BLUES WOMAN

That one was a unique woman!!!
No other like her...and even she was not like herself...Never the same at noon, in the morning, or through the night.
The blue was different, morning, noon or night.
The morning blue was brilliant. She would wake up fresh and pretty, full of freedom and quiet laughter. She was so happy in the morning; she couldn’t notice any cloud. Home was fine, her place was great. She watered her plants and smiled at herself.
Then, no one knows why, the noon arrived filled with distress. The blue mixed with bits of yellow. It seemed so smoky...to exhaustion. She was so tired, she felt so used, her tears hid the blue. She went on, supported by the walls.
The afternoon was the siesta...Warm, heavy, sweet sleep...Wrapped in crisp, white sheets she would slowly sink, feeling soft relief.
Oh...That woman. The world waited for her nights...She would appear, transformed into dark blue soul, shadows living by hissed lights, beauty wrapping her smoky body, her eyes darkly brilliant in a quiet reign of earth.
. What human could help feeling overwhelmed by her presence...I could not, nor could you, or anyone.
She would travel by night, sending herself fast and sharp. She reached real places long way from nowhere.
She felt dark, blue dark fascination, sensing the night wind, the sea breeze and the air. It was she, that shadow, the dark blue form over our lives. So beautiful, so dangerous in her unique lightning.
How far she went when at last she landed, gathering her wings, turning into woman? The darkness was her home, but the light reappeared throwing blue over her horizon.
How far she could take her shadow, while the light was calling her to water her plants?
This perpetual sorrow in my soul calls her back. Can the blues call blue?
I try. I truly try.....While I miss her morning, noon and night.

NO BODY'SSECOND THOUGHTS

Why bother to change yourself when you can transform someone else?

I think of that when I turn small. I have nothing against being me, but things get a lot better when I enter someone else’s stomach.

The funniest is my husband. When people tell him he's got a roll over his jeans, I hardly control my laugh. He has a wonderful body, unless I am inside. Afterwards, they think they hear his digestion sounds. Poor man; He used to be so serious and respectable before I adopted this habit. His appearance, well-packed in his suits and ties, was impecable. Other men, a lot like him in many ways, closed deals and had business with him. He attracted confidence by treating every detail as if life and death depended on it.

The only disturbing detail was I. Back at home, painting the high walls of our house, I found myself badly missing him. What also bothered me, was the time he took to get back into his old self, the self I had married.

During dinner, he would ask me so formally to pass the salt, I could throw the salt on him! It took him hours to slip back into his pajama state. When he finally became warm and comfortable, I was already fighting away sleep.

One night, while he was sleeping, I noticed he breathed through his mouth. He probably had a cold. I propped myself on my elbows and observed his face. It took me awhile to realize I was so concentrated, that I was pumped into my small mind. The small of my mind is, as I well know now, a puppy size. It didn’t feel bad. It felt very nice, actually. I climbed onto my husband’s waist, and like a woolly little thing I had become, I tickled him until he laughed through his sleep.

The next thing I knew, his body was absorbing me. What a wonderful experience! I went right into him, feeling the deep sleep, seeing together with him his colorful dreams. It was a whole new world! I saw myself, looking the way I would normally looked, but in his dream, painting a rainbow over the ceiling.

Looking around me, I discovered the suit and tie corner. Such a tidy place. The mess of my existence was neatly separated from that corner.
I tiptoed toward his neat little place and made a lovely mixture. With the suit thrown over my round shoulders and the tie around my neck, I painted the air pastel green.
I guess I fell asleep, because next, I remember my husband calling my name. I was still inside him, feeling safe under the blankets. The last thing I wanted was to get out. Of course, it would have scared him to death, too, and I had better avoided it.

That incredible day, my husband had attacks of laughter. It soon infected his business mates. They sounded surprised first, but it didn’t take them long to be able to have fun. Drinking beer (Oh! I felt so shaky!), they closed uncertain deals. At times, I felt how my husband nodded his head in embarrassment, but he did enjoy himself.

It was a very significant day. On his way home, I sneaked out through his belly button. Have you ever noticed it still is an open channel?

We had a great dinner, eating little while giggling and rolling on the floor. After the tea, we threw the clay cups from the balcony to the garden. They broke beautifully well and re-decorated the gray path with their terra-cota color. We looked through the window, roaring with laughter.

Happy and satisfied I declare I still do it. When we have overnight visitors, I do it too. And when I find someone boring, I change it!!!

Why not?!

COUSINS

Mara had always looked up to Amir, her calm, smart cousin. She was quick to anger; a thin, dark kid of glaring black eyes, constantly involved in children fights. When she rolled in the dust with a bigger boy, Amir would watch her red face and her kicking little legs. Being eight years older, he could easily put an end to the fight. Yet, he always waited, laughing until she called him. She did so only when completely sure she was about to die. When that happened, he would step in, take the boy in one hand, and her in the other, and send the two home. Then he would send away the circle of disappointed kids. He seemed to be the only grown-up who liked her temper.
After those fights, Mara used to glance at him and unveil her partly-admiring partly-mocking smile. She only respected the leaders and the bravest kids, with whom she fought fervently. Only Amir, not a kid anymore and not yet a man, got her admiration anyway. “He was going to kill me!” she would complain, a beautiful, mischievous smile appearing involuntarily.
“You are undefeated, princess!” Amir would declare and smile at her.
“I could have won!” She would make sure he admitted.
Of all her family, she could perhaps convince him that winning was more important than good manners.
“I know.”
Mara's fights turned into wrestles, although no less violent, when she became a teenager. She was easily provoked by the boys to enter physical confrontations. Yet, when she was attacked, in the eye of the storm, she sometimes surrendered for a quick minute. She would look into the eyes of the boy holding up her arms, and keep silent.. Soon afterwards, she would struggle again, more ferociously than earlier. It seemed strange how easily she forgot the fights yet couldn’t stop thinking of those quick surrenders.
Amir remained Mara's guardian even when, considered an adult in the family's eye, he was forced to leave the village and study in Jerusalem. His father, her uncle, wanted him to administrate the family business when he graduated. When he returned home on weekends, Amir kept an eye on Mara, but remained distant from her violent fights. Mara continued telling him stories in her impulsive way. She loved to provoke his amazed laughter, and adored his admiration of her free spirit. He was so reliable and trustworthy, Mara felt at home talking to him. She could talk the way she desired because he enjoyed it.
*
One Saturday, approaching the village, Amir heard high voices while still in the bus. As soon as he got off, he saw Mara in the middle of a group of screaming kids. Again, she was attacking a boy, who apparently turned as furious as she did. Amir drew closer. Mara had just turned fourteen. Her body looked thin and childish with the torn, dusty clothes. The boy cruelly pulled her hair, while she slapped his face trying to kick him at the same time. A button flew off her clothes. Her gaze rested on Amir for a second, and she flashed a smile. Just then, the boy grabbed her arm and twisted it around her back. She yelled at him, fighting. Another button was torn. With alarmed, angry eyes , Amir watched one bare shoulder, a strip of a bra and a dark, flat belly. He would have never guessed she needed a bra already. He leaped into the screaming circle, wilder than he had ever acted when entering to separate the fighting kids. . ”Mind your own business!” he shouted at the children who spread to all directions, scared. He kicked the struggling boy in the direction of the parting group. Only then did he turn to Mara. She was waiting for him to loosen his strong grip on her arm. When she looked at his face, she saw he how mad he was. She tried to get away from him, but he wouldn't let her. He pushed her towards her house leaving red fingertips on her forearm.
“Leave me alone!” she yelled at him. Quietly and tensely he told her she didn't realize how bad she was. Again, she struggled with him, but he was stronger. In a fiery burst, she jumped at him, trying to make him lose his balance. He almost fell down, but made it back to his feet holding both her shoulders. When she tried to pull away again, he pushed her away from him. “You’re an alley cat!” he cried, his hands against her. Although she was free to go, the words infuriated her so much, she jumped at him. Both fell down and rolled on the grass at the edge of her house's yard. They hit each other with no mercy.
“You’re an idiot!” she yelled.
“And you’re a whore!” he yelled back.
“Let me go!” she commanded him. But he was pushing her to the ground with all his strength.
“I hate you!” she screamed.
Suddenly they froze. He was all over her, with his whole body, as no one had ever been. In complete shock, they could feel their bodies, aching beyond the pain of the hitting. He got up as if a snake had bitten him. She rolled and sat on her knees, leaning her head on the ground.
Her eyes were full of tears. He was staring at empty air. After few seconds of silence, he touched her shoulder softly. "Come on," he said, "let's go home".
She got up on trembling legs. He smiled at her dirty face, and dried her tears with his hand.
“You’re crazy!” he said, his eyes teasing her.
She smiled at him, turned and hugged him with that bony but warm hug of hers.
“I hate you,” she said and laughed.
"I know." He smiled.

THE FRAME

Things are sad now. I finally know I have to go. I had a wonderful frame. It was antique with a touch of golden years. I had it for some time, hanging on my bedroom wall. I felt no picture could fill it adequately. Of course, an original Cezanne would have done but not any reproduction or any creation of a hesitating hand. I even thought about hanging a mirror, but it would have only shown myself...It wasn't good enough. So, I just left it there, hung beautifully above my bed and I got used to getting some comfort from its magical beauty.

I spent many lonely nights in that room. Sometimes I felt the walled curved over me. When I felt sad, I imagined the room to be a womb. I lay on my bed, and felt protected. At other times, though, when I was anxious, I felt it was closing me inside, blocking the sense of the real World. Of course, it was all illusion. I know I was terribly lonely, suffering of thoughts t
INTERRUPTED. SORRY!!!!!!!!