Ana Toader

He came to see me last night. He had been drinking again. I saw him on the path to my gingerbread house, so I put on the glittery red shoes and hid all my white mice. Prepare for battle.

“Oh you said, `Angel your halo ain`t fitted that good for a little while now
You ain`t got that certain glow that I get a kick out of`”

Ladeeda. I run around the table, throwing liquorice, knowing I’m only prolonging the inevitable.

Here it comes, the fist. It will bang all my sweet teeth together. Click. Click. One.

“I`m taking it on the chin, with a grin
But my feet are itchin` and itchin`
And he says, `Don`t cry my precious one
Coz I ain`t got no sympathy for you`”

Yes, yes, we know that, mister. Click. Click. Two.

I spit blood and a tooth and grin to myself. It’s over for now. Tooth and abuse fairy is fluttering her irridescent wings and holding a piece of frozen meat for my lips.

Ow, fairy. Click. Click. Three.

“I click my heels together three times
They sparked a little, but nothing happened
And the big bad wolf`s still in my bed” – Alisha’s Attic, I am, I feel

i shook off the rope collar that was strangling me and stamped my foot on it

with the spite of a queen

there you go, fear of producing anything less than perfect. art should be expressed, in whichever form it is, even if it represents only a fragment of everything. that fragment will be cherished. the audience will not laugh at your inability to describe something to its last consequence.

express.

as lady war in her red stockings dances her divine tango with god death

and the nurses wheel us in, my lover

share a dissection table with me. let’s hold hands in human catastrophe and death

as the fabulous gods dance

http://bejart.ch/

I found this nugget of similarity last night. It always makes my heart light to see life played as young theatre in front of me.

The boy had broken his doll. She was in front of him, hair hanging down her face. We could only guess heavy hot clusters of tears on her cheeks. The doll cries and she is silent.

The boy is helpless. He takes her hands and strokes them, cups her cheeks and tries to wipe her tears. He panicks slightly. The tears won’t stop. He doesn’t know how to fix her.

He tries to remember what he said, what he did. It’s a blur. Yet the doll cries, he must’ve done something. Whispering any reassuring thing he can think of, the boy tries very hard to remember and understand. He’d say and do anything, if only she would stop.

The doll raises her face and catches a glimpse of it in a window. Boys come and go, but a poised face always stays with you, so with her childish hands, she tries to fix her makeup, ignoring the boy. He is attentive. She is finally doing something other than crying stubbornly.

Venomously, because he made her cry, her eyes pierce the boy. By now, he has reached despair. He makes up excuses, fragile like white flowers and deposits them at the feet of his doll-idol. “I didn’t mean it.” “I didn’t mean to.” “I didn’t.” “Please.” Methodically, the doll hammers all his flower pots to nothingness.

We smile at the fact that she leaves her hands in his. There’s still love. The doll has regained her spine. Because it’s easier to be strange after you’ve been hurt, she asks something out of the blue, something ridiculous and inadequate like “did you remember to do laundry”. It throws him off.

Then he does the reverse, he throws her off by saying something so childish that she can’t supress a smile. She is lost now. He picks up the scent of her smile and puts on a one-man show for her, so she would be healed and whole and his again. The doll laughs and puts that hurt in a box, to be taken as arrow later, in another fight. All as long as there is love. When that ends, even arrows turn to powder.

They come in armies, usually holding their divine children. 

In all essential museums, they are the front line. In their physiognomy, there is geography and psychology. It is my best and most instinctual knowledge of old art. 

The stern, sexless Germanic Madonnas with their yellow skin and receding hairlines, the dark Spanish Madonnas wearing night, the angels of light painted by Italians, women of round arms and kindness and sun, Fouquet’s Madonna like idol and terrible queen, the long, thin noses and darkened eyes of Byzantine-style Madonnas.