With outrage, she said, "May the body of the man
who uses his hand
to strike a woman
be paralyzed.
May the weaklings be broken
by women outspoken
by other men of token
and ostracized.
May their blood be fuel
to continue the duel
to feed them gruel
and no compromise.
May mercy overlook them
and vengence overtake them
by waves of violence
that brought their insolence."
When she stopped boiling, and only simmered, she said,
"He will never have power
only power to cower
through a deadly shower
and false confidence.
He may strike and break
and give then take
but his honor's at stake
replaced with pestilence."
When she fully cooled, she said,
"May God guide him
forgive him
and let him see the truth before him
that a woman must be honored."
When her love settled in, she said,
"I wish he never left."
1.31.2011
1.15.2011
1.10.2011
Beauty
You can stare at something long enough and it will become beautiful.
Because beauty is familiarity.
You are familiar with the focused photos of the models in Vogue. Photography's content celebrates physicality, and therefore forces associations of subjects with real life. When you attend a party, you tap into your memory, flashbacks of images of models, of beauty defined by others, and they transition into the standard, the criteria, the control, and are used to judge friends.
Big lips. Big hips.
Small nose. Small toes.
And the list goes on. It's all irrelevant in not the grander, but another scheme. But to our minds, all synchronized by categorized airbrushed images, it is pure relevance.
Stare at an artistic image of a shattered vase. To see a shattered vase of that same physique in real life would excite you. And you might pay money to buy the otherwise piece of trash.
Same with faces. Bodies. So let's not all mold our opinions into one, because when everyone agrees on one opinion, that opinion becomes unrightfully perceived as fact, and all those not falling under those standards fall suffering into another warp of logic.
We are all beautiful. Physically.
Because beauty is familiarity.
You are familiar with the focused photos of the models in Vogue. Photography's content celebrates physicality, and therefore forces associations of subjects with real life. When you attend a party, you tap into your memory, flashbacks of images of models, of beauty defined by others, and they transition into the standard, the criteria, the control, and are used to judge friends.
Big lips. Big hips.
Small nose. Small toes.
And the list goes on. It's all irrelevant in not the grander, but another scheme. But to our minds, all synchronized by categorized airbrushed images, it is pure relevance.
Stare at an artistic image of a shattered vase. To see a shattered vase of that same physique in real life would excite you. And you might pay money to buy the otherwise piece of trash.
Same with faces. Bodies. So let's not all mold our opinions into one, because when everyone agrees on one opinion, that opinion becomes unrightfully perceived as fact, and all those not falling under those standards fall suffering into another warp of logic.
We are all beautiful. Physically.
1.07.2011
Won Year
She was on the brink of ultimate corruption. In a swift moment of weakness, in the blink of a heartbeat, she would be destroyed. She inched closer to her end without looking at the target. Her neck twisted with anger, her eyes searching for her unspoken salvation.
She was faced with a dilemma unknown to her library of experience. With unprecedence comes confusion. And with that confusion, she would have made a decision that would have filthified the purest of waters continents away. She would have expunged her soul from the confines of serenity, and delved deep into boiling muck of scum.
She was simultaneously presented with a gift box, the contents of which were unknown, but which was legitimate no matter what the results. She wasn't torn. She was nudged from one direction to another. That cliff all of a sudden grew matter and stretched out to create an infinite plane impossible to drop from. But the thoughts of suicide reemerged and she headed toward the cliff, and the plane disintegrated, moaning in disappointment and pity. She continued to hope for His lead.
Would He send it? Well of course.
The sound of a reason was more like a thunderous bolt of lightning smacking any last thread doubting goodness and edging on to disaster. The sound unveiled truth from its brethren, growth from failure, and chance from certain doom.
She listened. How dare she not. She chose to be chosen.
She freed herself from shackled immunity to truth.
He let her go. He let her see. Gratitude is all she can give.
She was faced with a dilemma unknown to her library of experience. With unprecedence comes confusion. And with that confusion, she would have made a decision that would have filthified the purest of waters continents away. She would have expunged her soul from the confines of serenity, and delved deep into boiling muck of scum.
She was simultaneously presented with a gift box, the contents of which were unknown, but which was legitimate no matter what the results. She wasn't torn. She was nudged from one direction to another. That cliff all of a sudden grew matter and stretched out to create an infinite plane impossible to drop from. But the thoughts of suicide reemerged and she headed toward the cliff, and the plane disintegrated, moaning in disappointment and pity. She continued to hope for His lead.
Would He send it? Well of course.
The sound of a reason was more like a thunderous bolt of lightning smacking any last thread doubting goodness and edging on to disaster. The sound unveiled truth from its brethren, growth from failure, and chance from certain doom.
She listened. How dare she not. She chose to be chosen.
She freed herself from shackled immunity to truth.
He let her go. He let her see. Gratitude is all she can give.