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THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 13 of 30

September 8, 2017 Leave a comment

I served the bread and goulash on my gallery, overlooking the dark garden where individual pools of light surrounded each light pole.  He ate quietly, pausing only momentarily from time to time to complement my cooking skills.  He looked out over the garden from time to time and back to me.

“I am eager to see your garden in the light,” he said.  “I’m sure it’s beautiful, having been created by so beautiful a flower as you are.”

I looked at him and searched for irony in his eye, his handsome face, in the tone of his voice.  But I heard no irony or sarcasm or even humour.  I looked into his soft hazel eyes and saw desire.  There was a glowing fire within this young man and I had ignited it.  I decided to bring the obvious subject to the surface.

“You do realise that I’m your mother’s age,” I said.  I studied his face for a reaction.

“My mother enjoys a full, satisfying life,” he said.  “She is in love, she has lovers, she has a profession and a home, and is very happy.  It’s true that I am young enough to be your son.  It’s also true that I am old enough to be your lover.”

We washed the dishes and the gulas pot together, standing side by side at the sink.  Attila was much larger than I am, and it made me feel young and fragile and safe to be near him.  He asked where he could shower and sleep, so I took him upstairs to my en suite bathroom.  I went into my bedroom and got undressed.  When I returned to the bathroom, Attila was in the shower and his clothes were on the floor under the sink.  I shed my kimono and stepped into the shower facing the warm spray.  I was afraid to be frontal with him.

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Helplessly, I Watch The Decline

April 20, 2017 Leave a comment

I have mixed feelings about the general decline in society. It has been accelerating during the past couple of decades as wealth and profits came to be respected above integrity and quality. At the same time, the quest for wealth and profits has resulted in the rapid advance of technology and the proliferation of information. At the same time again, the hunger for wealth and profits is most rapidly satisfied when one squeezes one’s suppliers until they barely profit enough to stay in business. Profits are then maximized by charging the highest possible price for the product you paid the least for

The last sentence in the paragraph above, illustrates the decline in written English. It’s the only sentence that I have ever ended with a preposition. I didn’t like it. It made me feel creepy. I won’t do it again. I did it this time because just this afternoon, I heard an English language expert explain the rules on, “Fresh Air with Terry Gross,” on NPR. It seems the rules are based on Latin, not English, and are therefore not valid. So, from now on, ending sentences with prepositions is okay, and you can begin a sentence with “because.”

You can begin with “because” if you wish to, and I might be tempted to do it some time, now that I know it’s actually okay. The decline in our formality of rules in English is acceptable, because I know that any language is like a living thing, and will always grow and change as new words develop and old words evaporate. Just today, I received a criticism of one of my recent blogs. It was valid, and it was intelligently written, except; there was no capital (upper case) letter at the beginning of any sentence, nor was there any capital “I.”

I see that kind of shit a lot in recent years. It’s the evolution and devolution of the English language as technology enables, and even requires, unreasonable rapidity.

Vigilante Girls

July 10, 2015 Leave a comment

Me, my sister and three friends sometimes watch reality homicide shows together. I was the first one to get into watching the series’ about police work and forensic sciences. When I started talking about how I enjoyed these shows, and learned so much about police work, the four of them became fans as well.

My name is Monique, my twin sister is Martine and our three friends are Carol, Barbara and Nancy. We frequently gathered together at one’s home or another for our ‘Homicide Evenings’. We enjoyed “The First 48 hours”, “Dark Waters of Crime” and “Deadly Encounters”. We began to notice that women were almost always the victims of cruelty, torture and murder. Most often they were young women, sometimes older women, married women, frequently mothers. Of course, women living high-risk lives were most frequently victims. This would be party girls, drug addicts and prostitutes.

I admit, we often fantasized about getting even with the guys who did this stuff. Maybe abuse guys who abuse women and children. It was just idle talk, letting off steam. After all, we couldn’t actually do anything. All five of us come from families that are quite high on the net worth scale. We didn’t really want for anything growing up. We’ve known each other since we were eight. We met at the exclusive Schiestmiester Boarding School we went to in Switzerland.

We were still friends when we entered the same university, one of the most desirable Ivy League schools. In university, we did most everything together. We chipped in on lottery tickets; we lived off campus in a four bedroom house that was convenient to school. We even went on vacations together. Of course there were men in and out of our lives along the way. We’re not lesbians. We all usually have lovers but none of us felt drawn into marriage with any of our dates.

We all did well. I’m a PhD in chemistry, Martine is a surgeon, Carol is a marine biologist, Barbara is a playwright and Nancy is a sculptor. When we could schedule evenings for us to all get together, we did so to watch, enjoy, and study the real life homicide and forensic shows. During our relaxing coffee times, we tossed around ideas on what we might have done had we been in the law enforcement group investigating each of the cases we watched.

Speaking for myself, it began to eat at me that there were so many cases of women being beaten time and again by the man they love. The same man who claimed to love in return. It was like a rage within me. It grew slowly and steadily as more and more frequently we’d see women treated like chattel or trash. Video of the crime scene fills the television screen. There might be a young woman lying stark naked beside a highway, blood flowing from the hole in her head down over her nose to drip on the dirt roadside. In another case, an older woman is strangled to death in her garage after she is raped by three different men. I resolved to speak to the girls at our next homicide evening and ask for a discussion on the state of women’s safety.

I asked for the next gathering to be at my place and everyone agreed. It was six days later before we were all available, and that suited me perfectly. It gave me time to prepare a surprise presentation.

(to be continued)