Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

Catherine Hoffman

‘How are you, drágá?’ from the bar sang Zsuzsi Gosztola, the long-time barista, for whom, as to many Hungarians everyone is a ‘drágá’, a darling. ‘You look peeved,’ ‘It’s God,’ I snarled, camping it up – the only way you can speak of this - ‘we’re having a punch-up. I’m daggers-drawn at him’.

‘Oh, gooood!’ grinned Zsuzsi, languidly pouring the coffee

‘He just loves a stoush,’

‘The hell! We’re not doing a friendly argy-bargy! I hate his

guts!’

‘How coo-hooo-oool!’ laughed she, pouring me more, ‘It

means you’re with him! He loves it! Especially a war!’

...Ggrrrrrr....

*

June 4.

Days of fuzz. No more talk about it. I’ve already received all the answers. And still feel tripped not to have known. The humiliation! To have your Cosmos gashed by the cheep of a small, desperate bird. Its death is a deal-breaker. A drop-kick to the soul. It’s my step out of the dialogue. I know, all this, it’s so in excess. Could it just be what Attila had said, only the ego’s humiliation of getting to know something I hadn’t known? Or is it me having had enough of the Beauty, the Bon-Bon of Loveliness? Is this bird event the very angel ‘Kismet’, saying to me, ‘You’ve had enough! You’ve gorged and gobbled plenty, you asthetico-porky-pig! You’ve pigged-out on the Lovely, the Fortuna, the Bella, the Transplendance and Ponderosities! Now, get ready! Strap in! Take this!’ Here comes Reality!

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