Normal things made dirty

"Can I have some almond milk?"
"Of course. You can have as much of my nut milk as you want. Straight from the tap"

I have no idea where this came from

She had slender legs, like a swan.

But not a swan's legs, no, her legs were like the swan's neck, soft white, supple, rounding and swelling as the neck met the body and the legs met the butt.   She had green eye shadow, deftly applied, and her lids drooped indolently.  She was thin.   Ballet dancers are often unhealthily thin.  Ballet teachers are often unhealthily cold bitches.  The two go together.  You can expect a cold bitch ballet teacher to say to one of her girls, "you're getting kind of fat there.  I think soon you'll barely fit into your leotard."  And you can expect the impressionable ballet girls to take the comment like an arrow to there heart, embedded for years, festering and radiating out in all aspects of their life.  Ballet is an art for people who hate themselves.

But people who hate themselves are an easy target for other people who want things from them.

Brusequa was one such man-boy. He wanted pussy. Not literally.  Certainly he wanted to insert his prick into some female reproductive anatomy, but beyond that, he wanted the manly conquest of doing so, the status, the power, the smug sense of self worth that came from having stories about women submitting to him, letting him, begging him to give it to them.   Brusequa was, is, not a sympathetic character then, but to someone who had not been introduced to him via this open and truthful portrayal, he would be seen as clean, pleasant, and agreeable.  He had good manners.   He had a handsome body marred only by a too long neck that was an asset to the ballet and a too big nose that was a punishment by his author.  Something to keep him from looking to good, being to self-confident.

Don't think this made him appear humble, no, it made him present himself as even more prideful.  But it was just a tad bit of an act.  Not totally believed, for who could love that gargantuan nose.

Needless to say, he got the ladies he sook with his entry into the world of ballet. Men are always in short supply, so he could be a prima donna much of the time.  And being around all those women, so insecure about their pudgy, bloated waists that were almost as wide around as there wrists.  Oh la la.

"Francqua, Francqua, you must be joking. Oh girl, you are a silly creature."

"Oh, Brusqua, don't taunt me so.  I'm serious.  I'm practicing my part."

"It can't be.   Look at that frolicking.   You look perfectly ridiculous."

"Oh don't say such a thing.  Here, let me show you."

And the delicate creature proceeded to dance for smug Brusequa.

[writers note: what the shit is this? I'm so fucking tired. I just wanted to write something today. but ...must...sleep. faaaiilling.

sleep]

Grammar

Talking-to: "You spanked mah pigs, boy, and nows yer gonna get a talking-to like you wouldn't believe."
Talking-tos: "Those pigs all need talking-tos, if you ask me."
Talking-to's: "Those are Grandpa Talking-to's pigs boy,"
Talkings-to: "and its talkings-to, not talking-tos."
Its:  "no pa, the American Heritage Dictionary says its talking-tos.  Also, you mean it's, not its, it's means it is, its is a possessive pronoun"

(pig shit fight ensues)



[this is what happens sometimes when I try to learn grammar.]

Reading writing

The best writing I do is that impelled by a strong emotional charge. I let go of trying to control the worlds coming out, trying to make a good impression, and let the emotion inside scream through the fingers moving and the black appearing on white and the letters coalesce into the outline of my heart, like dusting for fingerprints.

Tonight we talk about anger and forgiveness. Self anger, anger at what I have done wrong or am yet to do. My lackadaisical nature, my late nights, my inconsistencies and broken words. I am ashamed.

And always now, the paradox is attached to everything: I am perfect. Nothing to change, nothing to make better. I am forgiven. I am completely forgiven. Why? but there is no why or need for why. it is it's own answer. love and confusion, unworthiness to be loved and acceptance of the divine love.

I'm afraid to believe in myself because it means I will start moving, and taking risks, and that's scary to think about. That's why sometimes it's better just to do, and not let yourself dally with thoughts going in circles.

I read. Things click. I try to meditate, I don't know if it works anymore, if I'm doing it right. My body is mortal, my mind is fallible, my faith in Self is unshakable, but it is nameless, and all the words gather round it to throw stones.

It doesn't care. It loves them. The nameless non-existent man inside the center of my heart. The Mystery. The unseen, the unspeakable. Is it even knowable?

Too much thought.

All I really want to do tonight is bleed on the floor from my open heart and ask God where to find him. Is he on 5th street? Halfway out of town? I think he lives in the white house with the red trim and the quaint little tin garbage can and ceramic bluebirds on the steps.