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A good little evil queen, about 8 or 20 years old approximately, not a month more nor less, lived an enforced but purely voluntary and not brutal life of impropriety approaching but not touching poverty.
It wasn't touching.
The slackness of all this economy she little suffered with dignity, was utterly unutterable but uttered it little queen she anyhow anyway, for dignity will find a way, even indignantly.
Bluntly: it was bad they were bad; great daddy was dead and had to come find her where she hid virtuously from evil and repentance and apology, fit for dogs and snakes and low thing person.
Something was vaguely analogously to something else witchwise - but not great no matter of that. - Daddy was imperfect!! he though dead did not do, come and not find her he couldn't won't didn't.
She came out in the open with a stern frown! and embracing the merciful world with a silly somber glower she called it stupid dear, that's what she said.
She was still she at the time, utterly because unuttered; and who is needs to say anyway, anyway - ?
The merciful world had a very permanently little not much he in it, this wise to know that aspirately dumb he was, with nothing but words and nothing but blind and dazzle his eyes to not speak with.
(If Daddy Imperfect Future would not find pursuing hiding, she would, not likely, but strange rare things become common!)
He, wise and friendly beyond years of theirs, shrewd but confused, he made an utterable puzzle at by her, but she not too smart for it was (and will be!), so nothing, much.
But more hiding loyalty, to be found, meet it was to alone you all, every.
He stood green in the forest dark, sinister stood like an archer, weaponless and alone at one with each tree; he looked and cried manly plaintively, absolute utterably mute with his helpless strength wisdom and worthiness.
"Go back to me!" his silence of real speaking not like that he wailed, "I mew, you are unaware of it until it's true!"
He spend most of forever in the fenced out open, raging tamely and adorable little six foot one and fully bearded thirteen, unimpressive, for a mercifully short while.
The trees laughed nastiest without faces or breath, dark and pungent and tall as distant perfect daddy, clashing their weapons at archerlike, great but without means of attack to attack himself alone without, woe . . . without . . .
He became she, but not very much; and all the better that it's worse, like bad perfect daddy dead but seeking like a big tree stump. Thought without feeling lacking the little oh so old old, old queen who though he now was not a him but not just she anyway what of it.
If it's less than proper, GOOD slam.
I was in favor of everyone having fun; particularly me but everyone too and really it's all one.
( I was sweet though properly. )
I lived for what I was in favor of; mostly a few hours a weekend but what better can commonplace insignificant persons do? When insignificant without greater motivation gotten from some greater person.
( I was only often a hypocrite or foolish; that is modest. )
As he I had many girlfriends with him in mind but not in any way real enough to be wrong surely; as her my boyfriends walked by like 'The Marching Morons', but slightly nicer, but not enough to please any so much as to fasten to him too much to please the others too, and as him too.
( Why please anyone, too much the world is evil all evils being grandiosity of some describing as I was told by all ardent idealists. )
I never fell in love with anyone, nobody good enough to take before daddy anyway, small likings clean themselves up and leave with good manners (or bad) but not long enough to be a real mess.
( I loved but was good, enough; enough is good, enough is good enough; . . . [is good enough? Is good? - Enough!].)
I was a proper girl in school and never a boy nor him there not me; educated as was good (daddy in favor of it), I did properly in school, proper by never-too-much (Education is good; I was in school until I was 32.)
My work was dull but dullness is eventually a duty, we feel that way when we are free and twenty and three, and have been poor some (rightly because perfect daddy let be poor though he would have let us be better off, freedom is part of his perfection...)
( I was only a bit of a slave, only to others, only out of my tenement, only eight or nine hours a day. )
So: I was thorough. See: Properly sweet, modestly right about enjoying, egalitarian and rightly dispassionate in loving, having all the best possible except too much enough to dull, I got a very thorough education, working as is proper in my station without improper enthusiasm of the kind that ruins home life. And fun. Fun. Fun.
Then I was made aware of The Other
I've been to school more so let me just explain The Other to everyone else but that thing; the rest doesn't matter. oh I hate him first in my heart glorious both at once . . . he killed archerlike! he said goodnight. - Shoot off his fingers!
I can't convey the utterly improper things, for one does not utter improper sentences any more than improper words; you would be either hazed or be hazing.
Oh. The Other was false in every bad way, appearing kind & then just when you get used to it, flipped out at all times; tried my patience but wouldn't wait; kept all secret but wouldn't hear the rightness of silence; was like my age but acted the wrong age; ruined everything that been right awhile before (with patience); appeared to serve me but just fake and trying to hurt, subtle in the light and invisible in darkness. And fell out from the communion we seemed to have like a Quaker meeting, into unmistakeable silence, so long, long, long; so mad I got mad at him with sympathy when it came to me he was mad, and yet I was only mad at others about it, I am sweet. Still. What's 33 years?
And so, so, oh, so, serious. I could not stay calm, anyone that serious is nerve-wracking.
Every chance to be satisfied, The Other wouldn't be satisfied.
Life was different later, such feeling, such feeling; Improper by right but he was so kind he ruined himself I didn't have to, when I hated him he ruined himself I didn't have to, The Other kindly not perfect.
The Other was always incomprehensible; the words spoken were nothing, the words unspoken were all. And my home life was ruins where all words were fol-de-rol traitor versus doll cruel but so kind and why? why? I asked my she-self with no reply. And my people were ruined, he made them all say evil of him; right! it was enough.
I had to ruin The Other's life too. (But I'd . . . punishment . . . )
I couldn't really. So I didn't, though it may have looked bad, he looked worse, but kind, warm, so . . .
The Other ruined his life. His own, I mean.
( But archerlike gone never to return, I hate him! )
Ruined his own life all by himself I'm glad not me anyway. But sad but pleased more perfect glorious
because it was him. Parting is such sweet justice, but I told him last he could come back he wouldn't,
I couldn't say good after that or any more to say. But it was him. [Smile.]
Once again, we tell her what to do as to belief; we can, therefore we will, therefore we have right.
She always believed our kind was really a sort of Daddy; we are thus subjectively respectable. Is there any other kind? The Other will never be much in her life at all - never was for sure. Someone needs to be, for her sake. And though she obeys us as if we were like a metempsychosis of Perfect Dad, yet we do in many ways but reinforce - what she says, we make stronger. Mostly.
We make her daddy live on (some of us made possible that he not dominate her, but physically now the reverse - we are also instruments of justice.) We also serve in the place of the Other, in the way he may be most of her life but he couldn't possibly be, not much, really.
We do what others do, after all, though we are all the others.
The Other is more dangerous to us even than to her - she loves & hates him, but we will kill him (he is our bosom friend.) And so, if she persuaded him to ruin himself, we will kill him guiltless of murder.
Her family never did anything for her really; we ae her true family.
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. . . it looks ugly. | |
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. . . it always did. | |
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. . . except for glory. | (On the wings of birds, not on feet only.) |
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. . . behind the propriety. | |
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. . . to however true life can be dokonaly. | |
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( . . . presumably imperfectly.) | |
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( . . . but perfect enough to please.) |
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