Too Much Activity

Yesterday morning I listened to a wonderful long Petőfi Rádio interview with Gergely Balla and Sebestyén Czakó-Kuraly of Platon Karataev. It went in many different directions, but one favorite part when they talked about the importance of solitude and about how fruitful the Covid lockdown had been for them (even with many setbacks and challenges, such as Gergő’s fever and hospital stay), and how now, with everything open and available, they have had to set some limits for themselves, not accepting every invitation, not attending (or playing) every possible event, but instead protecting their quiet.

I have definitely been too busy this fall and have had to pull back too. The thing about pulling back is that most people will not understand or accept it. At least they won’t understand your specific choices. In their minds, what they want from you should come first; they don’t realize that you see it differently. None of us has complete control over our lives, but our choices, to the extent that they exist, will never be accepted by everyone.

Yet the vast majority of the world’s population doesn’t care what we do; that’s a bit of a relief. Even those we imagine we’re disppointing terribly have other things on their minds. Moreover, pleasing others (completely, all the time) has no point to it; it brings no satisfaction, because it dries up the soul. To exist in a true sense, you need some resistance. Not random resistance, not automatic resistance, but your own particular friction with the world, which you come to know over time, and which can change a little but won’t go away.

Emily Dickinson’s poem “The Soul selects her own Society” is so well known that it can slip past the mind. But pay attention to the middle stanza:

The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I’ve known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

The repetition of “Unmoved,” the images of Chariots and Emperor, the sense that both of these are stooping low for her, paying her homage (because they want something), and instead of falling for it, the soul stays upright—that’s something to think on. And then, in the final stanza, Dickinson transforms the initial metaphor of the “door,” turning it into the “Valves” of the Soul’s “attention,” now compared to “stone.” I wonder—this occurred to me just now—whether Wisława Szymborska was thinking of this in her “Conversation with a Stone.”

But sometimes “pulling back” doesn’t require a clap of stone, just a sense of the spaces between the moments or days. That’s part of the meaning of Shabbat (which I haven’t been too good at keeping, but which is on my mind). You just set aside the time for rest, period. Treat it as an obligation, not something you do if you find yourself with time. Also, it’s possible to simplify things on the run, not only in your schedule, but in your mind. Not getting bogged down in thoughts about all the things that have to get done. Just doing them one by one and taking rests in between. My fall break has been quite intense (I attended three wonderful concerts, translated a long story, gave an online poetry reading and talk in the middle of the night, worked on Folyosó, had minor surgery that went well, and lots more), but the last day is rather restful, unrolling quietly before me. And I am not changing that, not rushing anywhere, not trying to squeeze anything in.

The other side to this all is that it’s good, when possible and appropriate, to say yes to things, participate in projects, venture onto new terrain, and so forth. If we could all figure out what to accept and what to decline, life would be simpler, wouldn’t it? But we will never figure it out for good; there is no formula for it. We adjust, readjust, take on, give up, and start over.

Art credit: L.S. Lowry, Going to the Match.

Mark Your Calendars for March 20!

This announcement comes long in advance, so that I can begin inviting people, and so that you can mark your calendars and spread the word! On March 20, 2022, at 3 p.m. EDT (8 p.m. Hungary time), in an ALSCW Zoom event, I will interview the poet Csenger Kertai, Gergely Balla (Platon Karataev), and Sebestyén Czakó-Kuraly (Platon Karataev, Cz.K. Sebő) about the poet Janos Pilinszky and his influence on their work and thought. This will be combined with recitations of his poems and performances of the artists’ own work. The Zoom information will be published as soon as it is available; in the meantime, you can stay updated through the Facebook event page.

Here is the official event description:

Straight Labyrinth: János Pilinskzy in the Poetry, Music, and Thought of Three Hungarian Artists (Zoom event)

Sunday, March 20, 2022, 3:00 p.m. EDT

Please join the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics, and Writers (ALSCW), our host Diana Senechal, and our three featured guests for an online discussion, recitation, and performance honoring the Hungarian poet János Pilinszky (1921-1981). Pilinszky is known around the world for his intensity and brevity of word, his grief over the Holocaust, his solitude and longing for home, his combination of Christian faith and despair, and the translations of his work into English by Ted Hughes, Géza Simon, and others. But his poetry goes beyond these descriptors. It stands bare and alone.

Diana Senechal will interview the poet Csenger Kertai and the musicians/songwriters Gergely Balla (Platon Karataev) and Sebestyén Czakó-Kuraly (Platon Karataev, Cz.K. Sebő) about Pilinszky’s role in their art and thought. We will combine this discussion with recitations of several Pilinszky poems (including “Straight Labyrinth”) and performances of the guests’ own work. There will be time at the end for a few questions and comments.

The event will be in English and Hungarian; no knowledge of Hungarian is required. We cordially welcome anyone interested in poetry, literary translation, songs and songwriting, Hungarian language and literature, or Pilinszky himself. The event is free and open to the public via Zoom. The Zoom information will be included here as soon as it becomes available.

Pilinszky image credit: Pilinszky János, Szép versek 1971 (published 1972). Photo # 44.

Photo of Sebestyén Czakó-Kuraly by Pál Czirják, published in Kortárs Online.


Additional comments: The event is appropriate for people of high school age on up. We will focus on a few Pilinszky poems, considering and responding to them from different angles; thus those new to Pilinszky (and to Hungarian) and those well versed in his work will find something of interest. Discussion, poetry, and music will intertwine.

What you can do now: Mark your calendars, click “Interested” or “Going” on the event page, bookmark the website, and spread the word! And read Pilinszky’s “Egyenes labirintus” (“Straight Labyrinth”) in the translation of Géza Simon or in the original Hungarian.

The Pilinszky Walk

Yesterday I did something I had wanted to do for months: go on one of the Pilinszky walks hosted by the Petőfi Literary Museum and the Anna Juhász Literary Salon. I think they have been happening monthly, alongside hundreds of events commemorating the centennial of János Pilinszky’s birth. I didn’t have time to do this (especially since it involved going to Budapest); I have several deadlines and am under a lot of pressure. But it was more important than the pressure or deadlines. And it was one of the highlights of my four years so far in Hungary.

Anna Juhász and the actor Zalán Makranczi led the walk. We each received an audio transmittor and earphone, so that we could hear them easily as we walked along. Since the earphone went in just one ear, we could also hear the sounds around us. What a difference that made! I didn’t have to strain to hear them, or try to stay up close; I could just walk along in the crowd and still hear every word. The amazing thing to me was that I could follow every bit of it; I knew what they were talking about and was familiar with most of the poems they quoted. They also emphasized the importance of Pilinszky’s prose; Makranczi read many passages of it.

As we walked along slowly-slowly on this golden autumn day, they showed us different places where Pilinszky had lived, where he had gone to school, a café where he and other writers spent lots of time; they spoke of the different times of Pilinszky’s life, of his family, his love of family, his solitude, his grief over the war, his religious faith, and his continual longing for home. Juhász spoke at length about “Apokrif,” which is central to his work. Makranczi read the first part of it aloud.

At the end of the two-hour walk, where we saw Pilinszky’s last residence, Juhász quoted his words that a person is not complete until death: that life and death, rather than being opposites, actually form a unity together: “Életet és halált lehetetlen nem egybelátni. Élet és halál nem más, mint kettétört öröklét, meghasonlott valóság. Egyik nem több a másikánál, csak aki élt és meghalt közülünk, örökkévaló. Hogy kik vagyunk ezek a mi, ezt nem tudom. Életünket mi csak halálunkkal egészíthetjük ki. Egyik a másik nélkül végleges töredék marad” (“It is impossible not to see life and death as one. Life and death are nothing other than eternity split, reality divided. Neither one is more than the other; but whoever among us has lived and died is everlasting. Who we actually are, I don’t know. We realize our lives only with death. One without the other remains a fragment forever.”)

Pilinszky is beloved in Hungary, but not in a “popular” sort of way. The poems demand privacy. Once one of them reaches you, then Pilinszky enters your life for good. And, I believe, your death.

I first read Pilinszky several years ago at a student’s urging (thank you, Isti!). He recommended his favorite poem, “Egy szenvedély margójára” (“Onto the Margin of a Passion”), which I memorized and recited for the class. But only two years or so later did I read “Egyenes labirintus” (“Straight Labyrinth”), thanks to Cz.K. Sebő’s musical rendition. That opened everything up. I have memorized it too and recite it every day. Here you can hear Pilinszky himself reciting it.

And here is an extraordinary translation by Géza Simon:

The Straight Labyrinth
(Egyenes labirintus)

What will it be like, this return flight
that only similes can describe,
like sanctuary, altar,
homecoming, handshake, hug,
under the trees, garden feast,
where there is no first and last guest,
what will it be like in the end,
this free-fall on open wings,
this flight into the fiery
focus, the communal nest? – I don’t know,
and yet, if there is something I know,
I know this blazing corridor,
this labyrinth straight as an arrow,
the heavier and heavier,
exhilarating fact of our fall.

As I have mentioned before, Platon Karataev’s “Wide Eyes” alludes to “Straight Labyrinth”; Pilinszky can be felt in a number of their songs (and is especially important to their main songwriter, Gergely Balla, as well as to the other members). Their “Bitter Steps” (maybe my favorite song on their Atoms album) quotes from Ted Hughes’s translation of “Apokrif”: “[And] this is why I learned to walk! For these belated bitter steps.”

So this October walk, for which I am grateful, brought many things together in one. These are continually opening up into more.

I am planning an ALSCW Zoom event dedicated to Pilinszky and his influence; it will take place on March 20 at 3 p.m. EDT (8 p.m. in Hungary). I will be inviting everyone I can think of: in addition to friends, family, acquaintances, and colleagues, all the Hungarian language and literature departments I can find in the U.S. (they exist—at Columbia University, for instance), songwriting programs, radio hosts, writers, and others. The featured guests will be Csenger Kertai, Sebestyén Czakó-Kuraly (Platon Karataev, Cz.K. Sebő), and Gergely Balla (Platon Karataev)! The event page is here; stay tuned for official announcements, an event page and dedicated website, and more. In the meantime, mark it in your calendars, indicate interest (if you like), and invite everyone! It is free, open to the public, and appropriate for all ages from high school on up.

Speaking of Csenger Kertai, my translations of two of his poems, “Lake Balaton” and “On Forsakenness,” will be published in the next issue of Literary Imagination!

But speaking of translations, I have deadlines for a different project, so that will be all for now.

A Platon Karataev Time Capsule

Last night, when I was listening to a few things on YouTube and elsewhere, a Platon Karataev video popped up that I had never seen before.Beautifully shot by Diána Komróczki, it shows them performing “Prison” on the KERET stage (where I first heard the wonderful Cataflamingo this year) at the Kolorádó Fesztivál in 2017. Their bassist was András Jáky.

KERET is an independent blog and journal about independent Hungarian music. (I support it, by the way, when I can, and I recommend doing the same.) It draws attention to some of the most interesting and gifted—and often little-known—indie musicians performing today. The KERET stage is my favorite thing about the Kolorádó Fesztival. If only there weren’t a thumping drum from a dance area nearby! Although my feelings about the festival were mixed (mostly because of the incessant thumping electronic monotonic drum from several stages and areas there), I would go back for the KERET stage alone.

Anyway, here was Platon Karataev on the KERET stage, playing a song that has not appeared on any of their albums… and why not? Because that was not its fate; it was to transform into another song, “Wide Eyes.” If you listen to this (right here below), and then “Wide Eyes” (below that), and watch these performances too, you will see what an incredible and unexpected journey they have been on. How could they have known, in 2017, where this song and they would go? Also, look at the (sparse and intensely attentive) audience: the young man standing in the very front with two others, the one listening with all his heart, is none other than László Sallai (wearing a “Player 00” shirt, it seems), who would become their bassist in 2019. And I love this “Prison” song; it has a country feel with upbeat, subtle lyrics and the refrain “Let’s look for a better one.” I would have been drawn in on that day.

And now, here’s “Wide Eyes,” which is part of their 2020 album Atoms. I am showing the Live at Gólya performance below, because it’s great, and that way you can see them performing it. It’s slightly slower than “Prison,” the lyrics are mostly changed, but the soul of it is the same, only clearer. The song has found its way. The “straight labyrinth” is a reference to Pilinszky’s poem by the same title, and the reference goes beyond that phrase alone. The song’s essence is close to the poem; when Sebő sings, “Meteors light my mind / I peel layers of my thoughts,” it brings to mind “this free-fall on open wings, / this flight into the fiery / focus, the communal nest” (from Géza Simon’s translation of Pilinszky’s “Egyenes labirintus“).

Besides being part of Atoms and their many performances (I think it’s one of the audience favorites, wherever they go), this song has an extraordinary video starring the actor Ágoston Kenéz, whose zest, instinct, and understanding of the song fill every split-second frame.

On Friday night I heard Platon Karataev play in Szeged, at the beloved Grand Café, where I have previously heard Dávid Szesztay play and Gyula Jenei read. As I listened, I felt how much has happened with them and their music over these past few years. And so much more to go. They had last played in Szeged in 2018. It was a joyous return for them and the crowd. They said they were staying around afterwards to talk with people, and I was tempted to stay and say hi, but I didn’t, even though I was staying the night in Szeged. I actually have never talked with them in person, except to say thank you quickly. I would love to talk with them at some point, but after a show I am a bit shy and don’t really feel the need. I still have the music in my ears and want to carry it for a while. Also, I figured they had lots of Szeged friends waiting to speak with them, and there would be a better time. But I walked out with sounds, thoughts, and pictures in my head (not on camera), one of which was this glimpse of time, of the things that happen that no one expects but that take us closer to our wobbling, plunging truth.

Photo credit: I took it in Szeged on Friday a few hours before the show.

I made a few small edits to this piece after posting it.

An Exceptional Two Days

First, the best news of all: Sziszi is found! Last night I came home late from Budapest, only to find Sziszi gone and Dominó distressed out of his mind. I couldn’t figure out how Sziszi had gotten out of the apartment; a window exit seemed implausible, so I figured she must have followed me out the door at some point. Last night I looked around—in the apartment, in the building, and outside—and couldn’t find her, so I did some frantic online research on escaped cats and read that if they are indoor cats, they don’t tend to go far from home. So I kept my hopes up. Wednesday is my longest day at school, and this morning I ran out the door without my glasses, so during a break I took a cab back home, got my glasses, and went back. Still no sign of Sziszi. When I came home at the end of the day, I looked inside the building, around the neighborhood, and in the courtyard, but no Sziszi. A neighbor came along and tried to help me for a while; we went out to the courtyard again, and out to the front. I brought some cat food, which attracted a large throng of cats, but not Sziszi. It got dark; I decided to try the courtyard once more. I went out there and called her. And then I heard that familiar petulant meow, the meow that could come from no other. She was right there, and she knew I was there; so it was just a matter of minutes before she let me pick her up and take her in. I stopped by my neighbors to tell them I had found her, and then brought her home. She, Dominó, and I are so happy right now. She’s curled up in a cat pouch (pictured above), Dominó is gazing out the window, and I’m here at my desk.

Now backtracking: last night I went to hear Csenger Kertai give a reading to jazz accompaniment by the Hász Estzer Quintet. It was even more than I had expected: interview, reading, music, improvisation all combined. The music, whether improvised or composed, brought out surprising aspects of the poems. The band’s rendition of “Hold” (“Moon”) was phenomenal, the interview went into questions of privacy, spontaneity, creation and more. But these were not separate elements; they interwove, so that the poems themselves, the discussions of the poems, and the musical interpretations formed something new. I have never seen an interweaving like this before, and it is inspiring some ideas. Here is a video of the event.

The previous evening, I had also gone to Budapest: first to a doctor’s appointment, and then to a Cataflamingo concert in the basement of a club in Pest. I first heard Cataflamingo at the Kolorádó Festzivál, on the KERET stage; they were my favorite new discovery there. The lead singer and bassist, Áron Csiki, has charisma that draws the audience in but is never over the top. He reminds me slightly of Prince, Billy Corgan, Kid Dakota, David Bowie—but flies in a space of his own. The band is talented and rich with influences (jazz, R&B, rock); their groove keeps lifting into something new. There’s a warmth to the music too; the lyrics are sad and exuberant at once, and the audience sways and sings along. It was thrilling to be there, and I look forward to much more.

All this was on top of teaching, translation, holidays, and thought, each of these a subject in itself. And the week is not yet over! Tomorrow I go to the Tisza Mozi for a premiere of the movie A feleségem története. On Friday I head to Szeged to hear the beloved Platon Karataev. But I take none of this for granted. It’s a shivering gift.

I made a few edits to this piece after posting it (as usual, but I was so tired last night that I really left out a few points that I had meant to make). Also, I changed the Cataflamingo selection (from “Megbocsát” to “Kilincs”), because this video gives a sense of their performances, and I love this song too.

Different Kinds of Depth

The phrase “a deep person” makes me wary. Everyone is infinitely deep. Some people choose to escape from it, while others look it right in the face. Some keep it to themselves, while some share it with others. Some find their way to it through music and other art; others pound their feet on it when running long distance. Some find it when life socks them in the stomach. Some find it through jokes. Some don’t find it at all but are found with it somehow.

There is no point in judging oneself or others as “deep” or “shallow.” Such judgments usually break down. We don’t know what’s going on in another person, and are in no position to measure it. As for ourselves, who are we to call ourselves “deep,” when we have no basis for comparison? Deep in relation to what? What we think we see in others? What we see and what’s going on are two different things, or maybe three or more.

Still, depth does exist, and it takes different forms. There is music that plunges right away, and music that starts out on the lighter side but takes you deeper and deeper. And music that stays near the surface or flies upward.

Beginning with Atoms—their first album, For Her, is a little different in this regard—Platon Karataev’s music starts out deep with “Ex Nihilo” and goes deeper and deeper from there (if there’s such a thing as deeper than nothing). I can’t wait to hear the whole Partért kiáltó album, which will be coming out soon. Listening to the title song many times, I realize that the best way to approach it is on its own terms: not to squeeze it into existing frames and thoughts, but to take it as it is. It speaks as water, it speaks a language of water, all the layers moving and sparkling and darkening.

Cz.K. Sebő’s music, in contrast, sometimes starts out on the lighter side but then surprises and disarms you as it continues. For instance, “Someday” begins like a casual, melancholic conversation or letter, but each repetition of the sentence “you’ll be alone someday” changes and tilts the tone and sense slightly, until the listener receives these words directly and has to confront their meaning. That each of us will be alone someday, no matter how lucky or unlucky we are, no matter what we do.

One of my favorite songs by Galaxisok, “Elaludtam az Ikeában,” seems entirely lighthearted until you suddenly hear what is going on. It’s a dreamy song about falling asleep at Ikea, and waking up when it’s already dark, and running into an old girlfriend, Diána, who also, as it happens, fell asleep at Ikea. And they walk and talk together, and bring up memories of how one summer, when they were taking a make-up math exam, Peti broke his arm and had to wear a cast the whole time. Later that same summer he learns of another accident, and realizes Diána was in it, but then rejoins, “de felejtsd el, inkább hagyjuk ezt” (“but forget it, let’s drop this”). And then, “Én nem leszek fiatalabb, / te nem leszel öregebb,” “I’m not getting any younger, / You’re not getting any older,” which tells you, when it hits you, that Diána is dead and this dream took place after her death. But the music is so gentle and playful-sounding that you might miss this the first time around. (I missed it the first few times, but I think that’s because I am not a native speaker of Hungarian.) This is only a brief summary of the song; it has beautifully murky and surreal motions and images, such as crawling under the leaves of the indoor palms in the plant department.

No one has to be deep all the time; it can’t be forced. Depth happens when we let ourselves go into something. We know better than anyone else does when this happens and when it doesn’t. But sometimes, in the moment, the word “deep” doesn’t even come to mind. The thing itself draws us in, and only afterwards, in memory or reflection, does it seem profound. At other times, the profundity jumps out at us right away.

Going deep can be important as a practice, for those who want better self-knowledge, or who want to reckon with their actions, or who want to create something. But such practice often takes place in private, through meditation, prayer, or quiet thought. Sometimes it can happen in a long conversation, the kind where the conversants forget the time. Sometimes it can happen when doing something with others: for instance, playing music. But I don’t think it’s social, for the most part.

This does not mean that introversion is necessarily deeper than extraversion; introversion and extraversion can take all sorts of forms. There are people who like to spend evenings alone at home browsing random YouTube videos. There are people who go out in the world and strike up conversations with people out of genuine desire to know them better. Things aren’t what they seem on the surface.

Language, after all, takes you deeper into meanings, if you pay attention to it; there are many ways, quiet and lively, to do so. Yesterday I came upon a poem by Dezső Kosztolányi, “Szeptemberi áhítat” (“September Piety”) that I realized was one of the most beautiful poems I had read in Hungarian. But what does it mean to read it? I have read it silently and out loud; I have listened to the recording of János Pilinszky reading it. But this is just the beginning; I need to take much more time with it, maybe memorize it, maybe translate it (George Szirtes’s translation is good, but I want to go about it differently), maybe even set it to music, with cello. And then come back to reading it in silence, reciting it in my mind.

So where is all of this going? Depth is not something to claim as a title; it can be found through practice, but it also comes to you by surprise, and it’s open to all. Of all the ways we have of judging and writing off others, this is one of the worst; calling someone “deep” or “shallow” is just lying, because we are always undulating and trembling between levels, and have no idea where others (or even we ourselves) will go next.

On Missing Concerts

There are times in life when a person is unable to attend a particular concert, despite wanting badly to do so. This is well known to most people, and not a surprise. Going to any concert that you love is a special occasion, not an everyday matter. The musicians, in contrast, might be playing every day, or close, because that’s what they do (at the risk of exhaustion and more). Audience members have to choose; sometimes the choice is made for them. Some will go to more concerts than others, but everyone has a day when they can’t.

“Can’t” is relative; there are ways to break through the impossible into possibility. But that isn’t always a good idea. Also, not being able to go, once in a while, makes the next occasion all the more meaningful. Moreover, life deserves attention, not neglect. It is our daily lives that open us up to music in the first place; we don’t live in total abstraction. I also need unstructured time when I am not rushing off anywhere but can think, write, listen to music, sing, play cello.

And the very existence of the concert is much more important than one person’s attendance or non-attendance. Those who are there will get to hear it; that is the great thing. Since the Covid era begyn, this stopped being something to take for granted.

Musicians have to take care of themselves too; this can pose challenges. It’s good to perform often, but at some point, it gets to be too much. It’s hard to judge that point or adjust to it, because until then, more seems better, not only for the thrill of playing for different audiences, not only for the exposure, but for the art itself. But the art also needs withdrawal and quiet; it can’t survive on constant activity. Different musicians need different proportions, but the proportions must exist.

The musicians’ responsibilities are different from the audience’s. If they cancel a show, many people, including those running the venue, will be disappointed, whereas if an audience member can’t make it, others still can—and it is good for the audiences to vary. That said, it’s hard, even knowing this, to turn a long-awaited concert down.

Yesterday I went to Buda for the Óbudai Nyár, to hear Marcell Bajnai and the Pandóra Projekt. It was fantastic: probably my favorite of Marcell’s solo concerts so far, and the first time I heard the Pandóra Project live. Marcell played solo songs (that is, songs he does not play with his band, Idea), including some favorites and at least one I hadn’t heard before; some songs that he plays with the band but that originated in his room, and some fantastic covers, including “Zöld-sárga” (which I plan to learn), “Lámpát ha gyújtok” (a Quimby cover), and Gábor Presser’s classic “Te majd kézenfogsz.”

As for the Pandóra Projekt, it is astounding what the two women (Janka Zsuzsanna Végh and Dorci Major) do with their voices and a ukulele. The harmonies and rhythms, the textures, the humor and pathos, the Hungarian folk feel mixed with blues, all of those are just words; you have to hear them to know what their music is like. Here’s one of their songs, “csirkefogó.” In this recording, they have other musicians playing with them, but it’s even more exciting to hear them as a duo, because of the way the sound fills the air, and the twists and turns it takes.

I had a ticket to go hear Esti Kornél (for the first time) right nearby, in the evening, but I was exhausted and had to come back home. I had also wanted to hear Platon Karataev play in the town of Zsámbék (it had to be one of those concerts or the other), but there was no way to get out there without having to spend the night there too. So I came home happy and a little bit woozy, too tired to do anything. I went to sleep. The cats seemed perturbed that I was going to bed so early, but they accepted it eventually.

I have to miss the next two Platon Karataev concerts too, or the next two that I know about right now. One of them is today, but it isn’t a good idea for me to go back to Budapest, after Orfű and yesterday; I have to catch up with translating and prepare for the new teaching year. The next one—and this chips at my heart a little—is their concert on September 16 at Müpa Budapest. I would have gone if there was any way; I bought a ticket as soon as it was announced. But it starts at the very tail end of Yom Kippur, at the time of breaking the fast, and as the cantor, I can’t just skip out at that moment (or earlier, to get to the concert on time). It wouldn’t be right; it would mean breaking my responsibility during the most solemn Jewish holiday of the year, and it would be wrong at other levels too. (Update: A friend found someone, her mother in fact, to take my ticket; I am so happy that the seat won’t be empty and that someone will get to enjoy the show instead of me. The concert is completely sold out now.)

There is even something beautiful about attending a concert when you truly and fully can, instead of trying to twist heaven and earth to make it possible. It becomes less of a theft and more of a gift. Yes, sometimes it’s great to find a way through all sorts of obstacles. But not all the time.

I made some additions to (and subtractions from) this blog piece after posting it.

Fishing on Orfű: Highlights and Other Lights

I had been dreaming of this for a while: to go to the Fishing on Orfű festival for a day (I had schedule constraints and couldn’t go for longer), hear Platon Karataev on the water stage, then go hear Dávid Szesztay and, in the remainder of the time, walk around and hear other musicians I happened to come upon. It worked out just like that, only better.

I had gone to one day of the Mini-Fishing on Orfű in June. As soon as I found out that there was going to be a full-length festival, I ordered a ticket. It’s a great place to be. The music is anywhere from good to outstanding, the friendly crowd spans several generations, and the scenery takes you up in its arms. It’s around you, all the time; if you like, you can take a quiet walk by the lake in the morning, when only the birds and fish are making sounds. Fish making sounds? Yes, I saw and heard a few leap out of the water, including a big one. They come back down with a splash, sending the rings ripping.

I left home on Thursday morning at 7:30 a.m. to catch the 7:56 train to Budapest. From there I transfered to a train that went to Pécs. On the train, I was sitting across from a talkative elderly woman, who had the ear of the young woman sitting beside her. She talked and talked about her family, about religion, about anything that came to mind; eventually I was included in the conversation too. She offered to sell me one of the necklaces she made—she carried them around in a box—but I didn’t think I could afford the cash. So she just gave me one as a gift, and gave another to the young woman, whose name was Izabell. (In the photo below, I am wearing the necklace, along with one that I already had.) Then the necklace-giving woman got off one stop before Pécs, or maybe two, and Izabell and I continued talking, this time about music. We exchanged recommendations, lots of them. She was also going to Fishing on Orfű to hear Platon Karataev and a few others.

We both intended to take the bus from Pécs to Orfű, but I sensed that she had her own plans, so when we got there, we said goodbye and went in opposite directions. Unsure where to catch the bus, I ended up taking a cab—a bit of a splurge, but worthwhile in terms of getting me to the festival in time. The cab driver was jovial and full of stories. He told me about a Roman bust of Marcus Aurelius that had been found in the area. The ride went over hill and dale, and soon I was there.

I set up the tent and headed down to the water.

The water stage is actually on the water, not beside it. The musicians arrive by boat, and the sound man stays nearby in a boat during the show. The audience either sits on the edge of the lake or goes into the water, near the stage. When I arrived, Carson Coma was in the middle of their set. I enjoyed what I heard; I had heard them briefly at Kolorádó, but this acoustic version caught my ear. Lots of people were in the water, thigh-deep or so, singing along; I made my way into the crowd.

Just a few days earlier, I had learned that the Platon Karataev concert was going to be the acoustic duo, not the full band (the band played at the festival the previous night, after midnight, to a huge audience). That made it all the more wonderful, because it was low-key and quiet and attentive. You could take in the songs and feel the water and air. I don’t know if I will ever get to hear “Partért kiáltó” in the water again, or “Orange Nights,” or any of their songs. But maybe yes. Maybe they’ll play the water stage again next summer. Either way, it was a gift. They played a series of songs from the upcoming album, and some older songs too.

After that, I headed up the hill to see and hear what was going on before Dávid Szesztay. I heard a solo musician I immediately liked, Hunor Ipolyi-Gáts. I stayed to hear the rest of his set. Then I stopped for a few minutes to hear a band playing on the largest stage—it might have been a rehearsal, since it wasn’t listed in the schedule—then walked way up the hill and found myself listening to Dante, an lively folk-rock band with horns, traditional recorder-like instruments, and more. I eventually realized that they were on the very stage where Dávid Szesztay would be playing, so I stayed put (after leaving anxiously for a few minutes to check a map and make sure I was in the right place).

This was my fourth time hearing Szesztay live, whether solo or with his band, but this time he had a new band, a trio, whom I hadn’t heard befor and who were fantastic. One of them plays bass ukulele (I think); the other, drums (and Szesztay alternates between keyboard and guitar). The sound was rich and deep, with all sorts of rhythms; I heard familiar songs in new ways. My favorites of the evening were “Késő,” “Hullámzás,” and “Szólj.” Granted, those are some of my favorites anyway, but they had a different texture this evening.

After that, I heard Ivan & the Parazol (fun, with lots of people singing along and dancing), and then most of the HS7 (Heaven Street Seven) show. I knew nothing about them but realized pretty quickly that they were legends. This was their only festival performance in 2021, and the crowd seemed to be relishing every bit of it. I enjoyed what I heard but was a bit overwhelmed after the whole day; I will return to their music on my own to see if it catches on with me.

And that was enough. I went back down to the tent and tried to sleep, but didn’t really succeed. It rained for a good part of the night, and the music went on and on, but I rather enjoyed that. Then, around five in the morning, everything settled into quiet, and I packed up the tent and got ready to go. Before leaving, I walked around the grounds a little. The Amondó stage was glowing and deserted. (This is where Platon Karataev played in June, at Mini-Fishing on Orfű; this is also where they played on Wednesday night.)

I took a walk down by the lake and saw the water stage at daybreak.

As I mentioned, there were fish jumping out of the water; in a video I shot, you can hear one (along with many birds).

The trip back required good timing, which I fortunately had; I took a 6:30 bus back to Pécs, took a 7:30 train (or thereabouts) to Budapest-Kelenföld, took another train to Kőbánya-Kispest, and then changed from there to the train that took me to Szolnok, where I arrived at 11:37. Just before arriving in Szolnok, I took a video from the back of the train.

That was the day at Fishing on Orfű. Now I am listening to the rain and the leaves here in Szolnok, and it feels like a continuation and rupture at the same time. Orfű isn’t transportable, but it is still with me in some way, even as I turn my mind to other things.

“siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél….”

Platon Karataev’s song “Partért kiáltó” (“Crying for the Coast,” or “Shouting for Shore”), the title song from their forthcoming album, can be heard in so many ways that anything I say about it is just a temporary thought, different from what others hear in it, and different from what I might hear in it next time. I wrote recently about the silences in it, and that was just a fragment of a beginning.

One line, “siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél” was puzzling me in terms of grammar alone. I first thought it might be something like “fut ki merre lát” (“people are running every which way,” “people are running for their lives”). In that case, it would mean, approximately, “everyone is hurrying faster than the forest.” But instead, I think the “ki” is equivalent to “aki,” in which case this would mean, “he/she hurries, who is faster than the forest,” or “whoever is faster than the forest, hurries.” It has the ring of a saying or proverb. It could mean, “Slow down, there’s no rush” or “Time has a different scale here.”

de te maradj, ha idáig eljöttél
siet, ki gyorsabb az erdőnél

(but stay, if you came all the way here,
whoever is faster than the forest, hurries)

The song, as I hear it right now, has something to do with the hopelessness and hope of love: human pain and restlessness tempered by another’s presence. The final words could be coming from the water, from the other person, or from both, like a dialogue:

ezért a mondatért jöttem
ezért a mondatért
ezért a emberért jöttem
ezért a emberért

I came for this sentence
for this sentence
I came for this person
for this person

But even with that interpretation, it doesn’t stay still; different parts stand out at different times, taking on new tones, and I am not sure that it’s about a relationship at all, or about what we usually call relationship. The lyrics stun quietly; they carry the beauty of the Hungarian language. The music holds its own dimensions; just as with the lyrics, you can listen to it in many ways, over and over, to each instrument and to the whole. I think Platon Karataev has reached a new level with this song.

In a distant way, the song reminds me of Leonard Cohen’s “Avalanche,” which similarly has to do with an infinity of pain, an inability to love, but then a turn toward some kind of hope, if only the hope of longing. But Cohen’s lyrics are more bitter, at least until the last two verses. “Partért kiáltó” has all of the pain, or some memory or echo of pain, but none of the bitterness. But now I am not sure that “pain” is what’s going on in it. There’s something else.

Even as I write this, I start hearing the song in different ways. It could also be a call to the listener, a kind of “invitation au voyage,” except that here the voyage consists in staying still and listening, letting the song go down into you. But that understanding, too, will change, and others will hear the song in still different ways, so I will leave off here.

I made a few additions and changes to this piece after posting it, most recently on November 11. I won’t keep on revising it, though, because there will always be more to the song than I can put down here, and this was meant just as a start.

P.S. Thanks to David Dichelle, the DJ of WFMU’s Continental Subway, for including the song in his show on September 2.

The Pact of Music and Silence (and Some Brief Thoughts on Platon Karataev’s New Single)

The relationship between music and silence is so rich and complex that books could be written about it, or nothing at all. Like other relationships, it is difficult to get right, but there’s an ease to it too. It is like a pact: you find the rules for the particular music, the particular silence, and you hold to them. Only the rules change as you go along, and the pact gets renewed again and again.

First of all, the shaping of sound inevitably involves some silence. Any melody has its breaks and pauses, if only for breath; any melody comes to an end. Add harmonies and counterpoints, and you have many different silences coming in and out.

Rhythm itself requires a kind of silence, because for there to be a beat or pulse at all, its absence also has to be there. Even punk music has a kind of silence, lots of it.

Then textures: how thick or thin the sound will be, which instruments will play and when, all of this implies its counterpart, silence.

Repetition is a kind of silence, because it refrains from doing something completely new. What is known sinks into you, like an evening.

The very language of music is the language of silence, because music doesn’t say things directly. Even songs are only partly verbal; the words ride the music.

Music also requires silence in the room, maybe. When you’re recording or performing, you usually don’t want background noises that will interfere (like the thump-thump-thump of a drum machine). But this depends, also, on the type of music and the situation. Jazz and blues want the audience to make sounds too. Some musicians (of any kind, except classical, probably) feel less intimidated if there is some chatter in the room. Also, some background noises, like the sound of the Duna flowing under and around the TRIP Hajó, bring something to the music that will never be there in that same way again. So there are no absolute rules regarding background noise, but it’s something to think about.

Music also needs the times when it is not there. The time when the concert or recording is over but it’s still in the head, the time when it is longed for. Or even the time when it is gone. Also, new songs can come out of silence.

This is just the beginning, but it illustrates, at least briefly, how important silence is to any kind of music. More than important: intertwined with it. That is why many musicians need to spend some time alone.

I think of this when I listen to or remember the gorgeous new single by Platon Karataev, “Partért kiáltó” (“Crying for the Coast,” also the title of their forthcoming album). It has most of these kinds of silences, and to be heard well, it needs the other kinds too. The vocal melody repeats and repeats, until the end, when there’s a variation, which itself is a kind of silence, because the phrase does not complete but instead leaves off. So many subtle things are going on in throughout the song that you can get happily lost in it, listening to it again and again. There’s a wonderful silence at the words “nem eső ez, csak a tenger dadog” (“this isn’t rain, it’s just the sea stuttering/stammering/faltering”). The instruments pause, but the sound carries through. This happens once earlier in the song, too, but it was here that I first noticed it. There are also silences in the rhythm of the lyrics, the way the syllables are sung. And more and more things to discover.

I think “Partért kiáltó” requires silence from the listener too, a willingness to come a distance for it, to be with it, to stay with it, like the one being addressed in the lyrics. It is beautiful right away. But so much happens when you listen many times, which means taking time without talking, without writing. And so this piece ends here.

Update: Here are some more thoughts on the song; this, too, is just a beginning.

  • “To know that you can do better next time, unrecognizably better, and that there is no next time, and that it is a blessing there is not, there is a thought to be going on with.”

    —Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies

  • Always Different

  • Pilinszky Event (3/20/2022)

  • ABOUT THE AUTHOR

     

    Diana Senechal is the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture and the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities, awarded by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Her second book, Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies, was published by Rowman & Littlefield in October 2018. In February 2022, Deep Vellum will publish her translation of Gyula Jenei's 2018 poetry collection Mindig Más.

    Since November 2017, she has been teaching English, American civilization, and British civilization at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium in Szolnok, Hungary. From 2011 to 2016, she helped shape and teach the philosophy program at Columbia Secondary School for Math, Science & Engineering in New York City. In 2014, she and her students founded the philosophy journal CONTRARIWISE, which now has international participation and readership. In 2020, at the Varga Katalin Gimnázium, she and her students released the first issue of the online literary journal Folyosó.

  • INTERVIEWS AND TALKS

    On April 26, 2016, Diana Senechal delivered her talk "Take Away the Takeaway (Including This One)" at TEDx Upper West Side.
     

    Here is a video from the Dallas Institute's 2015 Education Forum.  Also see the video "Hiett Prize Winners Discuss the Future of the Humanities." 

    On April 19–21, 2014, Diana Senechal took part in a discussion of solitude on BBC World Service's programme The Forum.  

    On February 22, 2013, Diana Senechal was interviewed by Leah Wescott, editor-in-chief of The Cronk of Higher Education. Here is the podcast.

  • ABOUT THIS BLOG

    All blog contents are copyright © Diana Senechal. Anything on this blog may be quoted with proper attribution. Comments are welcome.

    On this blog, Take Away the Takeaway, I discuss literature, music, education, and other things. Some of the pieces are satirical and assigned (for clarity) to the satire category.

    When I revise a piece substantially after posting it, I note this at the end. Minor corrections (e.g., of punctuation and spelling) may go unannounced.

    Speaking of imperfection, my other blog, Megfogalmazások, abounds with imperfect Hungarian.

  • Recent Posts

  • ARCHIVES

  • Categories