Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 52
December 24, 2014
RUDOLPH'S LAMENTNo bells ring,No angels sing,It's fucking...
RUDOLPH'S LAMENT
No bells ring,
No angels sing,
It's fucking cold-
My tushie froze,
Its Xmas Eve
I got a nose bleed
And some ijit
Is skipping
Tingaling-a-linging?
Now that fat old bastard
Is loaded and bloated
With egg-nog and rum
Singing HO HO HO
And FI FO FUM
He's taking his list
He's checking it twice,
While we poor shits
Stand in the ice.
He's tripping,
And swilling,
And soon
(God willing)
He'll get going;
But still
There's no knowing
What time
We'll be home.
So now the bastard
Is high on his seat
Dribbling on his beard
And cracking his whip;
You'd think after all
These bloody years
He'd get my name right?
HI HO SILVER -
He screams,
Prancer snickers,
And nudges Dancer,
But I just sigh
And pull on ahead.
It's cold, my nose
Is sore and red,
It's going to be
A fucking long night...
God's truth,
I'd rather be home
In my bed and let
That bitch Vixen
Take point instead.
MC
No bells ring,
No angels sing,
It's fucking cold-
My tushie froze,
Its Xmas Eve
I got a nose bleed
And some ijit
Is skipping
Tingaling-a-linging?
Now that fat old bastard
Is loaded and bloated
With egg-nog and rum
Singing HO HO HO
And FI FO FUM
He's taking his list
He's checking it twice,
While we poor shits
Stand in the ice.
He's tripping,
And swilling,
And soon
(God willing)
He'll get going;
But still
There's no knowing
What time
We'll be home.
So now the bastard
Is high on his seat
Dribbling on his beard
And cracking his whip;
You'd think after all
These bloody years
He'd get my name right?
HI HO SILVER -
He screams,
Prancer snickers,
And nudges Dancer,
But I just sigh
And pull on ahead.
It's cold, my nose
Is sore and red,
It's going to be
A fucking long night...
God's truth,
I'd rather be home
In my bed and let
That bitch Vixen
Take point instead.
MC
December 22, 2014
GUARANTEED100% PASSION FREEI have no useFor reluctant lov...
GUARANTEED
100% PASSION FREE
I have no use
For reluctant lovers
Or wishy-washy
Declarations
In tepid tones
From time-dulled
Drones.
So if you want
To languish
In shelters
Of caution
And languid
Emotion,
Do suit yourself
But please
Understand,
This is not for me.
MC
100% PASSION FREE
I have no use
For reluctant lovers
Or wishy-washy
Declarations
In tepid tones
From time-dulled
Drones.
So if you want
To languish
In shelters
Of caution
And languid
Emotion,
Do suit yourself
But please
Understand,
This is not for me.
MC
December 18, 2014
NADAL DE CUECAS - Pondo tudo a nu!Hoje houve greve de com...
NADAL DE CUECAS - Pondo tudo a nu!Hoje houve greve de comboio, e eu, que costumo ir com o nariz enfiado num livro ou no lap-top, distrai-me a observar a multidão.
Aí as letras gordas dum jornal me saltam á vista!
NADAL DE CUECASUm frisson de alegria percorreu-me- FINALMENTE! Um jornalista a sério decidido a expor a verdade nacional!
Pronto, seria um jornalista um pouco disléxico, ou talvez ás portas da morte com Ébola e a utilizar um programa Voice-to-Text para deixar o seu testamento jornalístico á nação… Temos que perdoar uma ou duas calinadas na ortografia a quem demostra tal coragem.
Mas depois verifiquei que o NADAL é um tal tenista decidido a bater bolas publicamente nas cuecas reduzidíssimas produzidas por um outro Tommy qualquercoisa (dedo mindinho???) por quantias avultadas…
Pronto. Mais uma desilusão.
OK! A gente sobrevive. Alias, para ser correcto deveria ser NATAL EM PELOTA, e não NATAL DE CUECAS.
Aí percebi…Estou a fugir á minha responsabilidade cívica.
Eu que ando prá ai sempre de dedo no ar a dizer ás pessoas o que pensar, e a escrever coisas que ninguém quer ler (chiquíssimo) e ainda por cima em Inglês; eu que tenho uma filha Portuguesa, tenho a mesma obrigação e direito de dizer mal!
Pago ou não pago impostos?
Pago sim senhora!
Por isso aqui vai ela…
Tá mal, tá muito mal verificar que num Portugal onde a maioria dos lares se governa com quantias reduzidas de pilim (não posso responder por outros, mas ganho exactamente 600 €) desapareçam não se sabe bem como nem para onde, milhões e milhões…
Bom, MILHARES DE MILHÕES! Nós plebeus mal remendados (o remediado já lá vai!) nem sequer conseguimos imaginar tais quantias em termos reais, mas que elas há, há. Quer dizer, não há.
Os senhores acostumados á Dolce Vita andam a gritar dum tal Salgado…
Salgado, salgado também não calha mal. Um pastelinho de Chaves, ou um de bacalhau, e ainda por cima nesta época de Natal que se avizinha e se prevê magra, não dá para recusar um Salgadinho bem temperado.
Ai Mar Salgado quanto do teu Sal, são lágrimas dos investidores do nosso Portugal… (olha que a citação até dá um ar intelectual á coisa, não é?)
Adiante! Por coincidência e por obra e graça dum Espirito Santo qualquer, um outro Senhor – também ele com aspirações intelectuais- foi dentro.
Ah pois é bébé!
O Sócrates andou por ai feito finório, em Paris, vejam bem!
Mas a malita de cartão dele tinha mas é “papel”. E muito papel. Agora está em Évora de férias, numa suite privada.
Privado, verdade seja dita, da sociedade dos seus pares e isso é uma crueldade.
O Homem é um animal social, e o rapaz está em solitária, deprivado da companhia dum tal Manelito – moço enxuto e bem constituído com tatuagens e tudo, meigo, carinhoso e com muito afecto para dar, que tudo dava para apanhar pela frente (ou por traz) um rapaz como o nosso Zézinho para relação séria e/ou talvez casar. Em vez duma vida sociocultural normal, o Zé está condenado ao silencio e ao isolamento deprimente…
Castigo cruel e desumano! Esta situação tem levado imensa gente caridosa, e carinhosa a deslocar-se aos ditos calabouços onde o nosso Zé -feito Edmundo Dantes trancado na Fortaleza de IF- se pranteia e se declama inocente.
Tanta gente a visitar, que se calhar deviam colocar mas é uma daquelas portas giratórias na ditosa suite - quer dizer, cela- não vá o Guarda desenvolver uma tendinite de tanto dar á chave.
Eu no lugar do Zé tinha medo. Muito mesmo. Não fosse o nome do tipo Sócrates. Aposto que todos lhe levam um miminho. Uns docinhos, uns salgadinhos, um bolito Rei… Cuidado ó Zé! Não vá o doce e o Salgado ocultar o sabor da cicuta…
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes”, tenho dito.
(outra citação bué de erudita e trés intelectualoid, eu sei, mas não resisti! A culpa é do Zé! Sócrates/Cicuta/Gregos/Troianos… "Temo os gregos e as suas oferendas” calha bem!)
Por isso acautela-te, oh Zé, e fica de bico calado! O que nos leva ao lugar comum final:
ENTRE GREGOS E TROIANOS ALGUÉM SE HÁ-DE ESCAPAR.
Este Inverno quente, este Natal magro vai provar que mesmo o povo em pelota não se importa que fique tudo em águas de bacalhau. Bacalhau com todos, claro. Ou á Lagareiro.
A posta alta bem demolhada passa na garganta mais refinada, tenho dito.
FELIZ NATAL DE CUECAS AO NOSSO PORTUGAL!(Ou em pelota, pois até a folha do figo tá caduca. Já viram bem o preço dos figos secos???)
Manuela Cardiga
Aí as letras gordas dum jornal me saltam á vista!
NADAL DE CUECASUm frisson de alegria percorreu-me- FINALMENTE! Um jornalista a sério decidido a expor a verdade nacional!
Pronto, seria um jornalista um pouco disléxico, ou talvez ás portas da morte com Ébola e a utilizar um programa Voice-to-Text para deixar o seu testamento jornalístico á nação… Temos que perdoar uma ou duas calinadas na ortografia a quem demostra tal coragem.
Mas depois verifiquei que o NADAL é um tal tenista decidido a bater bolas publicamente nas cuecas reduzidíssimas produzidas por um outro Tommy qualquercoisa (dedo mindinho???) por quantias avultadas…
Pronto. Mais uma desilusão.
OK! A gente sobrevive. Alias, para ser correcto deveria ser NATAL EM PELOTA, e não NATAL DE CUECAS.
Aí percebi…Estou a fugir á minha responsabilidade cívica.
Eu que ando prá ai sempre de dedo no ar a dizer ás pessoas o que pensar, e a escrever coisas que ninguém quer ler (chiquíssimo) e ainda por cima em Inglês; eu que tenho uma filha Portuguesa, tenho a mesma obrigação e direito de dizer mal!
Pago ou não pago impostos?
Pago sim senhora!
Por isso aqui vai ela…
Tá mal, tá muito mal verificar que num Portugal onde a maioria dos lares se governa com quantias reduzidas de pilim (não posso responder por outros, mas ganho exactamente 600 €) desapareçam não se sabe bem como nem para onde, milhões e milhões…
Bom, MILHARES DE MILHÕES! Nós plebeus mal remendados (o remediado já lá vai!) nem sequer conseguimos imaginar tais quantias em termos reais, mas que elas há, há. Quer dizer, não há.
Os senhores acostumados á Dolce Vita andam a gritar dum tal Salgado…
Salgado, salgado também não calha mal. Um pastelinho de Chaves, ou um de bacalhau, e ainda por cima nesta época de Natal que se avizinha e se prevê magra, não dá para recusar um Salgadinho bem temperado.
Ai Mar Salgado quanto do teu Sal, são lágrimas dos investidores do nosso Portugal… (olha que a citação até dá um ar intelectual á coisa, não é?)
Adiante! Por coincidência e por obra e graça dum Espirito Santo qualquer, um outro Senhor – também ele com aspirações intelectuais- foi dentro.
Ah pois é bébé!
O Sócrates andou por ai feito finório, em Paris, vejam bem!
Mas a malita de cartão dele tinha mas é “papel”. E muito papel. Agora está em Évora de férias, numa suite privada.
Privado, verdade seja dita, da sociedade dos seus pares e isso é uma crueldade.
O Homem é um animal social, e o rapaz está em solitária, deprivado da companhia dum tal Manelito – moço enxuto e bem constituído com tatuagens e tudo, meigo, carinhoso e com muito afecto para dar, que tudo dava para apanhar pela frente (ou por traz) um rapaz como o nosso Zézinho para relação séria e/ou talvez casar. Em vez duma vida sociocultural normal, o Zé está condenado ao silencio e ao isolamento deprimente…
Castigo cruel e desumano! Esta situação tem levado imensa gente caridosa, e carinhosa a deslocar-se aos ditos calabouços onde o nosso Zé -feito Edmundo Dantes trancado na Fortaleza de IF- se pranteia e se declama inocente.
Tanta gente a visitar, que se calhar deviam colocar mas é uma daquelas portas giratórias na ditosa suite - quer dizer, cela- não vá o Guarda desenvolver uma tendinite de tanto dar á chave.
Eu no lugar do Zé tinha medo. Muito mesmo. Não fosse o nome do tipo Sócrates. Aposto que todos lhe levam um miminho. Uns docinhos, uns salgadinhos, um bolito Rei… Cuidado ó Zé! Não vá o doce e o Salgado ocultar o sabor da cicuta…
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes”, tenho dito.
(outra citação bué de erudita e trés intelectualoid, eu sei, mas não resisti! A culpa é do Zé! Sócrates/Cicuta/Gregos/Troianos… "Temo os gregos e as suas oferendas” calha bem!)
Por isso acautela-te, oh Zé, e fica de bico calado! O que nos leva ao lugar comum final:
ENTRE GREGOS E TROIANOS ALGUÉM SE HÁ-DE ESCAPAR.
Este Inverno quente, este Natal magro vai provar que mesmo o povo em pelota não se importa que fique tudo em águas de bacalhau. Bacalhau com todos, claro. Ou á Lagareiro.
A posta alta bem demolhada passa na garganta mais refinada, tenho dito.
FELIZ NATAL DE CUECAS AO NOSSO PORTUGAL!(Ou em pelota, pois até a folha do figo tá caduca. Já viram bem o preço dos figos secos???)
Manuela Cardiga
December 17, 2014
HOW TO SETTLE POLITICAL AND RELIGIOUS DIVERGENCE AND BRIN...
HOW TO SETTLE
POLITICAL AND RELIGIOUS
DIVERGENCE AND BRING
ABOUT UNIVERSAL
COMPROMISE
Almoed and Biggieboom
Disagree what colour
The world should be.
PINK cried one
BLUE the other
Till along came
Raphael (a brother)
Who said:
Why worry?
The sunset
Paints all colours
across the skies
As does the sunrise,
So relax and enjoy
The world's surprise.
HERETIC
Almoed screamed
INFIDEL
Cried Biggieboom
And in one second
They agreed,
A triumph for
Raphael, indeed;
But he, poor bugger,
Couldn't enjoy
His moral victory
Cause they cored him
Like an apple,
And painted his world
Not PINK or BLUE,
They settled on
A compromise
And used RED
Instead.
Manuela Cardiga
POLITICAL AND RELIGIOUS
DIVERGENCE AND BRING
ABOUT UNIVERSAL
COMPROMISE
Almoed and Biggieboom
Disagree what colour
The world should be.
PINK cried one
BLUE the other
Till along came
Raphael (a brother)
Who said:
Why worry?
The sunset
Paints all colours
across the skies
As does the sunrise,
So relax and enjoy
The world's surprise.
HERETIC
Almoed screamed
INFIDEL
Cried Biggieboom
And in one second
They agreed,
A triumph for
Raphael, indeed;
But he, poor bugger,
Couldn't enjoy
His moral victory
Cause they cored him
Like an apple,
And painted his world
Not PINK or BLUE,
They settled on
A compromise
And used RED
Instead.
Manuela Cardiga
December 14, 2014
FESTIVALS OF LIGHT
It is hard for us livers and lovers of the far South to understand the terror and glory of Longest Night.
Not until you have been exiled under the northern skies do you begin to glimpse and grasp the roots and reasons for the birth of religions.
We, for whom there is a steady rhythm to the days - sun-rises, and sun-sets of sudden but predictable glory - cannot surely comprehend the slow and frightening progression of what seems to be the wane and eminent demise of the Sun across a darkening sky.
Here, at the height of summer, the sun sets as late as ten o'clock at night. It seems days are endless, a golden blessing of a benevolent god; then as the season wanes, the sun sets earlier and earlier. Darkness strides closer and closer, cold and a whisper of death. Is it so hard to imagine the perception of Winter as evil personified wrestling with the valiant sun across the greying skies?
Imagine...
Not ten thousand years ago, an Ice Age afflicted these climes. The very demon of ice and snow ruled this land. Endless winter, endless nights. I believe this spectre still slumbers in the myths and the consciousness, at the base of every religion that was born in this half of our world.
Sol Invictus, versus Endless Night.
So as the Winter Solstice approaches we light our lamps, and candles against the threat of an endless night. We stand vigil for our champion, our palatine. We pray for rebirth, one more year of light and love and life. The Celts lit vast bonfires, we light trees and faerie lights.
No other night equals the power and the glory and the terror of Longest Night.
Our youngest religions have embraced the rituals as their own: festivals of light, celebrations of birth; but at the root of it lies the threat and the fear of the dark. Endless night comes to embrace us, on whom shall we call, who shall save us?
So we call for salvation, a promise of continuance, the blessing of rebirth.
We wait for the dawn that brings the end of Longest Night; and when morning comes,we trade kisses and gifts, we sing paeans of praise to the Light.
Christ the Reborn, the Resurrected, is an avatar of Sol Invictus; bringing a promise of renewal at the end of our own personal Winter Solstice.
The darkness that falls is not endless, there is an end to night.
Lift high your candles, light the fires for Longest Night.
MC
Not until you have been exiled under the northern skies do you begin to glimpse and grasp the roots and reasons for the birth of religions.
We, for whom there is a steady rhythm to the days - sun-rises, and sun-sets of sudden but predictable glory - cannot surely comprehend the slow and frightening progression of what seems to be the wane and eminent demise of the Sun across a darkening sky.
Here, at the height of summer, the sun sets as late as ten o'clock at night. It seems days are endless, a golden blessing of a benevolent god; then as the season wanes, the sun sets earlier and earlier. Darkness strides closer and closer, cold and a whisper of death. Is it so hard to imagine the perception of Winter as evil personified wrestling with the valiant sun across the greying skies?
Imagine...
Not ten thousand years ago, an Ice Age afflicted these climes. The very demon of ice and snow ruled this land. Endless winter, endless nights. I believe this spectre still slumbers in the myths and the consciousness, at the base of every religion that was born in this half of our world.
Sol Invictus, versus Endless Night.
So as the Winter Solstice approaches we light our lamps, and candles against the threat of an endless night. We stand vigil for our champion, our palatine. We pray for rebirth, one more year of light and love and life. The Celts lit vast bonfires, we light trees and faerie lights.
No other night equals the power and the glory and the terror of Longest Night.
Our youngest religions have embraced the rituals as their own: festivals of light, celebrations of birth; but at the root of it lies the threat and the fear of the dark. Endless night comes to embrace us, on whom shall we call, who shall save us?
So we call for salvation, a promise of continuance, the blessing of rebirth.
We wait for the dawn that brings the end of Longest Night; and when morning comes,we trade kisses and gifts, we sing paeans of praise to the Light.
Christ the Reborn, the Resurrected, is an avatar of Sol Invictus; bringing a promise of renewal at the end of our own personal Winter Solstice.
The darkness that falls is not endless, there is an end to night.
Lift high your candles, light the fires for Longest Night.
MC
December 13, 2014
PAWNING PEARL- Part 29
The next week was an absolute nightmare for Simon Thambisa; a strangely disjointed time in which he sunk into sullen silence, and Pearl sailed over it with bright indifference. The more he sulked, the calmer and sweeter she was. And she never asked him what was wrong...
Not by a single word did she allude to the Gala or to what had gone so disastrously wrong.
Simon was by turns silent, mordant, and coldly polite. She ignored his attitudes utterly, and responded with warm kindness. In fact, she responded to him in exactly the same way - the same tone - she used on Thali or Isaiah in a huff. Simon realised he had placed himself at the same level as a six or a ten year old in a sulk.
He resolved to sit down and have a talk to Pearl, set his cards on the table. Yes, he was a grown man, with a successful life, what was there to be frightened about?
Simon got up from his desk and walked to Pearl's and Thali's room. He knocked on the door, and opened at the muffled “Come in!”.
He walked into a riotous tornado of femininity. A silky multicoloured heap on the bed hinted at some play at “dress-up”, Pearl standing by the long mirror in the wall-closet suggested something more sinister...
She was wearing a lick of red, and the gold and garnet antique choker he had given her. She was wearing high-heels, and red lipstick. She looked good enough to eat.
“Oh! Hello! I thought...You are going out?”
“Yes, it is Friday night, remember, I spoke to you? I am going to the art opening?”
“Ah yes, yes indeed...And the children?”
“The children will be with Mrs Markovish, and your dinner is in the oven, Sir. It is all taken care of.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Thali interrupted “Does Mama Pearl not look fine?”
“Yes indeed. Yes she does.”
Thali sighed. “And you are just seeing the outside. She is wearing the prettiest red lace bra...Makes her boobs look extra bouncy, doesn't it?”
“Thali!” cried Pearl, “We don't comment on our underwear in front of gentlemen!”
“We don't?”
“No!”
“Then why do you wear them?”
Pearl choked and gasped in embarrassment, and Simon manfully wrestled with a vision of Pearl in her lacy red bra.
“I think I will let you ladies finish up...”
Pearl frowned, “What did you want to talk to me about, Sir?”
“Nothing...Nothing important. I am going out too, to a movie. So we will speak tomorrow.”
“Alright, Sir. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Pearl, good night, my Thali.”
“Good night Papa Simon!”
***
Simon walked to his bedroom to get his coat and wallet. He was determined to spare himself the sight of the Nazi drooling over Pearl. He would go to the movies at the shopping centre, See something macho and warlike. Something with no women in it...He walked past the sitting room and a glum Isaiah.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
Isaiah pouted, “I go up to Mrs Markovish with Thalie. They will spend the evening putting on jewelry and shoes, I will be bored. I am tired of women talking, talking...”
Simon nodded sympathetically. “Well how about you ask Mama Pearl if you can go to the movies with me tonight? We eat a hamburger, hang out? Guy's stuff.”
Isaiah jumped off the couch with a joyful shout and ran to Pearl's bedroom. In an instant he had returned, eyes bright, to match his huge grin. “Mama Pearl said yes, but I have to wear my coat, and you have to make sure the movie is not violent, or for over 10 years-old.”
“Cool! Let's go!”
He helped Isaiah with his coat and walked out with a skipping happy child, talking a mile a minute and tugging on his coat-sleeve to emphasise every second word.
It helped. It made him focus on something other than Pearl in a lick of red silk, with red lace cupping her breasts...
They had a hamburger, they saw a Jackie Chan movie in which Jackie beat up a whole lot of bad guys without ever drawing blood, and with nary a woman in sight. It was a good evening. He hardly thought about Pearl at all.
They got home at 10:30, and Pearl and Thali were still not there. Simon and Isaiah went to bed.
***
Simon tossed and turned for what seemed like hours until he heard the slick-sliding click of the key in the lock, and the giggly whispers of the two feminine voices. He glanced at the alarm-clock's fluorescent screen: 11:45!
He was filled with righteous indignation. It was late. It was very late for Thali. He would have a talk to Pearl about the children's bed time. He would impose a curfew. On the children of course, and by natural extension, on Pearl.
MC
TO BE CONTINUED
Not by a single word did she allude to the Gala or to what had gone so disastrously wrong.
Simon was by turns silent, mordant, and coldly polite. She ignored his attitudes utterly, and responded with warm kindness. In fact, she responded to him in exactly the same way - the same tone - she used on Thali or Isaiah in a huff. Simon realised he had placed himself at the same level as a six or a ten year old in a sulk.
He resolved to sit down and have a talk to Pearl, set his cards on the table. Yes, he was a grown man, with a successful life, what was there to be frightened about?
Simon got up from his desk and walked to Pearl's and Thali's room. He knocked on the door, and opened at the muffled “Come in!”.
He walked into a riotous tornado of femininity. A silky multicoloured heap on the bed hinted at some play at “dress-up”, Pearl standing by the long mirror in the wall-closet suggested something more sinister...
She was wearing a lick of red, and the gold and garnet antique choker he had given her. She was wearing high-heels, and red lipstick. She looked good enough to eat.
“Oh! Hello! I thought...You are going out?”
“Yes, it is Friday night, remember, I spoke to you? I am going to the art opening?”
“Ah yes, yes indeed...And the children?”
“The children will be with Mrs Markovish, and your dinner is in the oven, Sir. It is all taken care of.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Thali interrupted “Does Mama Pearl not look fine?”
“Yes indeed. Yes she does.”
Thali sighed. “And you are just seeing the outside. She is wearing the prettiest red lace bra...Makes her boobs look extra bouncy, doesn't it?”
“Thali!” cried Pearl, “We don't comment on our underwear in front of gentlemen!”
“We don't?”
“No!”
“Then why do you wear them?”
Pearl choked and gasped in embarrassment, and Simon manfully wrestled with a vision of Pearl in her lacy red bra.
“I think I will let you ladies finish up...”
Pearl frowned, “What did you want to talk to me about, Sir?”
“Nothing...Nothing important. I am going out too, to a movie. So we will speak tomorrow.”
“Alright, Sir. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Pearl, good night, my Thali.”
“Good night Papa Simon!”
***
Simon walked to his bedroom to get his coat and wallet. He was determined to spare himself the sight of the Nazi drooling over Pearl. He would go to the movies at the shopping centre, See something macho and warlike. Something with no women in it...He walked past the sitting room and a glum Isaiah.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
Isaiah pouted, “I go up to Mrs Markovish with Thalie. They will spend the evening putting on jewelry and shoes, I will be bored. I am tired of women talking, talking...”
Simon nodded sympathetically. “Well how about you ask Mama Pearl if you can go to the movies with me tonight? We eat a hamburger, hang out? Guy's stuff.”
Isaiah jumped off the couch with a joyful shout and ran to Pearl's bedroom. In an instant he had returned, eyes bright, to match his huge grin. “Mama Pearl said yes, but I have to wear my coat, and you have to make sure the movie is not violent, or for over 10 years-old.”
“Cool! Let's go!”
He helped Isaiah with his coat and walked out with a skipping happy child, talking a mile a minute and tugging on his coat-sleeve to emphasise every second word.
It helped. It made him focus on something other than Pearl in a lick of red silk, with red lace cupping her breasts...
They had a hamburger, they saw a Jackie Chan movie in which Jackie beat up a whole lot of bad guys without ever drawing blood, and with nary a woman in sight. It was a good evening. He hardly thought about Pearl at all.
They got home at 10:30, and Pearl and Thali were still not there. Simon and Isaiah went to bed.
***
Simon tossed and turned for what seemed like hours until he heard the slick-sliding click of the key in the lock, and the giggly whispers of the two feminine voices. He glanced at the alarm-clock's fluorescent screen: 11:45!
He was filled with righteous indignation. It was late. It was very late for Thali. He would have a talk to Pearl about the children's bed time. He would impose a curfew. On the children of course, and by natural extension, on Pearl.
MC
TO BE CONTINUED
CHAOS ENDSDense darknessAbove, below me;Dense silenceWith...
CHAOS ENDS
Dense darkness
Above, below me;
Dense silence
Within, without me.
Sight and sound
Oh laughter of light
Surround me;
I beg: rebirth me.
Awaken, dormant
Unspoken child
Drowned in doubt;
Rescue, breathe me.
Be once again free,
Be the word for me.
MC
Dense darkness
Above, below me;
Dense silence
Within, without me.
Sight and sound
Oh laughter of light
Surround me;
I beg: rebirth me.
Awaken, dormant
Unspoken child
Drowned in doubt;
Rescue, breathe me.
Be once again free,
Be the word for me.
MC
December 12, 2014
We women are trained to suppress our emotional needs, not...
We women are trained to suppress our emotional needs, not to be demanding, or inconvenient in our craving for the shows of affection. We must be compliant, understanding; take what is proffered and be content; even if it not enough, or what we want or need.
God forbid we show discontent…
That would mean we are (GASP) selfish.
We are not being sensitive.
We are unconscionable bitches.
Don’t we know the needs of the other comes first?
Not to mentions their concerns.
How dare we think we might somehow deserve a higher standing on the priority list?
So if you are somehow feeling any of the above?
Remember: IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.
You are not being rational, sensitive to the other’s needs, problems, etc, etc. You are failing your duty as a GOOD WOMAN, and God and life (not to mention your poor blighted misunderstood beloved) will punish you for that heinous sin of being a BAD GREEDY GIRL.
SHRINKING VIOLET
Confessions of a Therapy Junky
MC
God forbid we show discontent…
That would mean we are (GASP) selfish.
We are not being sensitive.
We are unconscionable bitches.
Don’t we know the needs of the other comes first?
Not to mentions their concerns.
How dare we think we might somehow deserve a higher standing on the priority list?
So if you are somehow feeling any of the above?
Remember: IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT.
You are not being rational, sensitive to the other’s needs, problems, etc, etc. You are failing your duty as a GOOD WOMAN, and God and life (not to mention your poor blighted misunderstood beloved) will punish you for that heinous sin of being a BAD GREEDY GIRL.
SHRINKING VIOLET
Confessions of a Therapy Junky
MC
When are we so perfectly mirrored in love that you move/ ...
When are we so perfectly mirrored in love that you move/ I move and neither one shows more or less affect?
I am weary of uneven bonds that fray because they are so carelessly tied.
I am bored by rational loves that shrink from the elegant flash of fire.
I find that I am withdrawing that part of me more and more.
That part of me that burns and yearns for more than the pedestrian shows of tepid affection I with-hold; the stupidly melodramatic part that wants a love to crack the world.
I will withdraw that, suppress the wanting of the untwined soul, but I will not take the complementary consolation prize either.
I won’t, so I will write them, these things, not live them.
It will, should be enough.
It must.
SHRINKING VIOLET
Confessions of a Therapy Junky
MC
I am weary of uneven bonds that fray because they are so carelessly tied.
I am bored by rational loves that shrink from the elegant flash of fire.
I find that I am withdrawing that part of me more and more.
That part of me that burns and yearns for more than the pedestrian shows of tepid affection I with-hold; the stupidly melodramatic part that wants a love to crack the world.
I will withdraw that, suppress the wanting of the untwined soul, but I will not take the complementary consolation prize either.
I won’t, so I will write them, these things, not live them.
It will, should be enough.
It must.
SHRINKING VIOLET
Confessions of a Therapy Junky
MC
December 11, 2014
MERCANTILE TRADING NUBILE NUBIANS ON THE NILE,NAMELY THE ...
MERCANTILE TRADING
NUBILE NUBIANS ON THE NILE,
NAMELY THE ELEPHANTINE
Addition,
Division
A break
With Tradition:
1 adds up
To nought,
This kind of love
I never sought.
2 adds up
To less
Than hoped four
(a mathematical
dreadnought)
Though Prime
And Even both,
Total value:
Less than a groat.
3 divides
Me from me:
Takes the mind
Lets the woman
Be.
Sums and Summaries!
Girls, hie thee
To Nunneries,
If these are
The numbers?
Fakers and shirkers
And fumblers?
Addition,
Division
A break
With Tradition…
I will send them all
Scurrying Harum-Scarum!
Ladies I’m getting
Myself a Harem!
MC
NUBILE NUBIANS ON THE NILE,
NAMELY THE ELEPHANTINE
Addition,
Division
A break
With Tradition:
1 adds up
To nought,
This kind of love
I never sought.
2 adds up
To less
Than hoped four
(a mathematical
dreadnought)
Though Prime
And Even both,
Total value:
Less than a groat.
3 divides
Me from me:
Takes the mind
Lets the woman
Be.
Sums and Summaries!
Girls, hie thee
To Nunneries,
If these are
The numbers?
Fakers and shirkers
And fumblers?
Addition,
Division
A break
With Tradition…
I will send them all
Scurrying Harum-Scarum!
Ladies I’m getting
Myself a Harem!
MC
