Man Dreaming About Being Found

He was just a normal man. He was just a man who dreamed of being found. Lost. Lost. Lost. I feel trapped in traffic during a thunderstorm. It’s a feeling of thirst, pain, and wandering. I believe that my brother is able to capture everyone around him with his lightning and electricity daze of influence. He is a powerful, mysterious force of lightning and electricity. Lightning and electricity. That thought brings with it knowledge, needles of them all, thoughts. It’s a pinprick that can feel life-threatening. A flash. A flash. The rain would then come like a dream or like sleep. It starts to rain when it drops first. Rain would be water.
Fresh, sweet, pure water. It would also mean entitlement, privilege, being born with silver spoon in your mouth. But for the poor, flooding would mean flooding. Their homes would flood. To get to their destination, they would have to walk in skirts up, humiliated, with no shoes, and scoop the water from their homes with plastic buckets. They would be homeless, helpless, and sleeping on damp mattresses. That is how I have always wondered: How can people live like this? What can you do to escape extreme poverty? Who will lend a hand? It would be another unpleasant experience for the poor that they would have had to endure.
I press my knee against one foot of the table. Jew. Jew. Jew. Jew hair. Jew nose. Her hair looked almost like a Maltese poodle. How was she able to brush her hair and get it combed every night? I was amazed at how quick she dismissed me and her smile. I’ve forgotten my words. I have forgotten the poem that I’ve been reading since my return home in years. I forgot the two last verses of Emily Dickson’s poem. Jewess, I watched her mouth and saw her soft lips drawing a smile. Her lips were uttering words. It was words I couldn’t understand. I could see the smile and the gentle laughter that made me feel sick. It took me a while to get it out of my system. Her lips look like an expensive perfume’s sticky pink lipstick. She smells like Revlon. She has a rich, expensive scent. Her nails are manicured and shiny. I don’t accept her standards, the way she judged me. My skin color, my faith. My posh voice, bouncing off walls. Her face is a clue. I wish she would like me. I wish we could be best friends. My hair and makeup were done by her mother at the theatre for Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. My mother told me to smile at the other children when I was dropped off by her. ‘Be nice. Don’t be shy. She encouraged us to have fun at rehearsals. The other children were all white. My brother, my sister and I were the only ones of color. Color. Mixed race. Mixed race.

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My sister with golden hair had a pink rose on every cheek. My brother was olive-skinned. He looked just like his father. He was handsome and dark. Bones. They were so strange to me. Each one of those tight-fitting Whites. Because they weren’t like me, I didn’t love the Jews. It was hard for me to understand why some people had straight hair while others had curly hair. Although they were similar to us, in some ways they were different. She was beautiful, but I felt bad for her. It didn’t seem that amazing to me. Liar. She refused to let her mother apply make-up on herself. Instead, she said to her mother that she could do it all herself. Her mother agreed and said, “Go ahead.” On long drives from Grahamstown, we all saw farms, cows, and horses in the fields. We were all involved in rehearsals and scriptwriting. It was the last five minutes before the opening night, when we left school. My sister was a pale version of my mother. My brother grew in height and became darker in complexion. My nickname could have been lower-than-zero.
It is important for me to have fun, just like the other girls my age. Why is it that I am so serious and so sulky all the time? Then I recall my mother’s mantra. Smile. Smile. My sister is happy, even though I feel excluded from her happiness. I no longer feel that I have to be part of her plans. You must get sunshine. Get a tan. You can get as brown as a berry. Let the sun shine on my skin, so that my sadness doesn’t seep through. Grace is a place where sadness can be expressed in a way that you find comfortable. She always encourages me to do better. Money is what makes her life complete. It is what keeps her going. It keeps her hooked up, even though I fail spectacularly. She is not pleased with me. She doesn’t accept people who don’t meet her standards. So I fail again, and I do it again. I should be acting out and living it up. It would make me less vulnerable in my relationships.
My brother is a man, just like all men, who is looking for love and a woman to marry? He can handle the basic challenges and rituals of mating in the futuristic society that we live in today. He drinks with his friends, and he even puts them down under the table. He doesn’t speak of self-deprecation. It is not something he can resist. We are similar in some ways. Both of us are quick to criticize the weakhearted and those cowards who fail to live up to the expectations set by their parents.
Do I ask for trouble if I write what I want? Do I need to tread cautiously where angels are afraid? There is no turning around. Your moon face appears out of thin air and meets me like stars. This woman fascinated me like a celebrity hanger-on. These were the people who wanted to be seen in public. They had a private life, but it was captured in a frame. It could not be called history until it was sufficiently long. It was not until it was viewed in retrospect. She can be heard laughing in the kitchen, talking to her brother and his girlfriend, who are cooking in the background. Cooking furiously in the background. Mixing things in pots and pans I couldn’t even imagine. Baking dreams of cakes is my passion. She chose my brother. I’m a disappointment. She has failed me. That is my fault. My father is too smart, too old-fashioned and too beautiful for me. To her, revenge must be sweet. If you give enough rope to the handmaiden, she will hang herself. Take a look at Antigone and Joan of Arc. Take Adam as an example.

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