sundance

a reply to: realnewsrealfunny

Is that baby you ?

No. It's not me as a baby. It's a picture I found on the sidewalk as I was still seeking for....well....who am I? I had that question in my mind constantly during that time and that was one of the hundred answers I got from...well....you name it.

The foreground (the black leafs) of that picture I made. I just found the laughing baby picture.

a reply to: realnewsrealfunny

I like the picture too.

It's beautiful.

(scrambled some pieces together from American gods)



Every hour wounds. The last one kills

They took her to the cemetery
in a big old Cadilac
They took her to the cemetery
but they did not bring her back
-Old song

There was a woman in a little sitting-room standing against the window with her back to him. His heart missed a half beat. She turned framed by the moonlight. She had a soft Eastern European accent. She looked at him – then she backend him to join her by the window. He walked over to her it seems like a long walk for such a small room. He could not tell her age. She pointed up into the night sky. " I was looking at that, " pointing at the Big Dipper. "Ursa major, " he said. " The great bear. " "That is one way of looking at it, but it is not the way from where I come from. I am going to sit on the roof, would you like to come with me ? She lifted the window and clambered barefoot out on the fire escape. There was a wooden bench waiting for them there and she said down on it and he said down beside her. " So you wanted to know what I was looking at. The Big Dipper. " She raised her arm to point to it and the wind flattered her nightgown against her body her every goose-bump was visible momentarily, dark against the white cotton. " Are you married ? "she asked. " My wife is dead, she died in a car accident it was her funeral last year." Then he told her " I feel like I'm in a world with its own sense of logic, its own rules like when you're in the dream and you know there are rules you mustn't break, but you don't know what they are or what they mean. I have no idea what we're talking about or what will happen tonight. I'm just going along with it, you know ? " "I know, " she said. She held his hand with the hand that was icy cold. "You were given protection once, but lost it already. You gave it away. You had the sun in your hand. And that is life itself. All I can give you is much weaker protection. The daughter, not the father. But all helps. Yes? "Do I have to fight you? Or play checkers?" he asked. " You don't have to even kiss me, " she told him. "Just take the moon." "How?" " Take the moon." " I don't understand." "Watch" she raised her left hand and held it in front of the moon so that her forefinger and thumb seemed to be grasping it. Then, in one smooth movement, she placket at it. For a moment it looked like she had taken the moon from the sky but then he saw that the moon shone still and she opened her hand to display a silver liberty-head dollar resting between finger and thumb. They walked back inside the room. It seems to him that the lights in the bedroom have been deemed and the soul illumination comes from the candle which burned with a bright flame
"What is your name ?" He asks her.
"Never mind." He's gasping now.
She turns around and whispers to him: "Will you call me Goddess ? Will you pray to me ? Will you worship me ? " He purses his lips trying to show that her talk is having no effect on him, he can't be taken. He smiles. Is that what she wants ? "Sure," he says. We all got our ways, at the end of the day.

" I worship you and your eyes I worship your thighs and your cherry red lips ... I worship your kiss from which life flows " his words are becoming more rhythmic now keeping pace with her breathing. Bring me your dreams in the morning and bring me relief and your blessing in the evening. Let me walk in dark places unharmed and let me come to you once more and sleep beside. I worship you with everything that is within me and everything inside my mind. " he breaks off and he looks down at his hips but her finger touched his chin and pushed his head back so he's looking only at her face and at the ceiling once again. " Keep talking," she says. "Your eyes are stars burning in the firmament and your lips are gentle waves that lick the sand and I worship them. " he feels electric. "Bring me your gift " he mutters no longer knowing what he's saying. " Your one true gift...." Eyes closed. He then feels a lurch and it seems to him that he's hanging head down, although the pressure continues. He opens his eyes. He thinks, grasping for thought and reason again, of birth and wonders, without fear, in the moment of perfect clarity, whether what he sees is some kind of illusion. This is what he sees. He's inside her to the chest and as he stares at this in disbelief and wonder she rests both hands upon his shoulders and puts gentle pressure on his body. He slipslides further inside her. "How are you doing this to me?" he asks, or he thinks he asks but perhaps it is only in his head, he feels her lips constricting and enveloping him. He wonders why he's not scared and then he knows "I worship you with my body" he whispers and his eyes slip into darkness.

Let the midnight special
shine it's light on me
let the midnight special shine
it's ever loving light on me
-traditional song

(Scrambled part of American gods again)

I will rise now and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek you out. People are in the dark, they don't know what to do. I had a little lantern, oh but it got blown out too. I am reaching out my hand. I hope you are too. I just want to be in the dark with you. -Greg Brown

The rhythm of the "Blue Danube" waltz rippled and rang and sang in his head, the light of thousands chandeliers glinted and prismed, and for a heartbeat he was a child again, and all it took to make him happy was to ride a carousel: he stayed perfectly still, riding his eagle-tiger centre of everything, and the whole world revolved around him. He heard himself laugh, over the sound of the music. He was happy. It was as if the last few years of his life had not happened, as if the life had evaporated into the daydream of a small child, riding carousel in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, on his first trip to the States, a marathon journey by himself sucking his melting Popsicle, holding on tightly, hoping that the ride would never end. Then the lights went out, and he saw the gods. Time passed. He climbed into bed, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and he closed his eyes, and he held on to nothing, and he held onto dreams. He remembered that time again, and his mother dying, and she was trying to tell him something important, and he couldn't understand her. He moved in his sleep and shaft of pain moved him from half- sleep to half- waking, and he winced. He shivered under the thin blanket. His right arm covered his eyes, blocking the light of the bulb. The silver dollar remained cold in his left hand. He could feel it there and he wondered why it didn't warn up to his body temperature. Half-sleep,now, and half-delirious, the coin, and the idea of Liberty, and the moon and her somehow became intertwined in one woven beam of silver light that shine from the depths of the heavens, and he rode the silver beam up and away from the heart-ache and the fear, away from the pain and, blessedly, back into dreams. There she was waiting for him.. They walked across the bridge. It spanned a small lake, in the middle of the town. The wind was ruffling the surface of the lake, making waves tipped with whitecaps witch seemed to him to be tiny hands reaching for him. "Down there" she said. She was wearing animal print skirt witch flapped and tossed in the wind, and the flesh between the top of the stockings and her skirt was creamy and soft. On the bridge, before God and the world, he went down to his knees in front of her, buried his hands in her drinking in the intoxicating scent of her. He felt a rigid, pounding, monstrous thing as painful as they were when he was a boy, when he was crushing into puberty, with no idea of what the unprompted rigidities were, knowing only that they scared him. He pulled away and looked upward. His mouth was seeking hers and her lips were soft against his, and his hands were cupping her, and then they were running across the satin smoothness of her skin, pushing into and parting the furs that hid her waist, sliding into the wonderful cleft of her witch warmed and wetted and parted for him, opening to his hand like a flower. She purred against him. Now he was back in her apartment. She wrapped her arms tightly around him to hold him tight, so he could not pull away, not even if he wanted to. He pushed the bed sheets away his hand parting his way.. one magical push.. She made no answer in one lithe movement she instituted herself against him in series of silken- smooth waves, each more powerful than the one before, strokes and beats and rhythms which crashed against his mind and body just as the wind waves on the lake splashed against the shore. Everything was transmuted in split moment by some alchemy and he slipped back into darkness.

a reply to: TNMockingbird

After reading some lovely remarks here I ended up blankly staring on my one and only vaze I had for 9 years I never noticed

a reply to: realnewsrealfunny

It is beautiful.

Hummingbirds perhaps?

I hope it's been filled with many flowers, you deserve them.

a reply to: TNMockingbird

Thank you

Every woman deserves flowers

My diary

My baby girl just did the oh no no no cat LOL it was amazing I can't believe it 😜😆😛😝

Then she threw up poor thing but wtf (had her for 3years she never did that) lol my sweethearts ❤️❤️❤️

Scrambled parts of stardust not proofread

Go, and catch a falling star,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’est born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
Nowhere

Lives a woman true, and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be

Here I come, to two, or three.
—John Donne, 1572-1631

He could see her now, as the sky lightened into a dawn grey. Around them animals were stirring: horses stamped, birds began, waking, to sing the dawn in, and here and there across the market meadow, those in the tents were beginning to rise and move. He shook his head, as if to clear it of a dream, and turned back to her. She held a bluebell flower up to the light; and he could not but observe that the color of sunlight glittering through the purple crystal was inferior in both hue and shade to that of her eyes. 
“They are used in certain spells and cantrips. If sir is a magician... ?” she said.
 He shook his head. " Even so, they are delightful things. I first found them when I played by the waterfalls in my father’s lands, high in the mountains. They bloom when the moon loses her daughter, if that occurs in a week when two Mondays come together. Will you buy a flower for me ?” she asked with a teasing grin.
He noticed how the silken fabric of her robe pressed itself against her body; he was aware of her curves, and of her violet eyes upon him, and he swallowed. Truth to tell, she was making him exceedingly uncomfortable. "Do you think you are under a spell, pretty magician ?”
“I do not know.”
She laughed, and the sound was a clear rill bubbling over rocks and stones.
“You are under no spell, pretty boy, pretty boy.” She lay back in the grass and stared up at the
sky he lay beside her in the cool grass, and stared up at the night sky. There was certainly something odd about the stars: perhaps there was more color in them, for they glittered like tiny gems; perhaps there was something about the number of tiny stars, the constellations; something was strange and wonderful about the stars. They lay back to back, staring up at the sky.
“What do you want from life?” asked the faerie lass.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You, I think.” And she was quiet. He leaned over toward her, reached a hand up to her face, felt
something wet and hot splash against his hand.
“Why, you are crying.”
She said nothing. He pulled her toward him, wiping ineffectually at her face with his big
hand; and then he leaned into her sobbing face and, tentatively, uncertain of whether or not he
was doing the correct thing given the circumstances, he kissed her, full upon her burning lips. There was a moment of hesitation, and he was, under the strange stars, utterly, irrevocably, lost. His hand felt the silk of her dress. She clung to him, hard, as if she were drowning, fumbling with his shirt, with his britches. She was so small; he was scared he would hurt her and break her. He did not. She wriggled and
writhed beneath him, gasping and kicking, and guiding him with her hand.
She placed a hundred burning kisses on his face and chest, and then she was above him,
straddling him, and smiling slippery as a minnow if he known her name he would have called it out aloud.
At the end, he would have pulled away, but she held him inside her so hard that he felt that the two of them occupied the same place in the universe. As if, for one powerful moment, they were the same person, giving and receiving, as the stars faded into the night sky.
They lay together, side by side. He squeezed her small hand in his.
The sweat dried on his skin, and he felt chilled and lonely.
“Now, get along with you,” she said softly, and looked at him, half regretfully, with eyes as violet as the cirrus clouds, high in the dawn sky. And she kissed him, gently, on the mouth, with lips that tasted of crushed blackberries. He didn't look back he stood up and walked away.

Dp