December 6, 2011
Dear Reader,
The title of page 37 is, "Lord, If I Could Bend My Hand Properly." You will find a transcript of this page at the end of this letter. Make sure you zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript, below. Next Tuesday, I post page 38. Have a great week!
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater - Page 37 - Transcript -
Lord, If I Could Bend My Hand Properly
Headmaster
Lord, if my hand could bend properly, and if I could just hold the head of that musical genius dreamer there in the window, or that well coiffed, well travelled white head appearing in the dreamer’s dream, I swear I wouldn’t taste or bite into those skilled saccharine skulls, for I am far too proud.
Horny
In my dream, I dreamt that skin bleach had blinded me and in that blindness I reached out and held the cold white hand of my long dead Mother until it became warm again, then hot with a fever that burned into the marrow of my bones until my bones turned black. In my dream, my Mother called me a great, black, beautiful, dusky dreamer and placed on my hot black face a cold white mask. “I need you Maman.” I said to her. But she just laughed. “Son,” she said. “I am no longer anything to want or need. I’m just another dead white girl roaming god’s continent. Oh Horny, the carnivals I’ve seen, the black beasts that have carried me like an angel of ivory on top of their lumbering backs. So play your horn, boy. Play your horn. Play it. But don’t call me back here again. Now, Dicty –” she called out, referring to the beast. “Move your black ass.”
Dear Reader,
The title of page 37 is, "Lord, If I Could Bend My Hand Properly." You will find a transcript of this page at the end of this letter. Make sure you zoom in to see the lettering and/or read the transcript, below. Next Tuesday, I post page 38. Have a great week!
Remember, if you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.
You can now link to the Table of Contents on every page. Click here to start at the beginning of this webcomic. Have a great week and remember that Goatwater is updated every Tuesday. Email any questions or comments to bassacards(at) yahoo.com.
If this is your first time visiting this site, or you are a regular reader, email me at the address above if you want me to add you to my mailing list so that I can send you an email reminder, every Tuesday, when I’ve added the new page. No spam, and I will not share your email with anybody else, just the link to the new page and some update information, if I have any. And feel free to let me know, at any time, if you want to stop receiving the weekly emails. Thank you for your support!
Goatwater - Page 37 - Transcript -
Lord, If I Could Bend My Hand Properly
Headmaster
Lord, if my hand could bend properly, and if I could just hold the head of that musical genius dreamer there in the window, or that well coiffed, well travelled white head appearing in the dreamer’s dream, I swear I wouldn’t taste or bite into those skilled saccharine skulls, for I am far too proud.
Horny
In my dream, I dreamt that skin bleach had blinded me and in that blindness I reached out and held the cold white hand of my long dead Mother until it became warm again, then hot with a fever that burned into the marrow of my bones until my bones turned black. In my dream, my Mother called me a great, black, beautiful, dusky dreamer and placed on my hot black face a cold white mask. “I need you Maman.” I said to her. But she just laughed. “Son,” she said. “I am no longer anything to want or need. I’m just another dead white girl roaming god’s continent. Oh Horny, the carnivals I’ve seen, the black beasts that have carried me like an angel of ivory on top of their lumbering backs. So play your horn, boy. Play your horn. Play it. But don’t call me back here again. Now, Dicty –” she called out, referring to the beast. “Move your black ass.”
Goatwater
Copyright 2011
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
Copyright 2011
words and images by:
Tiffany Osedra Miller
all rights reserved.
