marieceleste

I have an ache in my wiggle bones. I know it is from wearing silly shoes, not from too much wiggling. I wish there were more wiggling involved.

I want to dance close and crazy to Little Walter, wiggling our hips and sipping sweet alcohol until the light comes up again and we fall into bed too tired for anything but a slight kiss and happily exhausted sighs. Perhaps one item of clothing will be removed, the first in a long slow strip (and I mean slow... hours/days/weeks), teased out until acceleration is unavoidable.

Tonight I relaxed in the happy warmth, the bossom of love that my closest friends afford me. We watched 2, not 6, hours of Lars Von Trier, not Bergman! Anyway it was suitably creepy and obscure, with a dilapidated hospital, a brotherhood of white coats performing bizzare rituals around the lemon in a gin & tonic, disembodied heads, disturbingly accelerated growth in disfigured children, down-syndrome narrators making cloaked pronouncements about the folly of man, the nature of evil, and the transience of life. I didn't understand a word, but I laughed.