he: darling, talk dirty to me!
she: the kitchen sink, the clothes hamper, the pig pen...
*
he: i think i told you...
she: you think that you think?
*
dialogue is something that does not come easily to me.
*
but frankly, what do you think of somebody who takes one whole year to figure out who is a jerk and who is not?
but things are much improved, it used to take me two years!
*
i have all the compassion for women, or men, who get involved with abusive people. abusive, seems to come in many forms, from the physically abusive to the verbally abusive. sometimes i think physical abuse is easier to heal, the body heals quickly, the body is resilient, the spirit is fragile, the psyche is vulnerable. not absolutely so, but somehow so.
i belong to that category of slow people, who have to experience it down to the marrow of their bones before they have learnt it. i can not read signs, i do not understand meta messages, i need it spelled out in black on white.
sometimes my ego comes to my rescue, in this cryptic case, it certainly did. had my ego not gotten a hold of the fragility of my being, it would be in pieces by now. it was my ego and an harley-davidson that somehow saved me from the abyss.
*
alone at last, and he is here. he, the muse, the one that indulged in returning the mutual caresses of the ego. he simply said: you should not kill the ego, you should learn to mount it, like you learn to mount an horse.
*
the story started for me when i was sixteen, it was Strasbourg. remember Rebecca?
-Rebecca does not remember, Oona holds her hand tenderly. Two sisters, one life.
