There are many types of cells. The most terrible of these is mental confinement. There are at least two types of this: in one, the paid residents live there, and in the other, the bambas who just walked into the trap.
The summer drank a lot of water from the Danube, and the gravel strip that reaches the shore is wide and dusty, where poplars, sycamores, and sycamores already take care of the promenade. The trunks of dried trees lie everywhere, the concrete landings of the boathouses are barely touched by the water. The ducks explode in a swarm for a hoped-for morsel, and swing in frustration on the quiet waves if they did not manage to get a good morsel. The boat is barely moving, a few motorboats pull it towards Szentendrei Island. The kayakers now all seem to be drifting south with the current. The children feel like they can bravely wade into the water - they talk to the waves - but fortunately they are cautious. The Duna cafe warns with a grin: Be careful! I still have strength, I'll catch you, and we won't even stop at the Black Sea! The Black Sea and the Black Forest excite their imaginations, and maybe at that moment they wouldn't even mind riding on the back of a wave to the sea!
When asked what makes the sea black, I only hesitate. I've been there, it wasn't black. But they say it's like that from space. I do not think so. It was certainly not as blue as the Greek seas. Maybe some mineral colors it like that, or really - as they say - in ancient times, the sky was also marked with colors, and the color of the north was black. South is red, east is yellow, west is white. But that already sounds like racism, not to mention the fact that there is the Russian fleet in the Black Sea, and Snake Island, and the Crimean Peninsula, and the mined ports. However, the truth can only be that there is a large black dragon sleeping deep in the sea, which also has wings, and therefore it is better not to wake it up. It seems that today's politicians don't know this anymore.
Fortunately, above the railway bridge, we see the striped sphere of the airship rising in the Városliget. Of course, this is only a kind of "lookout point", it takes five minutes to rise to the top - a rope holds it - then five minutes up and five back. But it's a miracle! (Just don't let the words of a dark intellectual ring in my ears: "Orbán's airship.") However, a fast ship glides along the Danube, blowing exciting waves onto the shore. And by the time we look towards the railway bridge again, the airship - the "Balloon" - is nowhere to be found. The Liget is now getting a new life, expanding on the green, "parade square", on top of the Ethnographic Museum, on the well-kept walkways, sensational (and safe) playgrounds. The "garden guards" have now been ordered elsewhere. Let's say for bridges. It doesn't matter the location: their fate and wages: the chain. The shackle in which they were forever entangled.
We are waiting for the hedgehog. Seriously, we are sitting in a nice row on the terrace. Silence is our password. We've been quiet for a minute. Only the crunch of the biscuit makes an obscene noise while munching. My birds are gone. Neither magpies nor finches - even the boring pigeons have hid - only the crickets make music. Where did the owls go? The two screech owls with glasses. Everyone disappeared. A small skinny hand reaches for the biscuit. The bag crackles. Ear-splitting laughter. This hedgehog is not coming today. The blood froze in his veins. That's why we waited, but we understood that he would now also remain in the halls of silence. You need silence because the Earth is roaring.
Silence is a difficult experience. Sleep is silence, loneliness, and suffering is often silence. But work and creation also have silence. And also for joy. There is a silent majority, and most people long for silence. Maybe because the wildness is too hurtful, the noise is loud. It is true that just as silence can be deathly withering, noise can also be pulsating life. It is difficult to set the balance on our imaginary scale. But not only for us, but also for nature. We are waiting for the rain. Even myself, who was so far away from the farmland, even though I still feel in every inch of me that I belong there. And the kids seem to be waiting too. The heat and drought have been killing me for too long. No, I don't want to play a "down-to-earth" intellectual in swimming trunks for a couple of hours. Someone who mimics the concern for the crop with great experience. Perhaps raising his watery eyes to the sky - mentioning hail - he turned to momentary terror.
The Aunt tells about the siege, she can't forget it. Seventy-seven years have passed since the siege. It was winter then. The Aunt is afraid of winter. He hasn't turned on the heaters in twenty years. "30 percent comes from pipes," he explains. It is enough. I know a lot of people are like that. Ursula von der Leyen recommends them to save. In my eyes, he - with his incompetence, alarmed vanity, and stupid gestures - has caught up with the cramping group of the most harmful politicians. Of course, according to the politically correct worldview, a cell would be enough for Néni. With cold water, maybe with some minimal heating. Get cold there. The difference between such a cell and a crypt is small, but not negligible. Unfortunately, it is no longer just a symbolic effort to abolish this difference in Europe. It will be decided now, in these years, whether a life worthy of man will remain, or whether the cell world, the cell era will come. It is already very difficult to break out of the cell. And it is truly a shame for Europe that, both symbolically and in reality, we are walking towards the crypt. The struggle is great, almost superhuman, to prevent the creation of the cell world and then the sinking into the Atlantean depths. That is why we must stand on the side of life and advise - freely and nicely - those who would force us into cells.
There are many types of cells. The most terrible of these is mental confinement. There are at least two types of this: in one, the paid residents live there, and in the other, the bambas who just walked into the trap. The former are quite small cells. The people who live here have turned so far away from the community of human destiny - which for us is also the community of Hungarian destiny - that their lives are a dull struggle. They're getting paid, that's for sure. They weave devilish spider webs everywhere, but when they need to, they buzz and drink blood. They can no longer leave the cell. A few would escape, but they had already covered themselves with slimy substances. Their voices are sticky, their keyboards are slimy, their saxophones drip, their writing is ruminative, their brushes groan. The light no longer shines in their eyes. They are already lost. We can trust that the bambas - in Europe, North America, and even Japan - will finally be released from captivity. From the traps. After all, they were once passionate about freedom. They were looking for the love of living life. They purify themselves—perhaps with a big fire—and stop hiding. We may not even realize how close the moment is. It's almost here, within arm's reach.
There is live music on the beach. His sounds - like skilfully thrown flat stones on the water of the Danube - rise towards the small clouds. Everyone seems to be having a good time. Yet some inexplicable anxiety overwhelms the "Romans". The sweet summer fever is mixed with restlessness. I hear whispers. Full of complaints. Full of dissatisfaction. Full of insults and swearing. Money, money, money. There are no beautiful young lovers here. I don't know where they might be. Do they still exist at all? Where are they going? Are they afraid? "He who lives cannot hide." The tiny shells are gathering. The sun breaks through my eyelids. I lower my head, draw loneliness in the dust.
Now, when there are a thousand troubles, the earth is thirsty, then it dies of thirst; the Sun is a killer, the hot rays burn; when the man went wild again, cannons, rockets, and the weapon in his hand; when the hair and body of a boy and a girl do not fall apart, they pulsate in a loving embrace, and the dark world is extremely proud of this; when they threaten, frighten, and intimidate from everywhere - well, that's when you have to kneel down and pray. This is when you should go outside, lie on your back, stare at the sky and give thanks: how beautiful the world is, how good it is to live in this world. Blessings and thanks. To the Creator, to love, to ancestors, descendants, to many swaying ghosts - former friends - and then to our surviving heroes, the poets. For doctors. I can hear my grandchildren's breathing. They whisper: Life! I want you. He also sends me a message, and I - even in the shadows - hear the good news and pass it on.
Photo: From the collection of Károly Szerencsés
