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Of Two Sisters One Is the Watcher, One the Dancer

Are you trying to make a statement by doing that, coming out like that?

Would you rather I was lonely, staying Friday and Saturday with oh-so-serious-you?

Wipe off your face. You're not Don't be quiet. Are you very, very crafty? You & rsquo; You're a fox. You are a red fox. And you're going to hunt. Are you on the hunt for femme fatale?

I'm sorry. What are you doing?

You have something else. Come here. I want to remind you that you are a married woman. You have no choice. I'm your husband and you must obey me.

Oh. Now I see the options I have.

And? Dance. I want you to dance. Turn around. Put some fresh lipstick on and then kiss me.

No. You're talking crazy. Why don't you get up from that couch and make me. Why not dance with me?

Why not, you're joining me on the couch?

I'm not in the mood. I started to hate you. I'm sorry. I'm a lover not a hater. Oh, he's smiling for that. I wonder what my reward will be.

I'm hungry. I'll make sandwiches. Give us some music and I'll get a red bottle.

Do you think about my thoughts?

No, no and no.

I just want cake.

You need to start watching what you eat for a little while so why not now?

A small piece of beautiful cake made by my beautiful wife, so I will keep the peace.

You promise?

Don't I keep my promise?


Depending on what?

I think most planets. The price is one loaf. America. Conspiracy theorist.

Come here.


Look at me.


Come here. Turn your head. You can still see me.

Why can't you say what you want to say to me? I can hear you from where I stand.

Real people don't talk like that. Does the newlyweds talk like that? Does anyone who has been married for thirteen years talk like that? I know that in the Term of Endearment they don't talk like that. Nor in August: Osage County. Someone died in every single movie. Someone likes it. Someone special and funny. Someone who has a unique passion. I know that real people don't talk like that but sometimes I imagine they do when I feel as though I have a strange spirit or personality. Lie. Lie. Lie. Liar. What I mean is that when I feel sad, grabbed by her, taken to her threshold, when she speaks to me, when my head is wrapped tightly, I cannot let go. In my head, I am going to have a conversation that we will have over the next thirteen years of married life. Are there terms, conditions? Whether we are going to church or lying down on Sunday morning with our cold toast complete with glowing marmalade with sun-glowing faces, warm milk tea and our favorite reading newspaper. You will touch the brown curl hair that is hidden behind my earlobe, kiss it. Tell me, it's you. You're not really sweet. You smell good. All perfume. I'm sorry. Then you will go and make us coffee (my husband pretends to go and make me coffee and yes just in my dream) before we go for a walk on the beach. We will hold hands. You're going to put your arm around my waist. We will see each other's eyes, talk about our week at work, about our friends at work. Someone will say something funny. We're both going crazy. We have no children. We have accepted that we cannot. It's not anyone's fault (it really means I'm innocent. It's impossible for my genes). We have a dog named Misty Upham after this beautiful Native American girl who plays the role of a beautiful Native American nurse and cook in the August movie: Osage County. You (my husband) have a dog. I have a cat. Kitty. Cats for short. In real life, my cat died. Tender is the day, the salt in the wind grabs my hair, the neck of my neck, and the back of our feet. You laugh and complain at the same time, that I decided we were out today all day. We both rolled our pants. We were having vanilla ice cream with chocolate pieces in it. You've chosen me. I screamed. Screaming with joy and fear. It's cold. The sea always surprises me. I can swim. I prefer to swim in a heated pool, preferably covered. I hate the smell of chlorine, the sight of skinny people, so wrapped in the joy of their exhaustion and exposed it to the world in general. There's something I love about my local swimming pool. I've been swimming there since I was a kid with my mom and dad, my siblings.

Beetroot. Coleslaw. Fried chicken. It's all in front of you for a celebration. A great meal. Unlike the part you use to get in the clinic. Parts that can fit into your hands. Eat now. Eat as much as you like or eat less but you should eat less. Put it at the end of your fork and now eat it. Some are healthy and some are unhealthy. Just for you I added extra Tabasco and mayonnaise. Beetroot, coleslaw, chicken are the color of the day. It will brighten you up. You look so pale because you didn't eat properly. The doctor is talking about this. Your therapist. You can't dismiss people who care about you, who care about you and your episodes of mild clinical depression. Just think that not too long ago this was your favorite dish at the hospital. You can't eat anything at the fancy clinic. Think about what will happen if you don't eat. You will only fade, waste nothing but the skin and bones of a child in Ethiopia, Somalia, anywhere in Africa. Ethiopia in Africa right? Look at me making you smile. History has never been the most powerful subject in school or is it Geography. See how I made you laugh. Look at me. A regular comedian. You're not Don't be rude if you don't eat this. I need to get rid of this good stuff. I can't eat it all. It's okay. I'll go in the fridge. Do you hear me or do I miss you? Hey, don't tell me I can't click my finger on your face. I need you to pay attention to me. Listen to you. You need to start eating and exercising. This lifestyle does nothing for you. This negativity. It's okay. Let's just be selfish. You're not be selfish. Can you see it? I hate this. I hate wearing this hat. It makes me tired. You play this game. This mind game. You can play it with your doctor, other patients, your psychologist, occupational therapist so it's fine by me but you can't go home like this. You can't come home to me like this. I'm your husband. You're not acting. If you don't know how to act like a wife, right wife, then what will happen to both of us? You're not Don't abuse us. Something close to perfection. Marriage is not perfect but it can be happy. It can make both people realize that they are not perfect. You have made us, making us unhappy. Don't do this. Just do the little things. It's not a big deal to eat. It's not as if I'm asking you to eat three meals a day. This is the beginning of a very long road to sanity. Forget about being sophisticated. Forget the arrogance. Maybe I'll give it to you today but I won't give it to you tomorrow and that's just the way it is. I've saved vanilla ice cream for you. You'll find it in the freezer.

And then he ended the conversation like that. He turned off the lights in the kitchen staring and staring and staring. And then the stomach turns into bitterness and then rots and festers in its heart or wherever bitterness, decay and festering takes place. I dreamed of pretending that my husband had left me in the perfect kitchen darkness that I had chosen from a magazine page. Imagination is a beautiful thing. That is why I am not looking for a husband. And that's the bad truth of it all.

In the thirteenth year, a nephew had come along, a girlfriend had moved all her furniture to our house, my parents' house. home and I started to hate, rot and stab more. This is me talking and not my imagination. Life began to be more brutal, less forgiving. God, how he got hurt. This intrusion. Life is depressing to me and I'm nervous. Feel like lightning and electricity combined. Can you imagine a kind of catalyst that communicates with the world of the dead? All the suffering. All the details. All I want is for God to talk to me. Instead the word also speaks to me. I understand them like my nephews do not understand anything and everything. And when that sound came, it talked with fog, evaporation mist, leaves tearing down areas, Whitman grass blades, rain-covered pavement, making it wet, slippery, making hair wet, slippery, coats. It comes with a wind that shakes everything in its path. I still remember how the Johannesburg people wanted to take my dad away from me, from Port Elizabeth, my brother, my mom and me. Mostly I think. They think we want the money. How cruel. People are cruel (here I mean family). Love your loved ones. The one closest to you. I no longer believe in worshiping my family. Scratch that one law, regulation, resolution comes out. It doesn't mean anything to me anymore. Relationships and everything went black in September and October. 2013. 2013 taught me that pretending to be just fun, is another fun field. And now we come to the almost thirteen years of solitude that jumps in every landscape I go through, every miracle I observe, every child who burns to the ground, every passion that feels like fever, that has made beautiful clothes in the garden that makes your spirit feel and ready to succeed, every three-leaf clover feels lost in the fourth. We are now in the thirteenth year of illness and suicide. Thirteen years of emotional instability. Up and down. Follow the author. Twit this. Twitter. Twittering. Follow the babble, the kerfuffle. Follow the chairman. Read readers. Play. Press the red button. Drift. That's what it brings down. Just drift because that's what humans have to do when faced with a physical. When the physical becomes bad, it means being excited. And all it does is give your brain negative information, that desire will never come true no matter how hard you want, no matter how long you hold your breath. It feeds your brain with ugly myths and unfortunately there is no kind of fairy tale where good always wins over evil, which I am good at, good enough.

I love you. I always will. For the past thirteen years I have loved you, met you again, once again in my dream to be real and not pretend and sometimes it killed me to say it. You're a different husband. Someone else. Some good days. Some bad days. God has married your romantic man to my memories as the world around me has grown more digital. It just runs faster. I have no control over it. There is no function key that I can press. My contemporaries are way ahead of me. I've qualified with it. I still don't know anything about you. I don't know who you are. What do you think of when you stay up all night in your bedroom next to your lovely wife, nothing like me. Is he mediocre? Lie. Lie. Lie. Liar. You're my best friend. My only friend as it turned out. You teach me the truth is the only basis for living. Some kind of special guy you are. You offer me that kind of hope, pride and culture at the player's zoo. For now you have made me very happy. I've been starving to death for a long time. Can you understand what I'm trying to tell you? I'm not going back, back.

You're making me sick. Very scary. I was scared to death. I'm tall on you. Addicted to human nature, humorous environment, lack of empathy (do you know the word sympathy or does that mean having sex with you)?

I was in pain but I was waiting for this feeling to pass. It feels as if I'm waiting forever. It felt as if I was just licking the smooth asphalt under my heel. I'm shaking because I'm cold. My hair is weak and straggly under my hat. My teeth are long for good bites. My teeth are small, teeth are hungry for more. I didn't eat anything all day. I am not hungry. I'm not eating anymore. I pretend to turn down food on my plate at night in the soup and eat rice and beans (because they look so pretty, aesthetically pleasing on the plate). Why do I want to eat when I have high appetite? Everything was colorful, bright, cracked on the ceiling and seating, the thumbprint on the glass was sealed.

I'm tired of the hierarchy of money, poses, models, celebrities, and hangers, posers, groupies, television executives and homosexuals. They must all be precious to the community or else they will be here tonight by swinging their hips to their sensual music, lips and mouth, drinking shots from bars, spending money. Their identities remain obscured in the evening but they never go out of your way, from your peripheral vision to their entertaining quips and humor. Can I get anything?

The girls are beautiful bodies but they are not the ones I smell. Beautiful pictures, beautiful fashionable beautiful paintings. Their clothes are tight, comfortable, hugging - is there room for air? Their hair is freshly washed and blown, their lips are wet, they are shiny, they obey this sweet doll, their movements are fragile and they will do anything for love. They'll do anything for the man they decide tonight.
My head is full of glare of street lights, low humming cars. I imagine the pedestrian path will feel so cold when I rest my cheeks.
I want to hug the sidewalk, put my head into my arm and close my eyes and sleep. I think I'll get sick.

Once again I am reminded of how selfishness can spoil the human condition. How we improve ourselves, our lives are boring, safe, and nutritious through our addiction to alcohol, drugs, exercise and diet pills.

It's morning. No one is in the darkness of darkness. There was only steam coming down the club, fog and lonely ghosts. I have nowhere to go. So far, it is as far from reality as possible.

I walked in and out of the bathroom that changed me up. I have a long sleeved polo neck and a T-shirt. I was sick and my face was red as if I had a fever. It's all pink and I shiver when I walk out into the dark of the club, onto the dance floor. The two girls looked at me in a caring way when I came in, but they didn't stop me and asked me if something was wrong.

I want power. I went to look for it. I dance wild because I'm so happy I don't care if I look stupid. I talk to everyone because everyone is my friend. I forgive the world of all its sins. There are no bad guys in this room tonight, only people who want to forget Hitler.

Again I was reminded of how difficult the human condition is. People enter the toilet bowl early in the morning as the remains of a night party before making their own known.

I have never felt more alone, more profound than I did that night than I did that night. There were couples dancing around me, women dancing with women and men dancing with men, young girls with kissing faces kissing their partners, coming out. There were people sitting at the bar talking to me excitedly and I wanted to hold them and not let them go. I want them to attack my hair and my face, just like my father did. They dance with me. They bought me drinks but they were not willing to wait for me longer than that evening. Am I not this perfect and invincible being that can make people love them? Desperation clings to every hole in my body. I want to say, ' Can I go home with you? Are you my family? What makes you happy? I promise I'll be good. I won't talk anymore. I'm sorry.
I came home but I didn't heal. I talked to two therapists. A man and a woman a woman.

I didn't fix my problem. The more I talked about them, the more solutions seemed to avoid me, the more I seemed to not solve my problem, the more I seemed to have an accident waiting to happen.

I came home to take care of my dad and realized how bad I was. I'm a mess because some people avoid me like an epidemic even my younger sister.

I love the city tonight. There was no heat, only air rising from the road, smoke and gray. The windows were lit like candles from the inside out as if only the light inside the building looked more stable.

Other women are enemies. I have no relationship with women. There was no female friendship, a female mentor, and a relationship with my mother or sister in my life. I used to think because I'm not as pretty as they are. My shoes started to pinch my toes. I want to take them and walk barefoot in this city I really like because they don't chew me and spit me out again. I want someone to take me in his arms tonight and wrap them around me. Someone who will tell me is good for being scared because sometimes afraid.

Instead, I got a story, a beautiful, intense, sad story from the same person as me, an invitation to a birthday from a man I passed by. Their sadness was as intense as mine and for a while they held me in the club's basement. I felt safe as my world began to fall around me and I crashed and burned.

The sky is black and dark like a stunning black hole. No stars but I don't need stars. The sun is about to set and I've been feeling the pressure of work over the coming weeks, and I'm in front of it. It was Sunday and I was going to church but there was a hole in my stomach. I hope now it will disappear but still there, the hole is burning. I'm not smiling. I'm not laughing. Where do I go? What am I doing? I want to be loved. I'm alone. I'm tired of being alone, independent, independent and brave. My mind wanders through service. I thought about my family and what they were doing but they called to see how I was doing.

I have a headache. It created memories that I didn't want to think about but then I discovered some of the happiness I experienced as an adult. It's easy to feel unwanted in the city. You're lonely. You have no connection with the outside world. Far away, fiercely, you withdraw from all the joys of this world, in this city and walk easily, without misunderstanding, your eyes have black circles - bags under their eyes. I knew then that feeling of curiosity would be gone and I would regain my confidence but for now I could not speak in the peaceful air.

I walk everywhere. I had my first taste of muffins in the bakery in the morning. Crumbs fell to my lap. What has happened this weekend that has never happened in the sun? I feel happy and happy. Nothing haunts me in the fresh air as evening comes. The city never looked brighter, cleaner but the colors lacked their hall, their obscurity before. They've been the focus. My face is brighter. The images stared at me, their lines no longer blurred. I didn't crash on the road, sting, hurt, sweep wildly, disappear into space. Johannesburg, you never look like me now as you do today.

It's Sunday. The wind is rising. It has been one of those long, boring evenings. There's nothing to do but count hours for your favorite television show. It has been a wonderful day. Do you live near the beach? I do. I need to walk more but I don't. And I think too much. I always want to say the perfect thing and the words must be elegant. Maybe this has something to do with me as a writer. Lunch is over and so I think I'll spend the afternoon doing nothing or reading something. We no longer buy newspapers. Occasional magazines and what I learned was that I loved reading inspirational stories. The one who made it in this cruel world, and who lived to survive. With all the rain we have flooded the lowland. We see rain as a gift of God but then others do not. I'm lucky to have met you when I did. It's more than luck that brings us together and you've said it more than once. I wish I could write more to you, talk to you more often, is there for you as you have for me. You are made of good people, kindred relatives. It really does feel like we're related or somehow on many levels. And I've found a sister in you, a family and so many things, a friend. I can hope that you will write, write and write and it will turn into a beautiful book full of joy, written with eloquence, passion and courage.

There are a lot of bad guys in this world but as I get to know more of the world I live in, you live in, just as much if not better. I trust you. I believe in your literary work and your loyal commitment to it. When you have the courage and show your true feelings and sincerity to the world, I give you courage. You understand what it means to be an artist, the creative magic of giving up (no matter what obstacles you face to the point of change).

You are the woman of your own destiny, quiet and determined. You make me want to pay attention to what makes sense, to tolerate what I couldn't tolerate before, to my heart to hear before my intellect, my ego, my consciousness. You light up on me and I think that's great friends, great sisters, great teachers, and poets. (And now I think I can go but I'll stop here.) I want to be brave. I want to be a brave thinker who makes progress as a traveler in pursuit of a dream expedition or pilgrimage.

It's hard to live sometimes. In my world I feel like I can't escape sometimes but knowing that there's a life line out there sometimes makes everything, it's easier to bear. Thank you for your spirit, thank you for your soul, thank you for being an angel in your communication with me. I hope I can print out some of the materials we have. saying ' for everyone. It's food for thought (lots of food, nutritious thoughts). I see art in everything now where I am not present and I see artists everywhere I go and I think for myself. They don't know. They couldn't see it and in front of their eyes. There is so much to live for.

There is so much life even in bread, even in fasting. Around every corner is a community that wants to learn, to educate. There is a lot of joy. Happiness in people's faces, strangers who don't know my name and who won't remember my face. Today is a good day for me. Today is poetic. I think we are on the brink of an extraordinary era. If only everyone had a poem in their spirit, then there would be more joy to visit for everyone.

I will never forget your friendship for the rest of my life.

I hate dark. How he expresses himself, produces evil, and brings a strangeness to the surface. I love moonlight. I'm used to the cold. I have found the elements useful in several ways. I was aware of the wonders I had found in the other writing presentations and their love and passion for writing that lit the fire in them. If others could see their personality, their roots harmonious, their flowers spinning, popping like red poppy heads in the breeze of soul poetry why would I?

You ask how poets succeed today when people do not read poetry, find unimaginable pure threads among them, and seize it as if it were life itself. I'm asking how people live if they don't read. Do you, if we feel the need to put 'em down? Africa's in front of a writer or poet today? I have to lose myself and not appreciate the separation anxiety I sometimes feel.

South African pioneers live in the madness of being thrown into the storm, living off the ground with their white teeth. I wonder if the adaptation their children made. They live off everything that has organic information from their orchards; potatoes, bread, their animals provide meat to their descendants and workers and their families. All of these fine cells have ancient life.

The beaches of my childhood were pure to me, usually breathless, picturesque, never gloomy. Especially the light of day when he closed people, to me, behind my mother as she demanded in front of me, when she fulfilled heaven, heaven. Earth is not the only link I have to God, to the beauty, to the pioneer present before me, to laughter.

The other day, I saw shells on the beach and it seemed like angels had a hand in making them. I collect them as if they were fossils. It was as if they were ghosts of time and elsewhere and then they became a white party in my hands. So humans are making progress. Tonight there was rain on my tongue. I can't talk. The beauty around her moved me to tears. It was my sister's wedding year.
Has the sick, your body, become more and more adaptable as it turns into weeks and months into complains of poor health? I can no longer enjoy the pride, the madness and the arrogance. Ill health is locked up in my sleep, my dreams, and my goals. I'm no longer my mother's futurist. I still remember the hot days. Something's locked inside of me. I drank warm tea nails. I must remember love. Run for words, prose, essays in the dark area of ​​the bedroom.

Appreciation must be expressed. Prayer must be said. Preparation should not be in a hurry. Writing is like an open field; flat, confusing. It can smell cool like a piano key that is not touched by fire, time, memory and place. There is a place for you in nostalgia too. We will continue to talk about the men in our lives, past and present. Every outward custom, dramatic understanding, legacy found in our loneliness.


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