The new inhabitants of Szaloncicaország

Repu and Tallinn in the Szalon, in a moment of relaxation, before starting new forms of mischief.

Repu acquiring Cica Consciousness

In Praise of the Flat Line

Cicabácsi

    In Szaloncicaország there also live Cicanéni and Cicabácsi. A funny couple of cicák, they live together in their torony, looking over a park. They laugh together at the silly barks in the park, they cook lecsó, they venture in the town sometimes. Cicanéni makes sure they don't miss any interesting film in the local theatre and Cicabácsi insists on visiting the local record shop convinced that new wonderful recorded music could appear at any moment. Their happy life is not certainly the kind of “happy” life in which agreement on all issues is a synonym of boredom. On the contrary, they have different views about fundamental aspects, aspects of philosophical nature, actually. Take for example the world of physics and geometry. They don't agree on the value conceded to “horizontal” and its opposite, “vertical”. The torony has witnessed endless discussions about the nature of these concepts, its relevance in history and culture. They exemplify their points in their wanderings around the park and the little hill that is at the centre of it. At this point it must be said that of the two is Cicanéni the real wanderer cica, while Cicabácsi is more of a házimacska, and therefore prone to favour a good sofa instead of a good walk. Certainly, it is not difficult to guess who defends the prominence of one of the concepts in discussion over the other. Cicanéni proves the relevance of verticality with a practical case: historically, climbing hills and mountains has been inseparable of heroic acts, like Hannibal traversing the Pirenees, or Edmund Hillary conquering the Everest. Even if Cicabácsi could accept the heroism of Hannibal -too taxing for an old cat, anyway-, he is sceptical about any sort of competition - “all that time to go up the Everest for taking a picture with a kicsi flag and then going down immediately for avoiding freezing to death?”, claims Cicabácsi-. But Cicanéni is totally convinced: climbing, such a cicalike activity, by the way, underlines Cicanéni, has provided irrefutable troves, gratifying surprises that even Cicabácsi should admit. For instance, she insists that magic bars exist on top of the highest hill in the area, near the park. Cicabácsi, sceptical as always, insists that the only magic bar he knows lays inside their fridge.

     One day, though, the couple finally agreed on proving their points and adventurously wandered to that hill with its supposedly magic bar. Too far away from their torony, complained Cicabácsi; not so far, lusta cica, replied Cicanéni. After finding their way up the hill, under the July sun, not as strong as it could have been expected, the two cicák achieved the summit. “Semmi”, said Cicabácsi. “But look at the view”, replied Cicanéni. And it was true that the river Tej was visible, that even a nice old ship was anchored in the harbour and its masts looked great against the blue sea to which the firth of the Tej leads. But Cicanéni could not hide that there was not magic bar to be seen. Insisting that the bar decided not to manifest itself that day was not very convincing, either. Instead of the magic bar a boring monolith dedicated to the victims of some distant and heroic war was erected on top of the hill.

     The atmosphere in the torony that evening after their return from the hill was somehow strange. Cicabácsi hardly managed to refrain his satisfaction: the dispute seemed to be settled, once and for all. Cicanéni could hardly show how szomorú she was, how disappointed about the lack of magic bar on the top of the hill. After a couple of beers from the only real magic bar, as Cicabácsi pointed out, this old cat felt victorious. “Nagyon jó ötlet!”, suddenly shouted Cicabácsi. “What is it?”, said Cicanéni. “You will see”, replied with a smile the old cat. He went to the park at night and dragged a heavy stone from somewhere in the park. He worked all night on the stone, with hammers and other tools that a sculptor would use, probably. The next morning he presented his work to Cicanéni. “But, what is it?”, she asked, stupefied in front of a rectangular long stone lying on the ground in the garden. “This is an horizontal obelisk”, replied Cicabácsi. She understood: it was his way of celebrating his triumph, an horizontal monument, commemoration, like those dedicated -erected would not be the right word, probably-, to ancient heroes. Cicanéni noted there was no writing on the obelisk. She smiled. “Szép!”, she said. “But the piece is unfinished and we need to find its proper place, where this horizontal obelisk can shine, be admired, celebrated....” She paused. Cicabácsi nodded afirmatively. “Let's bring it to the top of the hill -said Cicanéni- and we will engrave on it «In Praise of the Flat Line».

Shoe laces

Wandering Gata honours her name daily, as her shoes, glorious bright red shoes, show their wearing off, after so many ways and alleys and avenues walked. A day some time ago one of the shoe laces broke while visiting in Szaloncicaország . Szaloncica decided to keep the lace, and hanged it near the main door of the Ország, as a sign of a constant presence of her Gata when she is not actually in the Ország. He keeps hats there in that hanger; a homburger for the days when he plays music with his synthesizers, fedoras and borsalinos for deploying Cica Consciousness in the wild world outside; his black beret for rainy days. Soon Wandering Gata will hang there her bright red beret (not any more as a visitor). But today, Szaloncica broke one his shoe laces, a brown lace, and he decided that its place is where the red lace hangs. Now the red and brown lace hang together, intertwined, együtt, as it should be.

Cica Music

Szaloncica composes music and dances to it for his Wandering Gata.
https://soundcloud.com/the-vegan-surgeons/szaloncica-dances-for-his

Official visit of Szaloncica and Wandering Gata To Madrid. 2

Accounts differ, but all testimonies agrees at least in the perennial presence of a cica in theTemple. La Venencia is the bar where the Sherrycica, the Goddess of Cica Consciousness resides, in José Echegaray street. She is the current incarnations of the Goddess. Other cats with different colours, most of them black, have lived in the temple. As such, the bar has not changed a bit in decades. The dust undoubtedly dates from the origins of time, or at least from the beginnings of the marketing in Madrid of sherry and all the different varieties of that Andalusian wines from the province of Cádiz. No other beverage is served in the Temple, and if anyone read what follows, it will be easy to understand the ritualistic reasons for its retail. In this spiritual liquid the sun of the Atlantic ocean shines, as in the eyes of the Goddess when she takes the liberty to look directly at you. In that instant the liquid gold becomes the sacrament of a mysterious communion, and the wisdom of the Cica consciousness is passed onto you. The pilgrims then, bathed in the holiness of the experience, can wander around Madrid, assured of the benefits of the protection of the Goddess. As an example, you can take the common and very civilised custom of serving tapas with every drinkin the bars of Madrid. For those initiated in the mysteries of La Venencia, the experience acquires a whole different dimension. In their various wanderings around the picturesque areas of the centre of Madrid, Szaloncica and Wandering Gata wisely took refuge in different bars and taverns. A beer here, or, specially, a vermouth there, refreshed them after their urban travels of shared discoveries But every time that a little tapa appeared in front of them, in the form of a small dish full of simple but juicy olives, or in the brutal form of a morcilla, or blood sausage, they knew that the offering was served to them with the utmost respect. The waiter always whispered, in a strong Spanish accent, a prudent and easily understandable “Miau!”.

Official visit of Szaloncica and Wandering Gata To Madrid. 1

Szaloncica and Wandering Gata travelled to Madrid, Spain, in their first official visit together. Among their multiple activities, the first and most relevant one in the context of Szaloncica and Wandering Gata global campaign for furthering cica consciousness was the visit to "La Venencia", the temple in Madrid where the Goddess of Cica Consciousness resides. For being a temple it is actually full of activities and amenities, all of them related with the selling and consumption of sherries and other wines of the same variety. No other beverages are allowed or served in the temple, with the exception of water.
As a temple its existence is only known to feline pilgrims, most of the customers will take it as a curious bar in the centre of Madrid. It is obviously more than that.
Amid the turmoil and confussion of such an stablishement the calm and wisdom of the Goddess of Cica Consciousness is evident. Lying in the altar she awaits for those who can recognise her. Only then she manifest herself, descends from the altar and wanders around the bar, inspecting the temple and complimenting the pilgrims with a glimpse of her wisdom.
This was exactly the case of Szaloncica and Wandering Gata, who were recognised and praised by the Goddess, as it is shown in the picture.
A clarification is needed. In order to respect the almost secret existence of the Goddess, Szaloncica and Wandering Gata had to assume human appereance. This should not come as a surprise to those who know the immense possibilities of Cica Consciousness.
Wandering Gata acquired the most pleasant appearance. Szaloncica showed his happines dancing the customary dance that all Szaloncicas performs for their gatas. Unfortunately, Szaloncica was not so successful. Wandering Gata greet his human appereance: Teljesen Macska, she said. But Szaloncica replied: De kicsi (es madjnem kopasz)! Sajnos! Both of them concluded. A long sigh followed. The Goddess of Cica Consciousness looked at both of them with an almost benevolent indiference.

Meditation on a candle (with Wandering Gata in the background). 2

 Szaloncica sips his dark beer, smokes once again his pipe and contemplates the brilliant and brief light of the tobacco burning in the depth of his pipe. The candle is still alighted, spreading a tiny and tremulous light through the Szalon. The candle is certainly a star. Its mechanism is akin to the inner atomic motor that makes stars last for centuries, thousands of centuries, eons that even Szaloncica struggles to conceive. Szaloncicas have a very special relationship with time. Incidentally, it may be worth mentioning the abilities of Cicas for breathing time, for inhabiting time, like if they were able to expand every second and occupy it way much better, let's say, than the human's clumsiness regarding the consideration of any real use of time. That's why, let's pursue this digression a few seconds more, a Cica seems to sleep, when he or she is actually living at a different and slower and more intense speed. Anyway, it is agreed, candles are like stars. They burn out of their own matter. Its size, the gravitational force of its incredible mass, compresses the core and fuses atoms, hydrogen, helium. The result is this endless atomic reaction. Slow, fed by the star itself that lives and dies at every second, its power being the root of its inevitable decay. The star will end in a supernova, a white dwarf, a dark hole: the emphatic negation of a star, a well so deep that light, not even the strength of desires can avoid to be sucked in for ever. But such a kind of catastrophy is still thousands of years away from us. Anyway, the candle burns in a similar way, surely with a much less dramatic and bombastic end. The wick burns immediately once lighted. It looks like as any matter that burns so easily, soon it will be just an ugly dark thread cold and inert. But the light flares high only for a second: soon the heat melts the wax, and the wick sucks the wax up, and in the end it is the wax that shines in flame: it is the wax that burns, not the wick. The wax permeates the wick, every thread and particle of the wick, the former disappears in the latter. But the wick's fire does not melt right away the wax, it is not that hot: warm enough for melting little by little the wax that will feed the wick, and the wax will fuel the wick's fire that will produce the right amount of heat, for, in its turn, keeping melting slowly the wax. A perfect cycle, once ignited, of slow passion through endless embrace and fire. Szaloncica's definition of love. The wick is black, the wax is red, thinks joyously Szaloncica.