Friday, March 12, 2010

The Bluest Eye

It was a productive pain.

If happiness is anticipation with certainty, we were happy.

The desirability that escaped me.

What experience would you like on Christmas? over What gift would you like on Christmas?

Pain was not only endurable, it was sweet.

It would involve, I supposed, "my man," who before leaving, would love me.

"How do you do that? I mean, how would you get someone to love you?"

Dealing with it each according to his way.

The muted sound of flesh on unsurprised flesh.

To have something as wonderful as that to happen would take a long, long time.

She would see only what there was to see: the eyes of other people.

Don't worry about my bandy legs. That's the 1st thing they push aside.

She was cut out for better things and could make the right man happy.

Eyes that questioned nothing and asked everything.

He was a simple Presence, an all embracing tenderness with strength and promise of rest.

Having a baby is more than a bowel movement.

Her process of becoming were like most of ours: she developed a hatred for things that mystified or obstructed her, acquired virtues that were easy to maintain, assigned herself a role in the scheme of things and harked back to simpler times for gratification.

Pulling every nerve and muscle into service

Celibacy was a haven, silence is a shield.

She never left me because she was never ever there.

And fantasy it was, for we were not strong, only aggressive; we were not free, merely licensed; we were not compassionate, we were polite; not good but well behaved.

Love is never any better than the lover.

Beauty was not simply something to behold, it was something one could do.

Quiet as it's kept.

So it was.

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