I want to write a little something
and tell you
this burns
and try not to be the clishe.
Dworkin writes, sardonically: A woan must keep her intelligence small and timid to survive. Or she must hide it all thogether or hide it through style. Or she must go mad like clockwork to pay for it.
She will try to find the nice way to exercise intelligence. but intelligence is not ladylike. Intelligence is full of excess. Rigorous intelligence abhors sentimentality, and women must be sentimental to value the dreadful silliness of the men around them.
No woman could be Nietzche or Rimbaud with out ending up in a whore house or lobotomized.
-----
dreaming.
strange dreams of arching branches and walk ways
safety and
longing
The beautiful dancer on the acessible buss I took home on friday
spoke about her life in snipits as her hands painted in the air infront of me.
at one point, her eyes off to the side and rimmed with emotion,
I reached from my seatbelted position to hold her hands.
she taught me
around the city here there is a plant that grows like a weed
after her dance injury--she danced in the large theatres here untill
a guy came up to her in a rehearsal and grabbed her back leg, being a shit, just playing around, she was in the spilts and didnt wnat him to touch her. she contracted and tore her groin and inner thigh musscles. she didnt touch her thighs to show me but just above as though running her hands allong the surface that was her thights...the were there, aching under the pressure of her hands..
If i had known I would have let the guy touch me! she says, her voice between a croon and a laugh adn a whine, but never grating or irritating.
I dont know
...
you know and
and
and slowly little pieces come together
fragments of months told in the rainy bus:
when she lived on the streets
I would collect the plant and go into the womens washroom and apply it to my thighs or my knees, to help with the pain. And when I was in the shelter, I showed the women how to use it.
...but then they kicked me out. I made a soup and helped them all get better, and then I got sick, and they said I was making too much noise and so they kicked me out. My sheets were dirty I was changing them in the night.
I had a fever and then I was on the street.
she is
frustrated, angry and had in the short buss trip
a string of caustic public encounters to relate to the buss walls and
sometimes to me.
off into the rain, I glance back
my cheeks still up in a smile, she told these fragments interspersed with a laughter and some good people...we parted
I with her sticky note paper and name,
that of a fire stone,
in my pocket.
when the plants come back, we might go looking for them. She cant pick them as she used to, and I would love to learn from her.
there is something about listening. about actively commiting to particpate in creating this reality, here
between us.
between you and I,
that is the woven ball of ribbon, grasses, stamps, wire and tenatious hope that knits this love.
well some of it.
i dreamt and
am disconcerted
i dont undersand if I am letting go or holding on
to the fire-stone dancer in the raining night
and tell you
this burns
and try not to be the clishe.
Dworkin writes, sardonically: A woan must keep her intelligence small and timid to survive. Or she must hide it all thogether or hide it through style. Or she must go mad like clockwork to pay for it.
She will try to find the nice way to exercise intelligence. but intelligence is not ladylike. Intelligence is full of excess. Rigorous intelligence abhors sentimentality, and women must be sentimental to value the dreadful silliness of the men around them.
No woman could be Nietzche or Rimbaud with out ending up in a whore house or lobotomized.
-----
dreaming.
strange dreams of arching branches and walk ways
safety and
longing
The beautiful dancer on the acessible buss I took home on friday
spoke about her life in snipits as her hands painted in the air infront of me.
at one point, her eyes off to the side and rimmed with emotion,
I reached from my seatbelted position to hold her hands.
she taught me
around the city here there is a plant that grows like a weed
after her dance injury--she danced in the large theatres here untill
a guy came up to her in a rehearsal and grabbed her back leg, being a shit, just playing around, she was in the spilts and didnt wnat him to touch her. she contracted and tore her groin and inner thigh musscles. she didnt touch her thighs to show me but just above as though running her hands allong the surface that was her thights...the were there, aching under the pressure of her hands..
If i had known I would have let the guy touch me! she says, her voice between a croon and a laugh adn a whine, but never grating or irritating.
I dont know
...
you know and
and
and slowly little pieces come together
fragments of months told in the rainy bus:
when she lived on the streets
I would collect the plant and go into the womens washroom and apply it to my thighs or my knees, to help with the pain. And when I was in the shelter, I showed the women how to use it.
...but then they kicked me out. I made a soup and helped them all get better, and then I got sick, and they said I was making too much noise and so they kicked me out. My sheets were dirty I was changing them in the night.
I had a fever and then I was on the street.
she is
frustrated, angry and had in the short buss trip
a string of caustic public encounters to relate to the buss walls and
sometimes to me.
off into the rain, I glance back
my cheeks still up in a smile, she told these fragments interspersed with a laughter and some good people...we parted
I with her sticky note paper and name,
that of a fire stone,
in my pocket.
when the plants come back, we might go looking for them. She cant pick them as she used to, and I would love to learn from her.
there is something about listening. about actively commiting to particpate in creating this reality, here
between us.
between you and I,
that is the woven ball of ribbon, grasses, stamps, wire and tenatious hope that knits this love.
well some of it.
i dreamt and
am disconcerted
i dont undersand if I am letting go or holding on
to the fire-stone dancer in the raining night
posted by blueolive at 1:37 p.m.
1 comments
