it’s a fresher image than “the heart beats”; and third, it goes with the door, lock, and everything else. It affects everything. Also, I commented a little more on “nyílik a szem” (which I first translated as “the eyes open” but then changed to “the eye opens”).

Friendship and Place

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The past few days have reminded me how friendship and place go together. I associate friends with certain places; when we meet in those places, old memories get layered with the new; when we meet in a new place, it can bring something out of the friendship. I will not talk here about the conversations I had with various friends; that is not for reporting on the blog. There must be something that a person can keep offline. But I will say a little about the places, in reverse chronological order.

Yesterday afternoon I arrived in Dallas, and that evening I went with my dear colleagues and friends to Gloria’s, the Salvadoran, Tex-Mex, and Mexican restaurant that we have visited so many times. I did not take pictures, but the conversation and meal are fresh in my mind.

On Tuesday evening, a friend and I met at the New Leaf restaurant in Fort Tryon Park (in the Washington Heights neighborhood of NYC). Both of us had been there before, but not together. She lives right by the park; so did I, in the two years before I moved to Hungary. The photo at the top is of the park as I walked through it after dinner.

On my way to dinner, I walked through the long subway tunnel at 190th Street.

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Earlier in the day, I went with another friend to the New York Public Library. (Both he and the friend I first mentioned were also my colleagues at Columbia Secondary School.) We had gotten together there before, but this occasion was different; his wife, who works at the library, arranged for us to see the Lewis Carroll and Charles Dickens special collections; this included the copy of Alice in Wonderland that Carroll dedicated and presented to Alice Liddell, as well as the copy of A Christmas Carol, replete with handwritten cuts and edits, that Dickens used for his public readings. After that, we got to see the very first handwritten copy of the Declaration of Independence, in the hand of Thomas Jefferson. It was difficult to take a good picture of it; here is one of my attempts.

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Before and after the Declaration of Independence, we went to the children’s reading room, where his two children were playing, and saw the original Winnie the Pooh toys.

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That morning I met with a friend in Edgar’s Café, which has become our traditional meeting place. It is named after Edgar Allan Poe; its original location was on Edgar Allan Poe Street between West End Avenue and Broadway. It was there, right on or near that street, that Poe lived from March 1844 to August 1845; it was supposedly there that he wrote “The Raven.” I didn’t take any pictures, but here’s one I took in February, when I came to NYC for two days to give a book reading and had breakfast with the same friend. (Neither of us appears in the photo.)

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The previous evening, I met with a friend in a gorgeous apartment on Washington Square Park (it belongs to one of her family members, who was away). We had never met there before; it ended up hosting a good, long conversation. I took no pictures indoors, but here’s one of a street corner nearby. The arched windows of the tall building across the street were glittering in the sun, but the picture doesn’t catch that.

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On the way there, I passed by the Stonewall National Monument. It was the day after the Pride Parade, so it was quiet (but still full of visitors). I missed the parade on Sunday–well, I could have caught the end of it, probably, but was too tired and jet-lagged to realize this. The quiet walk was good, in any case.

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Each of these places was beautiful, and just right for each of the meetings with friends–but I think it’s partly because I was alert to them. Living in Szolnok has made me more aware of places and their relation to people. I think of the rivers, the school, the library, the places where the banketts were held, the Tiszavirág Fesztivál grounds, the Tiszavirág bridge, the café where I met weekly this year with Böbi and Tündi, the many streets I got to know by bike, the buildings whose history I am slowly beginning to learn. A person not only becomes part of a place, but gives something through it, so that the place becomes a messenger, but the opposite of Hermes and Iris, since it needs no wings but rather does its work by standing still.

“…használhatatlanná váltak…”

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After doing some last-minute errands before tomorrow’s trip across the seas, I decided to return to the exhibit–at the corner of Szapáry and Kossuth–of the history of some of Szolnok’s old buildings. I had attended the opening at 7 p.m. on June 22, the Night of the Museums, which coincided with the last day of the Tiszavirág Fesztivál. Zsolt Bajnai, who wrote the text and contributed some of the pictures, spoke about the exhibit and the buildings described in it; Marcell Bajnai opened and closed the event with a few of his songs.* I lingered a few minutes afterward to look at the pictures but knew I needed more time. Today I took a few minutes, not enough, but something.

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I began reading about the 1969 fire in the center of Szolnok. This sentence caught my attention: “A baleset utáni vizsgálat nyilvánvalová tette, hogy az üzletterek és a raktárak lényegében használhatatlanná váltak, azaz Szolnok akkori legnagyobb áruháza megsemmisült.” (The investigation after the accident made it clear that the business spaces and warehouses had essentially become unusable; that is, Szolnok’s largest department store at that time had been destroyed.)

Even within such a sad topic, how magnificent the word “használhatatlanná”! It consists of the root “haszon” (advantage, benefit, use) and four suffixes: the verb-forming suffix “ál,” the potential suffix -hat, the privative suffix -atlan, and the translative suffix -vá, which gets converted to “ná.” (I first learned about the translative case—my favorite of the cases—when  learning “Maradok ember,” which has the phrase “viharrá lettél.”) The phrase “használhatatlanná váltak” can be translated as “became unusable.” But how do you translate its length, its parts and whole, its metamorphosis, its six-time “a/á” vowel sound, the double occurrences of the consonant sounds h, l, t, and n, the last of which actually occurs triply, since it is doubled the second time? That word alone made the foray worthwhile, but it was just a fraction of what I saw and read there, between rush and rush, before leaving the country for five weeks.

*Regular readers of this blog have probably seen the Bajnai name come up often; yes, the Bajnai family contributes richly to cultural life in Szolnok and beyond, together and individually. I admire their work and look forward to knowing and understanding it better over time. I have begun translating Kata Bajnai’s play Farkasok (Wolves), which I saw for the second time on June 22, just a few hours before this opening.

From Ballagás to Bankett

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Here in Hungary, after students finish the last of their school-leaving exams, they might have a special dinner at a restaurant, a “bankett,” (like a banquet but not exactly the same), to which they invite their teachers. It’s a chance to spend time together and talk informally. I went to two such celebrations this year and had a great time at both. Serious and light conversations, warm atmosphere, enthusiastic hosts (the students, who made sure we all had plenty to eat and drink). This is all so different from the customs in the U.S. that I want to say a little more about it. I wrote about the serenades and ballagas already. Now for the exams and bankett.

After the ballagás (a ceremony that takes place twice–at school and in the city–after the seniors have finished their classes), the seniors begin taking their exams in several rounds, in a range of subjects. First come the written exams, which (like most of the oral exams) they may take at the standard or advanced level. The standard-level exams are administered by the school; the advanced exams, by the district (and at a location other than the school). Then come advanced oral exams, also administered by the district. After finishing all of this, the students take their standard-level oral exams, which are usually administered by their own teachers in the various subjects. There are oral exams in physics, biology, chemistry, languages, Hungarian language and literature, history, music, informatics, civilization, and more. Not everyone takes every exam; typically, at this stage, students take two or three, depending on what they have taken already and what they need for the university.

I administered the American and British Civilization oral exam to eighteen students in two classes. In addition, I administered two standard-level English exams (since all my other twelfth-grade students from those two classes took the advanced exam). I also sat in the room and listened while other exams were being given; that was part of my responsibility, but it was also an honor.

I did this last year as well and enjoyed it, but this time I understood much more. At its best, the oral exam is a dialogue between student and teacher. The student comes in the room, walks up to the teacher administering his or her first exam, chooses an envelope at random (which contains the specific topic), and sits down to prepare for at least half an hour. When called up–only one student takes the exam at a time–he or she goes to the examination seat across from the teacher, and begins to speak about the topic. Once the initial presentation is over, the teacher poses questions and the student responds.

I saw several physics exams, each of which involved a different experiment–one with a pendulum, one with an electric current, and one that I don’t remember. I listened to a music exam, which started with some theory and sight singing and ended with the student rising and singing a Bartók song magnificently. I heard Hungarian literature (including world literature) exams on topics ranging from Homer to Kafka to Radnóti, and Hungarian grammar exams on vowel harmony, etymology, and logic. History was one of the most dazzling experiences; students spoke in detail about topics from ancient Greek democracy to the rule of Szent István király to the Reformation to the Holocaust to the Kádár regime. Across the subjects, students weren’t always able to answer the teacher’s questions, but those questions served a purpose beyond the test itself. Some questions served to clarify or correct a detail; others challenged the students to explain the meanings and reasons behind the facts. All of this reminded me a little of my oral exams in graduate school; there, too, I found that I was learning something through the exam itself, through the exchange with the professors. But that was graduate school; I have never seen anything like this in high school in the U.S. (or even in college).

I forgot to mention that we dress up for their exams. The students wear white and black (shirts and suits), or white and blue, or their own class’s color combination. The teachers wear white and black, though not as strictly (and we all made some adjustments for the weather, since it was intensely hot). The oral exams as a whole begin and end with a ceremony: all the students in a row, facing all the students who will be examining them. They present flowers to the exam supervisor, who comes from the district. At the end, they receive their diplomas, certificates, and report cards and present flowers or chocolates to the teachers.

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Through these exams, through showing what they have learned and discussing all these topics with their teachers, the students cross over into another stage of life, which is why the bankett is so fitting. It’s a kind of recognition of each other and many things. We get to ask each other questions about life, studies, politics, future plans, cultures, languages, things that you have wanted to know about each other. We get to express appreciation that maybe didn’t find its way into words before. We get to laugh together.

I fear that my description was clumsy, but so is everything right now; I leave for the U.S. the day after tomorrow and will be there until early August. There is much to look forward to this summer and in the coming school year. As for this year, thanks to all the graduating seniors, their families, and their teachers for building this beautiful ending, which holds, transforms, and releases the years that came before.

Song Series #3: Songs from Childhood

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Which songs do we love in childhood, and why (if a reason can even be found)? Which of these do we remember years later? Almost all children are drawn to songs; songs, from the lullaby to the playground chants, come up every day, even many times a day, in a child’s life. At least partly through songs, children start to learn to speak; even now, I find that songs help me learn languages. Songs give you phrases and melodies that you can take with you everywhere. You can play around with them, changing the words here and there, speeding them up, slowing them down. Songs also open up new experiences; they show you the world in a new way. That is true of the four songs I chose to include here. I heard all of them before the age of eleven.

The first is a lullaby. My mom sang it to me, and I heard it many times in my childhood, from infancy onward. I discovered only now that the text is part of Tennyson’s poem “The Princess.” It is known as “Sweet and Low.”

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

I knew as a small child that the song was sad. I think it made me sob once or twice. But I loved imagining the “Silver sails all out of the west / Under the silver moon.” That was my favorite part of the melody too. Here is a recording by Bette Midler.

The second song, “Ah, Lovely Meadows”(an English translation of a Czech folksong), comes with a distinct memory. I was five or six; I know this because we still lived in Amherst. A few girls had come over; they were a year or two older than me. They sang this song, and I was amazed at how they could sing the fast words of the chorus so clearly, so precisely. I wanted to be able to sing fast like that. In retrospect, it wasn’t particularly fast, but it seemed rapid then. The rendition by the Friedell Middle School Choir sounds almost exactly like my memory of the song.

Now I skip from age five to nine. I was in fifth grade, and somehow a classmate and I (I think her name was Susie, though I could be imagining this because of the song) discovered that we could listen to records in the school library (together, with headphones on). That’s what we did. I remember how delighted we were with “Crocodile Rock” (written by Elton John and Ernie Taupin; performed by Elton John). I had never heard a song like that before; I didn’t know they existed. It had just come out that year. All this time, I have had the wrong lyrics in my head in several places. In other places I couldn’t tell what the lyrics were (and it didn’t matter at the time).

When I learned the fourth song (in Holland, at age 10, during a musical event involving the Nederlandse Pijpersgilde, the bamboo flute players’ guild), I was enchanted by the lyrics, which I didn’t fully understand or learn correctly. Somehow, in my mind, “Charlie will come again” turned into “Nature will try again.” Written by Sir Harold Boulton, the “Skye Boat Song” begins:

Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing
Onward! the sailors cry
Carry the lad that’s born to be King
Over the sea to Skye

Here is a recording by Alastair McDonald:

Putting this post together, I came to understand how a song can appeal to a child’s–or anyone’s–curiosity. You hear it and want to learn it and learn more about it. You might try to track down the lyrics, or learn the melody, or figure out what it means, or listen to it again and again, but beyond all that, you know that something happened to you when you heard it, and years later you remember those few minutes, even the faces in the room, the colors, the record spinning and shining on the turntable, the glance of glee.

I took the photo at the Tiszavirág Fesztivál last night.

Here are the links to the first and second posts in the song series.

One Foot in Each World

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Religion might be the touchiest subject in the world, or at least a mighty candidate. Those who feel strongly about it (one way or another) have trouble considering others’ beliefs; those who don’t feel strongly about it see little need to discuss it. Religious convictions (including atheism) often come bundled with attitudes of superiority; those with religious faith see atheists as spiritually impoverished, whereas atheists often see the religious as deluded or worse. Even within a given religion, there are demarcations and judgments; some look down on their less observant fellow worshipers, while others pride themselves on not being one of those “crazy” types. Add to this the centuries of conflicts between and within religions, and you have a sensitive subject indeed. But perhaps there are ways to think and talk about it, even with disagreements.

First of all, what is religion? It begins with the apprehension of something beyond our concrete knowledge but somehow involved in our lives. We start to see this as a god; a text that reveals this god takes on a sacred status. Practices arise out of this perception; if there is a god, and if this god is good, then one should make as much room for the god as possible, driving away the god’s enemies, whatever they may be. Religious rituals, services, and prayers, as well as dietary and other practices, can be seen as ways of letting God in.

For many an atheist, this is nonsense or worse; religious practices distract from a truly moral way of life–where one strives to make the world a better place for its own sake–or a life of self-fulfillment, where one seeks one’s own advantage. There’s no god watching over us, no afterlife awaiting us, just ourselves and our choices, be they selfish, generous, or both.

These views seem diametrically opposed, but maybe they aren’t. It’s possible to hold both of them at once. I have no way of knowing whether there is a god or not. I consider it entirely possible that there is none, and no afterlife either. Yet religious texts and liturgies–Jewish texts and liturgy in particular–have a meaning for me that cannot be explained away or reduced. Judaism emphasizes the communal and the social, but for me it is primarily internal. I loved those hours of learning a Torah portion late into the evening, pondering the meanings, looking up the etymology of word after word, figuring out the logic behind a particular trope pattern–or else sinking into the liturgy, listening, singing, chanting. This is similar to my relation to literature and music but not exactly the same. I say “loved” because I learn the Torah portions much faster now and have been focused on leading services, which requires more than one kind of preparation. Leading services is a great joy, but it shifts the attention to the external. You not only learn the texts and prepare your voice, but also make adjustments for the many possible occurrences: special guests, a large crowd, a complete lack of crowd, a changed location, etc. I imagine that rabbis and cantors (as well as priests and leaders of other religions) must work hard to protect their internal lives. Religion is a kind of internal life that cannot be replaced with anything else.

A future rabbi (now a rabbi in actuality) told me about five years ago that I had one foot in the secular world and the other in the religious world, and that this was not a bad thing. This remains true. I reject a sheltered existence for myself; I want to be in the world, and that means being among people who differ from me, as well as those with whom I share interests, background, priorities, experiences. I need the retreat as well, not the retreat of escape, but that of sinking into texts, thoughts, melodies, both secular and religious. I know that these two (or three or four) worlds meet, the secular and the religious, the external and internal, because I live them. Yet how difficult it is to explain the intersection (or overlap, or intertwining, symphony, or stew)! I suspect that when human life reaches an end, when the whole story wraps up, if it ever does, each of us will turn out to have been at least slightly wrong. Maybe that’s the upshot of the “double life”: each one reminds the other that there is more to learn and more people and things to learn from.

I took the photo at the Tiszavirág Fesztivál last night; this was one of many entries in a “light painting” (fényfestés) competition. Here the art is projected onto the Reformed Church.

 

In the Thick of the Festival

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Szolnok’s beloved Tiszavirág Fesztivál, commemorating the emergence of the mayflies from the Tisza river, is now in full swing, with music, food, drink, and general cheer. It is fun to spend time there with friends, as I did last night, or go to listen to music, as I will do this evening, or just head down there without specific plans. If you live in Szolnok, you will probably run into people you know. You will also hear various languages besides Hungarian: Russian, English, French, German, Croatian, and others.

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Yesterday evening, while hanging out with Tündi and Böbi and their friend Gábor, I got intrigued by the sound of Eskelina, a Swedish musician who now lives in France and writes and sings mainly in French.  I went up close a couple of times to listen. A little kid went even closer.

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Besides the music, what I enjoy about this festival (and the one in Esztergom too) is the ease of spending time in it, no matter what you are doing. People come there to be together. No one is in a rush, it seems. There are lots of places to sit, so you can just find a place and settle down for an hour or two, or else walk around and explore.

At the end of the evening I biked along the Tisza, then up the Zagyva, the one crowded with teenagers and reminiscent of “Álmok a parton“, the other almost desolate, except for a few bikers, river-gazers, and the sky. I now head down for more: an acoustic concert by 1LIFE (just an hour away!), maybe some walking around, more time with Tündi and Böbi, and a not-too-late return home, since I head to Budapest early in the morning.

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Update: The 1LIFE concert was fantastic. I have few words for it right now, but the songs are still in my mind. Afterward I sat for a little while with Tündi,  Böbi, and their colleagues. And then came home. A beautiful day.

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Song Series #2: Presser/Csík, Art of Flying, Waits

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On this blog I recently started a song series, in which I intend to present songs I have introduced in class, am planning to introduce, or wish to include for any reason. My main purpose is to draw attention to songs themselves and what they can hold and do–but purposes aside, this is fun. The first post focused on songs that I had brought to various classes and that we had sung along with cello.

This time, I will introduce three songs that remind me of each other in some way, whether musically, lyrically, or otherwise. All three are tremendous (they come up to you slowly and then shake something up in you); all have to do with love in a broken and transitory world. They all convey hope in some way without sidestepping loss and sadness. The Gábor Presser and Art of Flying songs remind me of each other melodically and rhythmically (in the chorus); the Presser and Tom Waits, lyrically. The Art of Flying lyrics stand apart. The similarities between these songs compelled me to consider them together; their differences are even more interesting than what they share.

The song “Te majd kézenfogsz és hazavezetsz” (“You will take my hand and take me home”), written by Presser, has to do with two people staying together even after everything and everyone else leaves them–youth, money, comfort, health, family, friends. Here are two different renditions; each one brings something different out of the song. It was Marcell Bajnai’s cover that introduced me to the song; I then heard it in a concert by the band Csík (this past Saturday night). Although I love the instrumental parts of the Csík version (and the way they transform the song), Marcell’s cover brings out the lyrics and gives them room. The mood of his rendition is different too: more reflective or matter-of-fact than exuberant.

Now listen to Art of Flying’s “Tomorrow” (one of my favorite songs in the world, on their wonderful album “Garden of Earthly Delights“); you will hear how the two choruses remind me of each other. As far as I know, there’s no video of the song; the recording is up on their Bandcamp site, where you can listen to all of their albums. I am proud to have played cello on one of their songs. Here, by following the link below (in an image of the record cover), you can listen to “Tomorrow” and read the lyrics, which begin:

I leaned my back against an oak
I thought it was a trusty tree
& first it bent & then it broke
my true love had forsaken me
my dream of peace could not come true
the wind had swept our hearts away
& so I sing this song to you
tomorrow blows us all away

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These lyrics, like many Art of Flying lyrics, hold a range of times; they are ancient and modern, immediate and evocative at once. The vocal harmonies go so gently along that you hardly realize what is happening to you until the song is over and you think, wait, what? How did that song get into my bones?

Finally, here is Tom Waits’s “Time.” The similarity between these and Presser’s lyrics lies not just in the theme, but in the relation between verse and chorus; in both, the verses (mostly) hold the brokenness, and the choruses the simple affirmation. Also, both speak of the future in some way; although Csík refers to physical action (taking a person’s hand and bringing the person home) and Waits to some metaphysical state (of it being “time” for something), they both speak of something that will endure or come into being. It was the Presser/Csík song that reminded me of the Waits song and how great it is.

That wraps it up for the second installment of the song series. Next time, unless some other ideas occur in the meantime, I intend to present a few songs that have had special importance to me over the decades, songs that have stood out as favorites over time.

I took the photo by the Zagyva river on Sunday night.

Update: After writing this post, I realized (on my own) that I had made an error: “Te majd kézenfogsz és hazavezetsz” is written by Gábor Presser; this is stated in Marcell Bajnai’s video credits, but I mistakenly thought he was a member of Csík. The Csík version is a cover; in the video, Presser performs it with them. I adjusted the post and title accordingly (and made some other edits too, while I was at it). Here is Presser’s own recording of the song. This adds to the correspondences; his voice and Waits’s have a similar texture.

From Hamlet to Csík: Bring the Bringa!

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My laptop is still in repairs (I should get it back tomorrow), so I am writing on the phone. To make this easier, I wrote a draft on paper first, a good idea in general. The pen is a kind of mediator, the typewriter too. The electronic keyboard somehow shirks this role. Moreover, the pen and typewriter are messy in an enjoyable way. You get to cross things out, squeeze things in.

First of all, congratulations to everyone who took part in the Hamlet performance—three scenes and discussion—at the Verseghy Ferenc Könyvtár on Friday! I was sitting next to Katalin Cserfalvi, who works at the library and made this event possible. At moments we gaped at each other in awe. These scenes came alive, not only in the actors’ expressions and gestures, but in their rendition of the language. Last year’s performance was full of spirit and enjoyment, but this year’s reached a new level.

 

 

This took long and intense work. We have been rehearsing for about two months (mostly in class, and not in every class session), but before that, we read the entire play and then reread a few scenes multiple times. The students who weren’t in the performance—who served as audience members during our classtime rehearsals—deserve commendation too, because without their attention, listening, and comments, not only would we have been unable to rehearse, but we would have missed some of their insights. Also, the two students who introduced each scene at the performance, Luca Regina Gazdag and Dorina Kata Nagy, helped out in numerous ways behind the scenes, as did Petra Rónafalvi, who provided some of the costumes. When putting on a play, even a few scenes, one becomes aware of the different kinds of work that go into it and the importance of each.

After Hamlet, I went upstairs to hear a performance by Zsolt Bajnai and Marcell Bajnai (father and son): stories and songs alternating in a kind of dialogue. There seemed to be connections between Zsolt Bajnai’s stories and Marcell Bajnai’s songs; while not explicit or obvious (to me), they brought the separate works togethet into something new. I didn’t understand everything—some songs were familiar, some not, and I had read just one of the stories, the wonderfully satirical “Korrupcióterápia,” but I loved the different tones and the atmosphere of enjoyment in the room. Next time, whenever that may be, I will understand much more. (I didn’t take pictures, but there should be some coming from the library soon; when they appear, I will add the link.)

One exciting thing: the last song that Marcell played was one I hadn’t heard before. I was so taken by it that I tried to find it online later (by looking up the few words and phrases that I remembered). I had no luck, so I wrote to him to ask about it. He replied that he had written the song a week before and that this was the first time he played it in public! I now realize that he said this when introducing the song, but I didn’t catch it at the time. I hope to listen to the song many times.

All of this would have been enough for me for a weekend, but the festivities continued at full tilt. Yesterday, late in the afternoon, after a quiet day at home, I took the teain to the nearby village of Zagyvarékas for the Margaréta folkdance festival, followed by a concert by the band Csík. One of my students, an accomplished folk dancer and a member of the Rákóczi dance group, was in three of the dance performances—and I was eager to see them all and hear the band. It was my first real folkdance event in Hungary. I have seen a few short performances here and there, but nothing like this. I eas moved not only by the dancets’ skill (in singing as well as dancing), not only by the colorful costumes, not only by the gorgeous rhythms and melodies, but by the vitality and “nowness” of it all. Folkdance in Hungary is not some relic of a dying tradition; people of many ages put their hearts and lives into it.

 

 

What to say about the Csík concert? It was fantastic; they played so many instruments, and combined musical styles with such ease and in such interesting ways, that I wanted to rush home and start playing too. Their music opens up possibilities. The audience adored them (except for one disgruntled drunk man on the sidelines who ranted in a few brief sputters about how he wanted pure Hungarian music, not music from all over the place). Many songs were the band’s own, others by others; many had folk motifs, while others had a jazz, blues, rock, or other feel, or a mixture. One song (by Gábor Presser) I had heard before; Marcell Bajnai had played it in his recent solo concert, at the very end. It was exciting to recognize it and hear it in these two different ways.

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Mosquitoes were swarming all around—it has been a bad few weeks, mosquito-wise—and audience and musicians alike were getting bitten every split second, from every angle. But we stayed until the end and beyond, cheered for an encore (which they played), and kept on applauding after that.

It was a long journey home (but a pleasant one, except for the mosquitoes). I had made the uncharacteristic mistake of leaving my bike at the Szolnok train station (or rather, train stop), thinking that the Zagyvarékas train station would be near the village center. Wrong! They are about four kilometers apart; in fact, you have to leave Zagyvarékas and then enter it again. The walk didn’t feel long, but on the way back I just barely missed the train I had hoped to take and had to wait an hour for the next one. Lesson learned: bring the bringa!*

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*”Bringa” is one of many Hungarian words for “bicycle.”

P.S. On top of it all, this evening I went to Pest for the Budapest Festival Orchestra’s annual Dancing on the Square event, which brings Roma and non-Roma, economically advantaged and disadvantaged children together from all over Hungary to dance to music played by the orchestra. This year, the BFO played Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7; in the final movement, the children performed a dance. This Beethoven symphony, and especially the outdoor performance, brought back strong memories of playing it in high school, at Tanglewood—the thick summer air, the feeling of being in the middle of the music, all of this came back—but the performance made me hear the work in a new way. It is hard to describe, but I have it in my ears. The dancing worked so well with the fourth movenent, the children danced with such glee, that it turned into something more than I can name, something that goes with the rest of the weekend. We do not have to hold back in music, stories, poems, dance, plays. So much is waiting to be created, performed, and heard. So much is already here, in the air, on stages, in books and notebooks, in the feet and hands, in the mind. The train back to Szolnok has stopped, the window is open, and I hear the loud wind in the leaves. They are there too, the  songs..

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Translations from the Hungarian

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I woke up too early, but with good reason: some of my first translations from the Hungarian have been published in Literary Matters, a superb online literary journal! You can now read Gyula Jenei’s “Standing Point” (“Ahol állnék”) and “Chess” (“Sakk”) in English translation, as well as Marianna Fekete’s essay “A Crack in Eternity? Béla Markó’s Grass Blade on the Rock.” The latter quotes 21 haiku poems, which I translated as haiku. I hope you enjoy them! There will be more.