It is a quarter of four in the morning and I awoke with the funniest chain of thoughts running through my head, not a dream, just a jumble of thoughts running together like a mombo line coming to a sudden stop and toppling all over themselves.
Everyone knows what a tit looks like, but has anyone ever seen a tat?
Then this mombo line followed:
A sign about a tat expo. Is a tat expo where one goes to trade for a tit.
Tits are what I had when I was 20-something now I have tats.
It wasn't kits the man I met going to St Ives was carrying, but 7 tats who had 7 tits which would explain why so many people give a damn about the 7 wives with 7 sacks or how many were going to St Ives in the first place.
It is now a quarter of five in the morning and quite frankly I do not give a tit what a tat is. I want to go back to sleep!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
THE PRINCIPAL DIFFERENCE
Miss Bessie's hair foamed over her head gray and used like washday suds thrown out. Her skin looked the color of twice heated chicory coffee with just a touch of cream. Her eyes never missed anything before were misted over with twilight even trifocals could not help. Her lips were pinched into slash marks numbering the years since her teeth had moved on. Even her wrinkles looked old. Age and gravity bent the back prejudice and circumstance never did. Miss Bessie taught the black children in a tiny two room school in Texas in 1957.
J W Wright looked young, shiny as a penny. His rust red hair tumbled into his face accenting his freckled fairness. His eyes looked out cleaver and calculating. He had evangelist's teeth in a politician's smile. He held himself as though his back bone was starched with authority and position. His hands were soft both in strength and character.
"Well, well, Miss Bessie, what can I do for you today?" His hand shake was as sincere as his greeting.
Miss Bessie rested her hand on the back of the chair he'd failed to pull out for her. "You can give my children the same books you give your children."
I went to the school Mr Wright presided over, but I learned from Miss Bessie. Too bad she and her children were not allowed to go to my school.
J W Wright looked young, shiny as a penny. His rust red hair tumbled into his face accenting his freckled fairness. His eyes looked out cleaver and calculating. He had evangelist's teeth in a politician's smile. He held himself as though his back bone was starched with authority and position. His hands were soft both in strength and character.
"Well, well, Miss Bessie, what can I do for you today?" His hand shake was as sincere as his greeting.
Miss Bessie rested her hand on the back of the chair he'd failed to pull out for her. "You can give my children the same books you give your children."
I went to the school Mr Wright presided over, but I learned from Miss Bessie. Too bad she and her children were not allowed to go to my school.
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