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Phone Number *** - **** 5852
Birthday26 May 1955
Address Aleksanterinkatu No: 5852
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You can see the sandhills from our new room. Butterflies live in the sandhills and lizards and centipedes. If you keep very still lizards will think you a stone and run over your lap. Butterflies’ liveries are scarlet and black. They drive chariots in air. People in the chariots are pale as dew— you can see right through them— but the chariots are made of gold of the sun. They go up to heaven and never catch fire. There are green centipedes and brown centipedes and black centipedes, because green and brown and black are the colors in hell’s flag. Centipedes have hundreds of feet because it is so far from hell to come up for air. Centipedes do not hurry. They are waiting for the last day when they will creep over the false prophets who will have their hands tied.
Night calls to the sandhills and gathers them under her. she pushes away cities because their sharp lights hurt her soft breast. Even candles make a sore place when they stick in the night.
There are things in the sandhills that no one knows about… they come out at dark when the young snakes play and tell each other secrets in the deaf logs.
Sometimes… before rain… when the stars have gone inside… the night comes close to your window and sniffs at the light…. But you must not run away— you must keep your face to the night and walk backward.
When it rains and you are pulling off flies’ legs… mama lets you play houses with Lizzie and Clara. Because you are the Only One— and because Only Ones have to live alone while sisters stay together, Lizzie and Clara give you the dry house and take the one with the leaking roof.
Rain like curly hairpins blows on Lizzie and Clara’s two heads turned like one head— two mouths spread into one laugh. Lizzie is saying: why don’t you want to play— when you feel you’d like to braid the crinkled-silver rain into a shining rope to climb up… and up… and up… into the wet sky and never see any one again.
Our gate doesn’t hang right. It must have pawed at the wind and gotten a kick as the wind passed over. The sitting sky puffs out a gray smoke and the wind makes a red-striped sound blowing out straight, but our gate drags its foot and whines to itself on one hinge.
What do you think I’ve found— two wee knickers of fairy brass, or two gold sovereigns folded up in a bit of green silk, or two gold bugs in little green shirts? If you want to know, you must walk tip-toe so your feet just whisper in the grass— you must carry them careful and very proud, for their stems bleed drops of milk— but Lizzie and Clara shout in glee: Pee-a-bed, pee-a-bed— dandelions! You look in the eyes of grown-up people to see if they feel the way you feel… but they hide inside of themselves, and so you do not find out. Grown-up people say: The stars are bright to-night, but they do not say what you are thinking about stars— not even mama says what you are thinking about stars. This makes you feel very lonely.
It’s strange about stars…. You have to be still when they look at you. They push your song inside of you with their song. Their long silvery rays sink into you and do not hurt. It is good to feel them resting on you like great white birds… and their shining whiteness doesn’t burn like the sun— it washes all over you and makes you feel cleaner’n water.
My doll Janie has no waist and her body is like a tub with feet on it. Sometimes I beat her but I always kiss her afterwards. When I have kissed all the paint off her body I shall tie a ribbon about it so she shan’t look shabby. But it must be blue— it mustn’t be pink— pink shows the dirt on her face that won’t wash off.
I beat Janie and beat her… but still she smiled… so I scratched her between the eyes with a pin. Now she doesn’t love me anymore… she scowls… and scowls… though I’ve begged her to forgive me and poured sugar in the hole at the back of her head.
Mama says Janie is a fairy doll and she has forgiven me— that she’s gone to the market to buy me some sweets. —Now she’s at the door and a little bag tied to her neck— I run to Janie and kiss her all over…. Ah… she is still frowning. I let the sweets drop on the floor— mama has told you a lie.
Chinaman singing in street: gleen ledd-ish-es, gleen ledd-ish-es— hot sun shining on your face— it must be a new day. But why aren’t you happy if it’s a new day? Because something has happened… something sad and terrible…. Now I remember… it’s Janie. Yesterday I took Janie out and tied my handkerchief over her face and put sand in it and threw her into the ditch down in the black water under the dock leaves… and when mama asked me where Janie was I said I had lost her.
I’m glad it is night-time so I’ll be able to go to sleep and forget all about it…. But mama looks at my tongue and says she will give me senna tea. When you smell the tea you shut your eyes tight and pretend not to hear the soft, cool voice of mama that goes over your forehead like a little wind. And then you lie in the dark and stare… and stare… till the faces come… yellow faces with leering eyes drifting in a greeny mist…. I wonder if Janie sees faces out there… alone in the dark…. I wonder if she has got the handkerchief off or if the water has gone in the hole where the whistle was at the back of her head and drowned her… or if the stars can see her under the dock leaves?
It’s smoky-blue and still over the red road. Wind must be lying down with its tail under it— doesn’t even flick off the flies. And you can hear the silence buzzing in the gum trees, the way the angels buzzed when they flew through the cedars of Lebanon with thin gauze wings you could see through. Nice to hear the silence buzzing— till it comes too close and booms in your ears and presses all over you till you scream…. When you scream at the silence it goes to jingling pieces like a silver mirror broken into tiny bits. Perhaps its wings are made of glass— perhaps it lives down in a dark, dark cave and only comes up to warm its wings in the sun…. It’s cold in the cave— no matter how you cover yourself up. Little girls sit there dressed in white and the dolls in their arms all have white handkerchiefs over their faces. Their shadows cannot play with them… their shadows lie down at their feet… for the little girls sit stiff as stones with their backs to the mouth of the cave where a little light falls off the wings of the silence when it comes down out of the sun.
Moon catches the flying fish as they dive in the bay. Flying fish spin over and over slippity-silver into the water. Mom bends over jungles and touches the foreheads of tigers as they pass under openings made by dropped leaves. Tigers stop on the trail of the deer while the moon is on their foreheads— they let the stags go by.
Moon is shining strangely on the white palings of the fence. Fence keeps very still… most times it moves a little… everything moves a little though you mayn’t know it… but now the little fence wouldn’t change places with the great cross that stands so stiff and high with its back to the moon. Moon shining strangely on the white palings of the fence, I am shining too but my light is shut inside of me and can’t get out.
Old house with black windows— blind house begging moonlight to put out the shadows— why do you want so much light? You creak when the wind steps on you— you cough up dust and your beams ache— you know you will soon fall, the moon just pities you! Don’t waste yourself moon— come on my bed and play with me. Wrap me up in blue light, you who are cool. I am too hot, I am all alive and the shadows are outside of me.
There are different kinds of shadows. The blind ones are the shadows of things. These are the tame shadows— they love to play on the wall with you and follow you about like cats and dogs. Sometimes they hiss at you softly like snakes that do not bite, or swish like women’s dresses, but if you poke a candle at them they pull in their heads and disappear.
But there is a shadow that is not the shadow of a thing… it is a thing itself. When you meet this shadow you must not look at it too long… it grows with your looking at it… till you are all alone with nothing around you… nothing… nothing… nothing… but a shadow with its eyes full of black light.
There’s a shadow in the corner of the shed, crouching, lying in wait… a black coiled shadow, watching… ready to strike… but I mustn’t be afraid of it— I mustn’t be afraid of anything. Poor evil shadow, the candle would chase it away only she can’t get at it. Do you think that every one hates you, shadow with your back to the wall, afraid to lie down and sleep? But I don’t hate you. Even the moon means to be kind. She just treads on you as I’d tread on a worm that I didn’t see. Don’t be afraid of me, shadow. See—I’ve no light in my hand— nothing to save myself with— yet I walk right up to you— if you’ll let me I’ll put my arms around you and stroke you softly. Are you surprised I’d put my arms around you? Is it your black black sorrow that nobody loves you?