She's not easy but she's worth it... ( youve got to see and accept my "tough to deal with")

She's tough to deal with.. but something about her makes me want more..

Justice of the peace in the morning. Couch in the afternoon. The best day at home: containment without control

 

Readjusting the gates of stress.

 

The knife butcher

The knife was in .. moving against it's own serrations, within the shallow breaths even as his boot stood heavy. Laced and still muddy - Firm upon her chest. He poured in-searching for intimacy - the moment of maximal hurting. She tried to move but it was all struck dumb, Closed contact, cloying within the throat, like some ungurgled scream, thick in the slip of it's own choke. So Instead she closed her eyes, The last effort of will against the glare of his weight as her breath turned to crimson, as her lungs began to drown. Til nothing could rise. Her soul was scattering into a thousand places. For every part of her was a sorrow now marked in a protestation of eternal innocence, that would not release itself- except for  a single fragile tear that would not cry/come . MB

Remembering the CBD facts

 One girl was evacuated during the blockade of Leningrad. Her name was Lenochka.

She was so little and exhausted, that she forgot her last name. She lost a whole family; mother, grandmother, elder brother...

A special group of skinny girls found her - they were going from apartment to apartment during a terrible blockade winter looking for children whose parents had died or were dying...

This is how they discovered Lenochka and could evacuate her. She didn't remember being carried across the ice with other children in a shaking truck, she didn't remember getting to the orphanage; she was little. Like a skinny midget with a big head on a thin neck...

And she refused to eat anymore. This is what happens with dystrophy. She was laying in bed or sitting in a chair by the stove. She was getting hot. And she kept her mouth shut. They thought Lenochka would die. Many children died already during the evacuation; severe exhaustion and no strength to live and eat. And to play. And to breathe...

One-legged topper, war veteran uncle Kolja, about twenty years old, unpacked a doll from an old towel. Somehow he cut it, folded it, sewn it and it became an ugly doll. He drew the doll's eyes and mouth with an indelible pencil. And a crooked nose.

He gave a doll to Lenochka and seriously said:

"You, Lenochka, cradle the doll. And teach her to eat well! You are now a mommy doll. Take good care of her. "

And this Lenochka suddenly grabbed a doll and pressed it together. She began to pet her with thin hands. At dinner, she fed the doll porridge and whispered something loving to her. And in the end, she ate porridge and a piece of bread herself...

And so Lenochka slept with the doll and warmed her by the stove, hugged her, and got upset because of her. Because of an ugly doll made of an old towel with painted eyes ...

The girl has survived. Because she couldn’t die; she had to take care of the doll, you know?

HAVING SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF IS A HUGE LIFE FOR SOME PEOPLE.

For people like this girl was. Who later became a nurse and lived a long life. And her hands were always busy. And she had a heart full of love.

Christos is a C word/ dare she try friendship again?

 

Christos.. and so the work begins..

We two unmet wanderers who fell from stars, now look past each other like a knife to the heart. Like broken down sentences behind missing lines. We fade into nothing ahead of our time. MB

Oria: An over emotional shepherd's rest

 

Woke up in the throes of whatever, but made it to the truncated shepherd's rest and a group of mortuary brits. Some what struggled to connect out of the mire of yesterday's olibanum compound, and the deep bruising of things old and collected in the heart. The subtle seep of hurting, that still wont quite give. After the meetup, had a delightful walk around Oria, up past bright colours, and some left open studio, of an abstract artist, to the high fortifications of falling masonry, and a wide, low brim of a view. A Map work  circle of valleys. neat patches and greening shadows down below, sewn, and spread, in a vast and impressive circular arc. There was a calmness to this place where soldiers, must have watched for the approach of other territory. A simmering silence, that flowed like eddies around me. I had followed the trail upwards of a group of Spaniards , attaching to their easy happiness so obviously from out of town. A cluster of adolescent boys and girls, those usual tight knit age-mates, the ones that only ever look inwards, never seeing past their edges to whatever lurks alone. These large age groups are the norm here, they think and move as one. Uniformity, set in the sure knowledge of long acquaintance. Well woven, I observed their easy calls and interplays, the easiness of youth, before moving down the hill alone. In the belly of the town I found a small and unusually quiet place, collecting in the stones of a pretty plaza, and a large and salty looming lady of our grace. It reminded me of an Italian piazza, Michael Corleone's wife, on a quiet afternoon-ed day. Something in residence behind closed doors, something put away. That was the kind of old it had. There was a special kind of silence, here, something far more gathered, than the usual set of siestas in small obscure, out of the way places. This old plaza, with it's one eyed dog, and absence of greeting, had something unique and quiet to say. Here for a moment on a warm, step, in the quiet wind, watching the Amazon man trying after several attempts to make a difficult delivery, I sat and tried to  feel my way. Letting the afternoon winter sun, sift past the threatening emergence of lost and covered things, olong paths that discreetly obscure the way. From there it was back through other places:  back rides, and rough roads, that were singular but correct.  Anxious cuttings, and dark sure forests, that somehow emerged in Cullar. Somewhere that I knew. From there it was, on instinct, to Mercadona, dodging old patterns, and the toilet out pourings, of  the usual one way streets. People who got to know me too easy for my own good. Drawing up my bridges, and guardians; I bought kefir, and ribs, and went home to where "Judy" and a fire awaited. Next time my Olibanum compound is getting reduced by 1/3. MB

Closing the shutters and disconnecting the threads. Slow quiet Christmas morning.

 

Mother Altar found.

 

She has fallen, it slides within, dejected rounds in rotting pieces. The frenzies that wont fit, cut to circumstance, in tears that have bled - holes that have formed. She must walk through blood, and stones and weary, carrying the mass of his weight on her neck. He is on her back, dick wrapped around, burrowing in, pushing in to the roots, to all that is found. MB