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Saturday, October 18, 2014

Laughing last. By John von Daler

           Being together with her you could feel that significant things were going to happen. At fifteen she possessed something that would grow more powerful for every coming year.

       
  
           #Women's #lib had not yet evolved and the #suffragettes existed only in black and white pictures in history books or encyclopedias as a phenomenon of the weird and unexplainable past. Yet she carried premonition inside her. 

           She was not angry. She laughed a lot. But in the laughter there was a certain portion of irritation, of resistence, as if she had not wanted to laugh, but had felt compelled to in order to give vent somehow to her inexpressible emotions.

           Looking back now I can see that she was participating in a great set of thoughts and feelings that existed but had no name or structure. She moved within a pattern that five or six years later would be called something and would become tangible.

           I had to make do then with my own limited point of view, that with her auburn hair, her flashing eyes, her pale skin and, yes, her wicked laugh, she fascinated me, made me want to declare a kind of war of love.

           In the school orchestra I would look across from the violins to the violas to watch her. Sometimes the conductor would look down at her and would say, "Well done! You really knocked that one out of the park! Really, you play like a man, sometimes."

           That was when she would laugh her annoyed laugh. But all I saw while I listened to that vexed giggle was the beauty of her flashing eyes.
She makes
an appearance
in my book,
Pieces.
Guess where.
Click on the cover
to find your answer.










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