Archive for the ‘writing’ Category

The Future Of Entertainment

September 13, 2017 Leave a comment

All of the deliberately contrived adventures that serve as our entertainment will be even more contrived in the future. By contrived, I mean scripted, performed, and recorded for public entertainment. Similarly, documentaries and sporting events which are less contrived will nevertheless be altered in the future. We can only hope that the thrill of the chase, the euphoria of victory, and the heartbreak of defeat will continue to stimulate society in more contrived forms.

Movie theaters will be replaced by Holo theaters. Those will be hologram theaters, in the round. Full dimensional events will perform before the 360 degree audience. The holograms will rotate slowly, so the entire audience will see the entire chain of events from every angle.

Automobile racing of every kind will die off as popular sports. Cars will not need cockpits, as in single-seater Formula One and Indy Cars. Stock cars will be flat sleds. All will be driverless, as artificial intelligence will guide the vehicles. There will be no flaws, no differences, no competition because the spirit of humans will be excluded. The public will quickly tire of the flawless predictability of most anything.

Everything from basketball to football and baseball will be afflicted with the same predictable perfection. Horse racing, stage shows, and carnivals will lose their luster because the imperfect senses of participants will be removed. The populace will live virtual lives with their eyes covered by virtual reality goggles, and all will be bland.


THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 14 of 30

September 12, 2017 Leave a comment

I stood with my face up to the spray, the warm water flowing over my nipples, around my breasts, down over my belly and between my thighs.  My heart was pounding, the warm water, the scent of the young male animal behind me and my imagined images of how he looked made my knees weak.  After a moment he put his hands on my shoulders and sent a wave of heat through me.  He stepped closer and slid his hands down from my shoulders and wrapped his thick arms around me.  He cupped my breasts. His hands were big, warm, and gentle.

Attila held me and pressed himself to my back. His firm chest was pressed to me and he was kissing the top of my head through my wet hair.  He caressed my breasts, and I could feel him getting hot, pressing against me.  I laid my head back on his shoulder and just let him have me, and silently rejoiced in the mounting thrill. The orgasm consolidated in me. I could feel its fragments lifting up through my legs from my toes, through my arms from my fingers, through my breasts to my vagina, where it all came together in a gut wrenching contraction that made me yowl like an alley cat.  I was too weak to stand, and Ati’s strong arms held me securely.  The warm water continued to cascade over me while I regained my composure. I turned in Attila’s arms and pressed my breasts flat against his hard stomach.

Attila didn’t speak with his voice, but his hands were worshipping me.  They wandered slowly over my back, down to my butt, around my hips… like he was a blind man, reading me in Braille.  My cheek rested on his chest, and I just stood there enjoying the mounting desire within me.  I felt my inhibitions drifting away and I was sure I could do anything I wanted to do. I felt him quiver at my touch.  I had not had a lover to caress in more than a year, and I didn’t want to miss any potential for pleasure. I might never get another opportunity like that.

The Burden of a Creative Spirit

September 12, 2017 Leave a comment

One who is filled with the creative spirit is always alone. When driving to work or riding public transit, the creative spirit is working within the mind. The face of the old woman in her kerchief would be nice to sketch, one’s mind thinks. The kid with the striped beard might be from the city’s wealthiest family. He might have ostracized them because they did not believe in his yet-to-be-discovered talent. The creative mind is relentlessly working, painting pictures or writing stories.

Those creative spirits among us are in inevitable conflict with the surrounding community. That’s why ‘creative communities’ develop, where the eccentricities of bohemian personalities are a comfortable norm. That’s fine for those of us who reside in cities or towns where such a community exists, but what of those who lack access to like-minded companions.

An old woman on a remote farm might be developing some wonderful paintings. A young man in the military might be writing admirable short stories. Those people, in their inappropriate environments, are likely to be regarded by the community around them as ‘peculiar’, or at least ‘different’. The constant desire to experience things of all kinds keeps the creative spirit working within the creative person.

The secret inner life of the creative person is a mystery to the surrounding community. Often, I am presented with problems that need a creative solution. Over the decades, I have learned to trust my instincts and just execute the ideas that form within. I no longer worry that I might have missed the mark.

It is always a bit of a surprise to me that clients don’t think of the same idea on their own. On the contrary, they seem blown away by the idea that is simple and quick for me. I recall a time when I created an entire newspaper campaign in my head, while driving home from the meeting. I presented it to the client the next morning. It was approved and put into production.

Creativity is a mystery to everyone, including those with the creative spirit.

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.

THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 12 of 30

September 7, 2017 Leave a comment

“So I am to be your other lover, to balance your relationship with her,” I said.  I could have slapped myself.  It was a cruel, stupid thing to say and I knew it.  Who was I to judge Attila Nagy?  He had no obligation to me.  We had just met, and I would be lucky to have him just touch me, let alone ravish me.

The hurt was etched on his face.  He looked squarely into my eyes, and I knew in an instant that I had been mistaken.  He had no desire to use me as a pawn in any game he might be playing with another lover.  I could see clearly that he wanted me for no reason other than his inner animal felt desire for me.

“I’m sorry, Attila,” I said.  I went to him and put my arms around his thick, strong neck and his fragrance made my blood rush in my veins.  I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him full on the mouth.  His tongue darted into my mouth and his hands ran down my back and cupped my ass.  I became wobbly on my legs, it had been so long since I’d felt the caress of a man’s hands, and this man was extraordinary.  He was strong and handsome, young and sensitive, and best of all, he might want to be my lover.

“Am I forgiven?” I said.  I stepped back from his arms.

“As long as you are clear about my intentions,” he said.

“I promised you goulash and bread,” I reminded him.  “Please make yourself comfortable while I change.

I sent him to the living room where he sat while I went to the kitchen.  I took the pot of goulash I’d made on Wednesday from the refrigerator and put it on the stove to warm and went upstairs to my room where I chose very tight jeans and a very loose white jersey top, and of course, no brassier.  My legs were quite long for my height, and my boobs were big and beautiful and I knew it.

When I returned to the living room, Attila jumped to his feet and just stared at me.  He had turned my CD player on, and a Charles Aznavour song was playing softly.

“You really must let me draw you,” he said.  “And paint you and sculpt you.  You really are remarkable to my eye.”

The Szentendre Train – part 11 of 30

September 6, 2017 Leave a comment

“In what part of Szentendre do you live?” I said.

“It’s quite an obscure place,” he said.  “Off the beaten track, so I am not bothered at all.”

“Are you a hermit?” I laughed.  He laughed too, and threw his head back, his face radiant with youth and humour.  I could love him, I thought.

“I think I am a hermit of a sort,” he said.  “I believe hermits prefer to be totally alone, with no other person ever in their lives.”

“And you have a girlfriend,” I said, “so you are not a pure hermit.”

“No, not a pure hermit.”  He said.  He grew thoughtful as we approached my home.

“This is my home,” I said.  He stood looking up at it while I dug my gate key out of my bag.

“It’s very large,” he said.  “I didn’t expect to see so large a place, with such magnificent gardens… although I can only see them in the glow of your garden lights.”

“I time them to come on when it grows dark, so I can find my way to the house,” I explained unnecessarily.  I opened the gate and led him inside before I locked the gate again behind us.  I was feeling a breathlessness come over me.  I began anticipating sex. Neither of us spoke until we reached the door to the house.

“About the girlfriend,” he said softly while I unlocked and opened the heavy door.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, wishing I could retract my girlfriend reference.  I was embarrassed that I had been so foolish.

“It’s not like a deeply loving relationship,” he said.  “She used to pose for me, and we both needed financial help to manage the downtown rent.  It’s more like a business arrangement.”

“But you are lovers, no?” I said, and again regretted my outburst.

“We are occasional lovers,” he said, “but we do not have any exclusive expectations or requirements of each other.  The truth is, she has an ongoing affair with a married man.”  I suddenly felt defensive.  I was just a way for him to even things out with his roommate.

THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 10 of 30

September 5, 2017 Leave a comment

“I’d love to, if you’re free,” he said.  I was surprised at how eager and excited he was.

“I am free,” I said.  “Will you come to my place tomorrow?”

“What time will suit you?” he said.

“Depends upon how late you will be up with your celebration tonight,” I said.

“What celebration?” he said.

“You said you were dressed because you had something special to do this evening,” I reminded him.

“Oh, yes,” he laughed.  “I’ve done it.”

“You’ve… you mean I’m the something special,” I said, blushing.

“Yes, you are something very special,” he said.  I again relinquished my sense of responsibility and blurted out what I really wanted to say.

“Well then, we should not interrupt our special evening too early,” I said.  “If you’re free, you can come home with me now, and we can discuss our artistic endeavours over bowls of goulash and bread.”

“Nothing would please me more,” he said.  “And you must promise to come to my studio on Sunday morning.”  We sat silently, looking out the windows at the darkness for the remaining minutes before the train stopped at the Szentendre platform.

I preceded him off the train and waited a moment on the platform for him before we walked off together.  Boldly, I put my arm in his and guided him toward my house.  We walked along the sandy street past the small, stucco houses in their large, fenced lots.  Bushes heavy with red roses clung to the high fences.  Some fences were so thick with ivy that they formed solid walls of green that hid from our sight the serene beauty of the orchards and gardens within.  We walked together, and the warm evening air was fragrant with the scent of roses.  There were no streetlights, so we could see the road only because it was light coloured sand and lit by the glow of garden lamps in yards along the way.