Ambush

You locked me in the closet and the more I try to get out the more you laugh.

You got me this time.

But just remember, your clothes are in the closet, too!.

@Texas Tales - Dina M Wilks

Sadie, Sadie - Monologue

Sadie, Sadie, guilded lady . . . Sadie, Sadie gilded lady. Sorry. I've been waiting for the bus for a long, long time. Have you been waiting long? Buses seem like forever. Especially now, in the dark, in the middle of the night, or rather morning I should say. I try not to think much about the time when I wait. . . . like the watched pot, only the morning will boil. 

You may have a seat next to me if you wish. . . no, no, I guess you wouldn't, not you, not next to me. Sadie, Sadie. That? that's a song. They used to sing it when I was a kid, in the south, a song of the south, when ladies were belles, I haven't rung in years, and I think I'd be more of a clang than a ring. 

Well you liked that did you? . . . ., I never was the prissy type, never had a vapor in my life, but now I'm here waiting with you at a bus stop the dark part of the morning. You coming from a party, wearing a suit, so dapper.

I love parties, music and drink and the food, not hard to tell that I like a little
extra bite from the hors douvers table .... last party I went to was fancy, caviar floating on white stars of sour cream, all sitting on top of a little teeny, tiny potato, just enough for one bite. 
We were buying art, well, he was buying art, I was gasping at the bids and tippling a continuous glass of champagne. What? Not the type? That's exactly the type I see you as. What type do you see me as? You don't want to say. You're blushing. (with a bit of sternous) Well types are seldom accurate. Too narrow, too restrictive either that type or this type never a shade of this and a shadow of that. 
I like the darkness of the morning better than the darkness of the night. How about you?
Yes, there is a difference, in the morning, the light, it rises there, in the east and the night well . . . but the dark is lighter in the mornings, more of blue than black.
You never noticed before? I guess I've sat waiting in both darknesses for much too long.
Sadie, Sadie . . . You remember the song. Gilded lady . . . yes, right. you sang it as a kid . . . Sadie, Sadie guilded lady . . .married lady? Married? No, not me, never me. The song? The song says married lady? UH UH, no, We never sang it like that, we never . . . (sadly) did. Not where I am from. I am from the south, I told you, but I am from the confederacy of fallen women, the cracked belles, the women who walk between marriage and professional women, the women who love the wrong men, who fall for the hollow promises, who hear exactly what the man expects us to hear. It's a great place to be in the moment, but in the darkness, in the aloneness, it takes it's toll, it seeps beyond the exterior, it creates a fissure that only enlarges, never seems to shore up. Men, men sleep with women all the time, it's expected, but of the women with whom they sleep it is unexpected, a terrible catch 22, for with whom are these men expected to sleep? 
ME? Yes, tonight. In his bed, in his fancy. I lived for a moment In his pledge of honor.

Would you like a potato? I have a pocket full, they did have caviar, and the very sourest of cream. I'm afraid I licked off the caviar and the cream, the cream came off in my pockets, I couldn't quite find a way to discard of them discreetly, so I kept them here, in my pockets. No, no, he was not discreet, he didn't say he would be, but he offered me forever, forever until the darkness fell. I believed forever, I always want to believe in the forevers, but always end with the nevers. 

Yes, yes, you do remind me of him. the suit I think, the hair combed back in a wave, your carriage, that of confidence, of assertion, the carriage of a man who gets more times than not what he sets out to get. Women of confidence, of such carriage, cannot get the same things as a man, cannot want the same things as a man, cannot take pleasure in the same things as a man, it is the inequity of man, but I guess then it is a man made world that we live in isn't it? I guess then I should be thankful that I shall not be killed physically for believing this man, our world has progressed beyond that one rung or two, but I still die a little, with each forever I fall into.

Your legs are beginning to tire? Well, please do, have a seat, right here right next to me. 
Well, thank you, it is my father's smile, I rather like yours as well. My dress? it's a party dress, bought for the art party, last night. Sort of sparkles, like the stars against a night sky. 
Thank you, I do believe your arm will warm, these mornings do get a bit chilly. I never plan to be waiting outside at this hour, never do think to bring a silk wrap to throw over my shoulders.
Your shoulder is strong, rather hard, but that's all right, my head was getting tired. Seems like I've been waiting here for a lifetime. HMMMMM, you do smell good, cologne or after shave? Armani? I should have guessed, a man who dresses like you, but what on God's green earth are you waiting on a bus for, at this hour? Oh, you're from out of town? Just finished a long and boring business meeting, they always are too long, too boring. You'd like to buy me a cup of coffee at your hotel? How about something sweet, something other than a potato? . . . . . . I don't know, it's been such a long night. Your breath is awfully warm and sweet, It tickles across my eyelashes as you breath. (pause) This is nice. Oh look here, here it is, our bus. Well, I've managed boarding buses at this hours many, many times by myself, but a gentleman's grip on my waist as I climb these stairs in these extraordinarily tall heels, I thank you, and now that I think about it, a cup of coffee might do me some good, now that this morning is beginning to lighten.

IN RESISTANCE TO THE HOUR OF POWER

Tick, tick, tick, tick, the seconds lick by like caliburs rotating in a loading gun . . . For hours, I am waiting, for days, going on years, I wait, because what else can I do? They have taken all of my power, to break me, like a beast.

I shall not be brokend, hall not let them rip the very soul from within, tick, tick, tick, tick. I no longer respect my homeland, the standards that had made it great, taken, like the most precious of stones sometime in the night, while we were all sleeping in a stupor of apathy and self-indulgence.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, I listen as freedom slowly ticks away, second by second, to men of Napoleonic egoes, thinking they know best, forgetting one's forefather fortuned by bootlegging, another, working in a mail room.

Tick, tick, tick, tick day by day OUR greatness slips one more rung.

While Waiting

Y sings ballads, his voice travels a considerable distance, a slowly cooling air, the snare drum reverberates under it. He is proud. I can tell by his volume. Then suddenly, his voice stopas and a clutter of speaking voices stuccato through the void, only to fade silent as well.

It wants to be winter, today, but something is preventing it, latitude, proximity, forces unseen but always known, ever experienced.

I am comfortable in the contradictions, comfortable in duplicity.

"Hush," my mind tells me, for it knows these are things insolvable, tihings better not to revel about. But Lord knows, one has to think, contemplate something beyond self, office and manmade sorts of things.

Emory - in a rancid world

This is the beginning of a work on the three dimensional aspect of the human face. Emory, here has only one face, although his angles are off a little, I'll tweak him until I get him right.

But Emory is scowling, I think he's sick of the insects of the world, people who crawl up into other people's lives, insinuating themselves where they don't belong, either because they lack the skills or the drive or simply weren't invited. The people who steal and stalk and destroy that which refuses to allow them to suffocate the very talents they leech off of, and when they can no longer leech, for fear of exposure, try to destroy. That is what Emory is scowling about, and Emory will become, once tweeked, my 2nd original, no foundational face (the first is the man's face with lines on the paper). Should be tomorrow when Emory will show his one and only face to the world.

Too bad most other people have so many, they are impossible to draw. OH! YEAH, KO or OK! WHICHEVER one FITS!

Let's face it!

I've been struggling, one face is an effort in a lesson, one a doodle and one the first face I ever drew (BP) about four years ago. It was enough to encourage my mentors to suggest I study drawing.