Sunday 4 September 2022

Nothing, to begin

Now, even if leftovers lists half a dozen women writers who are just as good, and that matters - therein is the answer to every moaning woman somehow unesteemed, even if we must blame the literature teachers, especially is English:  Wuthering Heights is a masochistic book of nothing, except a woman defining herself by a wonky bloke who makes a bit of money to please her and that doesn't please her.  As she has no idea what would please her.

And i bet that just like every other woman (except one just a  few days ago...why didn't i chase after her - she was friendly ) i have met for a decade - especially the first poor lost lamb, Cathy of The Heights just painted pictures of the hills and nowadays would be instagramming them, rather than often enough getting out in them for actual 'meditation' and actual 'wellness'.

A decade of untruths. PR spin and self deception. Not me..i wear my hills on my heart. 

BUT...  this (post) even if it is the first chapter of the second Homeric phase,  must end. Today was the forecast day. A week ago, simply because today is the day the summer has 'broken'... and an extraordinarily gorgeous summer of little rain - bugger the farmers they're all liars too these days...

in fact a second summer like the most extraordinary one ever - 1976. 

And a real country person lives ONLY to the rhythms of the weather and also light.

And goes to sleep when the light is ober.

BUT... all i know is one thing.

Seven hours over a few nights not quite right.

Things on ones mind - sad ends of eras. A lost lamb who will never return. And no one ever gave a damn - all her supposed gender, i have no idea whom any of them was, but that's not because i haven't tried like no man before, but because they have no idea themselves...  even the well into their sixties ones..of the hills....who lie about their age. Because those lines... dont lie.

To be continued; today. Because despite every one of them...  and knowing full well a man is dead if he has no one to wander the hills with hand in hand, or just spend some of the time collecting the wood together... laughing at all the lies..

there is no hope. But i knew that ten years ago and a fool,  just like Odysseus, there is only the bed..

as long as the nails one must lie on are well rounded at the tips.

But then a countryman never goes anywhere without his scythe

and grindstone.

But what a 'silver lining' side effect. Bed built, indeed maybe that is the correct figure of speech - i never recall the difference between allegory and metaphor...  it is time to lie on it, free, because there are many dotts to join up. For instance the terrible evil crimes that i was pointing at two years ago in the pic above...

I think i have here gone tangential... started a point and left off having woven some other hangmans rope for myself.. That will never be used... surviving them all.

Yes, Mister Bernhardhis Extinction. Maybe the very best... but many women have written just as well but always seem to leave off the final line of any truth...  that lies truly do take the human out of the human. Thomas B sort of doesn't...

But my truth i hate photos of myself to be anywhere really... and the passage in Extinction about TBs true visceral disgust at the photo taking masses... must be one of the most pre holocaust juicy bits of holocaust lit...being as i think all these photos..lies... smiles when they are only painted


so it is time for me to begin. If i can be bothered.

And that silver lining - i have no fear of being found, now.. because the best way to end all fear is to hand out the weapons to someone you cannot trust...seemingly ever.

But that desn't matter. Even if against my own 'interests'  - one goes to bed weary of them all... and sometimes justa  little negative and fearful if a long fine day

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