Summertime
And the livin’ is easy
Fish are jumping
And the cotton is high
Summer, summer time, me, es war Sommer, Sommer frische, last summer, summer loves, summer dullness, whimsical summer, as many summers as you want and more.
We always remember summer, summer is always the past, a magical place and a time when we were young, when we were in love, healthy and happy, when everything was fine. Sometimes in childhood, in the fabled safe childhood. We used to go, that is, we children used to go to Zvolen to grandma’s place for the summer or even with grandma to Piešťany to Aunt Malka’s.
It may seem strange to remember summer in the middle of summer, but memories, unlike the present, are still and not subject to changes, except those caused by the honey river of memory, and those are honey until complete oblivion.
It looks like I’m writing this somewhere on a beach at dusk, but instead of the sea surf, my co-patient’s oxygen machine is bubbling. Exactly four years later, I found myself in the hospital again, then it was spring and now I’m enjoying the summer here, they are kind to me and it’s as peaceful as a monastery. In the evening, I went for a walk in the Garden of Eden, and returning to my room, so as not to disturb the thrushes, the natural owners of every garden, including the Garden of Eden, I sit at the table and write. A fellow patient is lying in bed filling in crosswords, the bottle of the oxygen device is shaking and the water is bubbling in it like in sea holes in the rocks somewhere on Hvar.
Friday evening in the old town is mild and still quiet, the sun is fully resting on the upper floors opposite the standing building and is slowly climbing its roof, setting somewhere above Hainburg.
Bratislava summer evening, as it should be.
Your daddy’s rich
And your ma, she’s good lookin’
So hush little baby
Don’t you cry
Do you know Saul Steinberg? He was born on June 15, 1914 in Ramnicu Sarat, Romania. And he became famous as one of the basic cartoonists of the New Yorker, and thus also as one of the most important cartoonists of the twentieth century. He celebrates his 109th birthday this June. I’ve liked him since I first saw his drawing, I mean I love him with all my might. Steinberg is an example of what drawing is about, what can be drawn and how important it is to remain a child who plays, trada tradaaaaa!
A child with pebbles by the water draws in the sand, which the water gradually washes away, again and again, as if to indicate to us: make that line easier and even easier, as easily as I can erase it for you with one wave, push and that’s it.
The sun is slowly setting and water and sand are doing their age-old duty.
One of these mornings
You’re gonna rise up singing
You’re gonna spread your wings
And take, take to the sky
By the way, I also had my birthday, on the eleventh, and when this article comes out, that is, on the nineteenth, my summer exhibition will open in the Roman Fečík Gallery, the curator is Katka Bajcúrová. I’m putting it this time on Bob Dylan: I wish I was there to help her but I’m not there, I’m gone. No, I didn’t leave, I’m just not there, I’m here.
But the exhibition is until August, when you have a moment, stop by, for joy.
Take the kids too, it’s summer.
Until that morning
Ain’t nothing can harm you
With daddy and ma standing by
Standing by, little baby
Standing by