Some Like it Inflamed

At first, I always sweep the rows with my eyes. Then it begins. It is the same feeling wherever I am. – on the shaky stage of the community hous of ”Mucsaröcsöge”, or in the National Theatre. Feelings which pursue each other all the time: expectance, tension, relief.

There is one extremely inspireing thing on the stage, and it’s the presence of the audience.It is hard to tell you what a huge influence they have on me while we are playing for them. I admit, it’s a sort of exhibitionism. Yes, you can call me an exhibitionist, I am a kind of that – as I had noticed a few years ago. But please don’t take it in the wrong way, it doesn’t mean that I’m one of those clowns. Perhaps (and I hope) you would never lay this title at my door, but I’m still saying that audience makes me crazy of what I’m doing. I mean playing. It is terrificly different to play for somebody, not just for myself. The sight of only one or two half-interested faces among the hundreds is enough, it gives me verification: yes, it’s worth doing it. And I swear, this is a mutual effect. The more eager the band is, the better the mood in the auditorium.

There is an other thing: The Stage.It has a rapturuos athmosphere, a unique one. In a narrow sense: The beating sound of my steps on the floor of planks - which has a feeling of wolking on a shipboard; the warm, glunted or the pearcing, and glaring lights; the panorama... all of these makes me excited. But in a figurative meaning it symbolises the fruit of a great aspiration. It materializes the resut of a learning and rehearsing period. It’s the time of our harvest. Oh, how good it is.

These two uplifting feelings of ease are given, the audience and the stage. But there is one more thing, the fact of responsibility. We alter and sophisticate the taste of the public. After some time they are apt to accept anything, even junk adaptations. Therefore, the musician has to distinguish and represent real values. In my case, folklore is the authentic source, but it's not relevant since the main emphesis is stricty on the genuineness of the performance.

Finally, we have to celebrate the audience for being our audience. Otherwise it doesn't work. Applause for them.

Sex and Toldi (or Modern Literature)

Dear bloggers!

Have you already visited the comments on István's post about Sex and the City?
If not then do it and enter a fairly interesting debate about what literature means in modern times. But before doing this please read Joe's second reflection in which he exhorts: do not take it too seriously. In the hang of an argument there shouldn't be any kind of personal attacks against your opposition. Especially if you don't realy know each other. Anyway I'm glad to read such mature thoughts from all of bloggers, but it is worth observing this case from different aspects.

Dear Szoszo! I think you have no point when you declare Sex and the City a literary work. In a conservative critical context it is not literature. But here we have a good chance to think of the altering contexts of different eras. Certainly Toldi had a totally different role in it's own time but it impossible to make an overall appretiation of it. How could we gain a slight impression of the social, political, cultural and everyday life featutes of historical ages without liveing in them?
What are real problems? What does "accept" mean? Acceptet by who? Why should an author use sex and money to reveal "real" problems? (Arany used the most beautiful Hungarian language I've ever red - can we compare it with the common phrases and clichés of Sex end the City? -not a bit.) Why am I asking questions? For I'd be a pednatic guy I wanted to announce the answer (which I don't know) of one of the most relevant cultural questions in a blog post. Confidence is misleading in this case...

In the field of modern Hungarian literature the regrettable situation is the folloving: On one hand primary, secondary and even university curricula don't consist the idea of literature as a living branch of art. Instead literature is alienated, and students are only tought how to read, evaluate, and speak about literary masterpieces. Let me put a simile in here. Imagine a music teacher who only speaks about a song, and don't wish to teach the student how to sing it. Terrible teacher. Music course is about singing. So why a literature course is not about writeing? It's just speaking about writers and scripts from a special historical view. Simply becous of tradition. And the consequence: children cope with literature as a sort of stodgy mass of texts full of ideology. Hence meny of us is apt to jumble a set of unclear and abstract words with a poem. And here come Para Kovács Imre, Garaczi László and the others in the picture. They are trendy comtemporary poets, novelists and playwriters, with a huge advantage: some of us will always read them for the reasons I have already written about- we do not know what literature is.

What do you think of it, Szoszo and others? Consider! Here you might say that I should have start questioning Isti since he seems to have an even more categorical way of thinking. But I guess I am aware of his fealings about Sex and the City. (I admit I share them in my way.) I assure all of my dear readers: despite the ironic voice, he would never despise anybody for his or her opinion.

But one thing is definitely true: ART IS A MATTER OF TASTE... BUT BE GOURMAND!

A Wallet and a Coat

Can you imagine a realy stirring night? Certainly you can. But how about this one:

It was a mild autumn evening, when I decided to spend some pleasant hours in a pub, with a handful of my friends. The pub's name: "Monte Christo". It is quite a good place for sipping a glass of "nefürgyéle" or "musszolini" and deeply immerse in a good conversation. It was about eleven'o clock, when one of my friends (Peti) found out that his coat had vanished. It was like a slap in the face. What's more he realised that his wallet had been in it's pocket. We immediately started investigation amongst the guests, but no one knew nothing. After we started to rove around in the town, hunting for by-passers, asking them about a red coat. It was gripping at the begining, but after some hours it became a nightmare. By 2'o clock it had been chilly and our only wish was to go home. But we did not give up. At half past 2 we returned to the Zsolnay statue (where Monte Chriso is). We were argueing what to do when someone noticed that Sippi (one of us) was missing. Then the thriler began. I think there was no one in the streat who was not woken up by "SIPPI! SIPPI! SIPPI!" shouts. But there was no answer until......."WHO THE HELL IS SIPPI?" ....came on a yelling drunk voice from the darkness. Than we glimpsed it's source. He was a young bum. Seconds of shock. And then the moments of recognition: his jacket was so familiar. Just like Peti's one. Not just like... IT WAS THAT!

You might think that I have just created this story for the purpose of an exciteing blog post. But it would be a wrong assumption. Everithing I have written down is true.
The story ended at the police station - thank to the pub-keeper ("Papa"), who helped to "uncoat" the thief. But what about the wallet? It wasn't in the pocket. The guy took the money and got rid of it. Would you tell me if you stumbled over a black leather wallet?

Let's Start!

Hello!
Now I have just given up one of my theories! I have created a blog!
And what to do now? Since the last RWS course it has become clear: I should make a friendly start.
In the next few minites I' ll be trying make myself friendly. (I' ll be back!)

I' m here. Now I can seriously state that I am in a friendly mood. It is much better this way.
But what is it due to? I confess: I went to see an episod of The Simpsos. I was fond of it,
it made me vigorous. I think it' s enough for first time. You might think that it is totally sensless... and you are true. But if you are shrewd, then you have got two important peaces of information oabout me. (I dislike internet and like The Simpsons.)
I finish this nightmare here.
Good night.