|
I was a slave girl in Egypt. My skin had the shade of cinnamon, and I massaged perfumed oils into the skins of the rich. I was sometimes allowed to see my sister dance, but my own legs and hips seemed stiff as dried up clay. My first born, a small boy with straight, black hair died at first breath, and in my mourning, I was swallowed up by water without much commotion, and replaced within a day.
I was a wild gypsy woman. We set camp somewhere in what is now Bosnia, and I whirled around the fire while sweat curled and coloured my hair black. My red skirt was heavy with embroidery, and when I sank down to the ground, a man, my man, laughed and handed me roasted chicken, and as I nibbled on it, he caught some juice dripping down my neck.
I was a french prostitute. My red dress spent more time draped over the chair in my room (or being repaired after not so gentle hands) than buttoned up, and there were tight, tight ribbons to keep it tied up, gripping as if made out of iron around my chest.
I never saw Paris, though I often dreamt of it - I lived by the water, and saw many men (though not many of them saw me). A man with square shaped hands and several missing teeth left me dented and marked, but before I was well enough to entertain again, I came down with a fever, and died soon enough.
I was a Madam of a well respected brothel in the Wild West of America. The men wore dusters, and my girls were hardly cheap. The boys knew better than to treat them ill, wether it was because of my attitude or just my shotgun I'll never know. I served all men, be it that they wore badges or posters wore them, and if paid extra, they could have me too. I died of old age as the Wild West died with me.
I was a chorus girl with a travelling company in England. I never got to dance on a settled stage, nor did I marry or breed, but I had it quite well there on the road, and when my legs got too tired, and people rather paid to see the same things on a big screen, I switched to reading them my cards, and told them dark, cryptic things. One day the road turned, yet my truck decided to go straight, and when it began to flip, it flipped and killed me.
Well, as you can tell, I'm hardly a writer. I do firmly remember these pasts, though, so in case you were wondering - I meant every word I wrote.
I am obsessed with Tombstone, and cowboys. REAL cowboys, with dusters and hats and boots all tall and strong and real. I'm going to miss that, and this place, soooo much :( I wish I had more pictures of it - my bad luck insists that the few taken on New Years Eve will all be a blur or something. Dammit. Who knew Arizona would be this strange and alien and yet so familiar? When I walked in Tombstone, it just felt _right_. I really, really do believe I once lived in America, mid 1800's or so, ran a saloon/brothel/hotel, had several shot guns, could handle a bull whip, and had a temper that could keep the most savage men in line whenever they entered my place. It's not this wishful dreaming going on. I really, really feel it in my bones. And I am so happy I got to come here and experience it all over again.
|