Cairo is a small place indeed?
I rarely do open up, and people rarely listen and when I get to choose the timing, its almost always the wrong timing. So this is why we have blogs.
Moving on. Another Thursday, another reception at some attache's house and in a party full of artists, pseudo-artists and the usual population of human rights activists, intellectuals and rich, bored expatriates, I decided to spend my evening.
In the same old quarter of Cairo where the bourgeoisie once had free reign and now embassies and attaches have it all I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of one particular gentleman.
And gentility not in the English, Victorian sense, but rather in the refined, kind sense.
A New Yorker who came all the way across the Atlantic to show an eccentric, morbid queen that she still can have butterflies buzzing all around and that the male sex, after all, is still attractive in many ways than one.
After a long dry spell and some hard times, the eccentric, morbid queen decided it was time to go to a party and actually stop feeling sorry for herself.
And she was rewarded indeed by having the chance to meet a particularly unique gentleman.
And in an emotional landscape that was both turbulent and Gothic, grey with clouds and heavy with storms, some delightful sunlight broke in, and suddenly there were meadows and suddenly there were blossoming plains.
And in a rare moment of perfect peace and luscious stillness the eccentric, morbid queen let go of her fears and finally let down her guard.
Whatever could taint such a happy picture?
Some twenty years old tart, with a flat sense of style and no character.
And suddenly the eccentric, morbid queen was jealous. And suddenly the Gothic landscape was all but gone.
And "feelings", other than hate and regret, where the key themes that dominated the scene.
(to be continued)
Moving on. Another Thursday, another reception at some attache's house and in a party full of artists, pseudo-artists and the usual population of human rights activists, intellectuals and rich, bored expatriates, I decided to spend my evening.
In the same old quarter of Cairo where the bourgeoisie once had free reign and now embassies and attaches have it all I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of one particular gentleman.
And gentility not in the English, Victorian sense, but rather in the refined, kind sense.
A New Yorker who came all the way across the Atlantic to show an eccentric, morbid queen that she still can have butterflies buzzing all around and that the male sex, after all, is still attractive in many ways than one.
After a long dry spell and some hard times, the eccentric, morbid queen decided it was time to go to a party and actually stop feeling sorry for herself.
And she was rewarded indeed by having the chance to meet a particularly unique gentleman.
And in an emotional landscape that was both turbulent and Gothic, grey with clouds and heavy with storms, some delightful sunlight broke in, and suddenly there were meadows and suddenly there were blossoming plains.
And in a rare moment of perfect peace and luscious stillness the eccentric, morbid queen let go of her fears and finally let down her guard.
Whatever could taint such a happy picture?
Some twenty years old tart, with a flat sense of style and no character.
And suddenly the eccentric, morbid queen was jealous. And suddenly the Gothic landscape was all but gone.
And "feelings", other than hate and regret, where the key themes that dominated the scene.
(to be continued)
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