Calm down a bit. Even though Betty’s here now, I won’t spread sheets on my bed or brush my teeth before I dig into morning pottage and wash it down with Camel milk. I’m still walking around the castle, barefoot, half naked, singing off key, and looking like an accident. Me is Me.
I might change with time, get a little culture when her friends come over? Actually comb out the bush on my head? Dig out one of my stained white tees from the laundry room? Use some of the dead mint paste on the dresser? Stop spending so much time in front of the huge mirror at the tapestry room rehearsing a noisy crowd of swordplay in old, rusty armor, wielding a broken mopstick and a stolen cooking pan cover? Naaaaa!
The important thing is that I do what I do, channel the goddess.
She’s been packing up things for a weekend in the lower country: loose fitting fabric, repellent sprays and things. We talked at length the night before, about life, and hope, and desires and disappointment; how you want something you can’t have and you still lunge for it, even though you have a reality, a reality that your desires would end in a disappointment.
You love the chase, the thrill, the wishy moments that make you believe for a flimsy second that your dreams would actually come true. Sometimes, you don’t let your hopes get so far as to escape beyond your gathering hands, but sometimes, you let your hopes wander away, to discover a most wonderful journey, and you begin to have faith. The kind of faith that tells you to stop admiring the beauty of the ocean and actually put a foot out. You’re not stupid enough to jump out, no you’re not. It’s just a foot. But you forget that once you trust your weight on that one foot, you go crashing into the deep. Your salty tears, mixing with the watery mass, a smile on your face…
Deep is deep, let us be happy; today we mock reality! Our goddess shall soon be off on a fling with an English Duke that’s somehow from Betty’s world of prim and proper. The mustached man is waiting outside the cold stone walls, proclaiming love and valor and yarning unusual nonsense. AfroMuse is having a hearty laugh and blowing him kisses. Betty is laughing at them both. The goddess’s pain shows through her smiles for the quarter of a second and it’s gone like it was never there. Maybe it was never there?
She shall let her golden hair (Yes! she grew and dyed it) down the window for Mister Duke to climb up. It’s not like I didn’t open the huge doors to let the man in, the same doors they would exit later on, to mount his wooden horse drawn carriage… he does own a fleet of Italian cars…
Oh! the goddess and her kind!
I have errands to run. Allow me to beat something that sounds like a Don Jazzy tune, merry merry tongolo imitations, mixed with scape-goat synth vibes on the gong, only because AfroSays: