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Bondage Fondle



So, Mary, now that all is nearly over,Tired fingers fondle bead by bead,Each one new love and plenitude of grace.The while clean fingers of the mind are fondling mysteries,The joy, death, glory of the eternal year,The labours of the long redeeming liturgy:Nazareth to Calvary,Calvary to the crowning of your maiden-queenhoodIn the glory of your victoryBeneath the throne of God.October!October on the forest and the farm lands!October in the soul!Short days are shorter now.Long nights are longer now.But oh! how strong and live this death in dusk and darkness strains with joy,With love and hidden glory!And Father, now this very death in dusk and darkness forms the tryst that hides YouOnly to yield and give You,Father, with Your Son and Holy Spirit,Through Mary in the October of the soul.




bondage fondle



ANGEL: That's because you won't touch me, Jack.JACK: You know it's the dirt, Angel. The dripping taps. The stoves left on when we've been spotting.ANGEL: In your dream I became something else?JACK: Yes, something else.ANGEL: What?JACK: I don't know really. A bird of some sort. A water bird. Picking at the carcass of a cow. Eating her insides out.ANGEL: That's your guilt for eating cows, Jack.(ANGEL exits.)JACK: What is it with these birds? I dreamt of parrots on a farm: a Nissen hut of netting designed to keep the parrots out that trapped a pair of twenty-eights: vingt-huit, vingt-huit, vingt-huit,(PROSTITUTES enter and form line. JACK 'works' hisway among them.) a French colony, historic, like the closing of brothels in Roe Street or the surveillance and vigilantes here in Smith Street — the new phoneboxes without glass walls, citizens with notepads hoping for kerbcrawlers, spitting at your sort — refined varieties in gardens that won't tolerate trampling, the "wandering about" roughing it on the edge of salinity, or in lingo, making a go of it, despite the gentrification, the naming, the lists bred from a new mathematics. A storm struck hard in the summer, and that's why the netting lifted. The parrots' panopticon of colours looking for an out — extra-spectra, safe in the open, the daylight, their language.NARRATOR (emerging from her shop): Fancy words from a fancy man. Jack of all trades and master of none except Angel. Jack, be nimble, be quick, the tricks are few and far between they're cleaning up and driving out and what will you do to earn a crust when the Tuscan splendour's all there is and the girls go back to school? Who'll be your mainstay then?JACK: Always got a trick up my sleeve, darling, they're not going to get the better of me; actually, I've just tripped over a few dozen stereos -- could be a few bucks in it for both of us...NARRATOR: Ah Jack, your deals are always such big deals! I've heard your talk before.JACK: And don't you love it — I'll get you on board one of these days. Shit!(PROSTITUTES exit hurriedly.) Looks like a pig wagon. Angel's out on a date... Hope she doesn't roll up while they're sniffing about.NARRATOR: Yeah, it'd only be the hundredth time they've been up and down today. They reckon your game is a mug's game...JACK: Genetically modified organisms. Transgenic pigs. Always seen myself as the head of a nature cult — we could use some of your bondage stuff and make them feel at home. Look, it's a Mexican standoff. Mexicans make great cop movies. Something of the Cars that Ate Paris going on here as well. An Aussie flavour. Gee, I love the movies.NARRATOR: Don't go that often myself. Some of us got work to do. But there's a film fest coming up at the Rainbow Centre... not your cup of tea!JACK: Ah, the dialogics of fucking. Like my vocabulary, fancy, you say — useful for judges. Makes a difference if you've got cultural references at your fingertips. And a private school education. Singapore. I've got what you might call cachet. Mix it with street cred and I'm a star. Don't need to punch my girls around, they worship me. I'm a god. NARRATOR: I'm an atheist myself. No desire to get down on my knees. But hey, I hope you have a few thunderbolts up your sleeve — you might just need them. Those cops aren't exactly godfearing types. And speaking of things heavenly, there's your lady...(NARRATOR exits.)JACK: Shit! and there's a client about to make a swoop, I'd better catch her eye before she hooks him — there's no way she'll see the cops from there...(ANGEL and CLIENT enter.)CLIENT: Let's take a walk.(They fall into step.)ANGEL: Where are you parked?CLIENT: At the end of the street.(COPS enter.)COP 1: Soliciting.(CLIENT panics. Starts denying it.)ANGEL: He's a friend.CLIENT (confused): I'm not. I mean, yes...COP 2: Cut the crap.JACK: What's the problem, officer?COP 2: Piss off, or you'll go too.(COPS walk ANGEL upstage. ALL freeze.)NARRATOR (voice only, heard in darkness): Watch this space. Each patch and fetish a pitch to stopper it, each posture to quiet it, loud mouth this flag this red rag as it moves tenuously protected like Ruth singing "cover me, cover me extend the border of your mantle over me" — freedom would be oblivion or possession of it.(ALL exit.) Watch this space.(Blackout.)


MR CLIPBOARD: Street scum!MRS WALPURGIS: Where is there restraint?MR CLIPBOARD: Where is their restraint?BOTH (chant): We work We work We prosper We smirkMR CLIPBOARD: We take the moral high groundMRS WALPURGIS: We see the scum around inhabiting the street their dopey drug-led feetMR CLIPBOARD: Their vacant smiling stares They haven't any caresMRS WALPURGIS: Where is there restraint?MR CLIPBOARD: Where is their restraint?(MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD stroke and fondle their own bodies before and during the following song.) (Sung) I hear what you are saying your words fill me with glee I gaze upon your body so strong, so pure, so freeMRS WALPURGIS: Pervert!MR CLIPBOARD: Street scum!(STREETPEOPLE laugh, make insulting gestures, and exit.Pause.)MR CLIPBOARD: I saw her at it again. Not the morning, she's working the dusk. Kids were still out and about. She was wearing hardly a stitch. You could see her bottom. I got some numbers, even in the half-light. And one bloke went for a mother and her daughter. I got his number and he almost ran me down. The surprise, the fear on his face gave me a pleasant shiver.MRS WALPURGIS: I'm glad you're so committed, but we must remember this is not about us — it's about the community. Our daughters, especially. It's a fine line, Mr Clipboard, a fine line. I shudder to think. I try not to. I focus on what can be done. Faith without works is dead, that's what the apostle says.MR CLIPBOARD: I see myself as being in the vanguard, not a mere disciple. I want to set a good example, to be remembered for my works.MRS WALPURGIS: But works of course are not enough. As it says in Hebrews —MR CLIPBOARD: You photograph well, Mrs Walpurgis. There was another shot of you by the corner phone booth. Funny watching them try and huddle under the wind shelter now. Puts a bit of a damper on things.MRS WALPURGIS: Yes, well, those with nothing to hide have nothing to be afraid of. I've alwayskept an open house myself.MR CLIPBOARD: When we've sorted this problem out, we'll have to look to the Aboriginals that hang about. This stuff about tribal meeting places is so out-of-date. School kids play footy on that oval where they gather. Another lot we should move on quickly. Just watch the property prices go up!MRS WALPURGIS: You should read He wants us to Prosper, Mr Clipboard. The Lord likes abundance, you're a man after His own heart.MR CLIPBOARD: Yes, Mrs Walpurgis, I like to be well fed.MRS WALPURGIS: Abundance! "The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof" — doesn't say anything about them now does it? Heaven helps those whoMR CLIPBOARD (chiming in with her): help themselves.(SFX — bell sounds, lighting change)


The educated and spiritually enlightened slave, we say, knows all this, and fears not the stripes and injuries which man can inflict; if he attempt not to escape from his earthly bondage, which he generally will do, being conscious of his right to freedom, he will shew by his aspect and demeanour, that he claims a recognition of that common humanity which he shares with his owner; he is no longer a brute, but a man. And what so galling to the pride of a tyrannical master, as for that being of an assumed inferior nature to rise up and claim brotherhood with him, the delicately nurtured, the highly educated, and refined lord of broad lands, and human chattels.


The weakly lad Toussaint, whose back had not been made to bow beneath the burden, nor lacerated with stripes; whose little strength had not been tasked beyond what it would bear; but who had been allowed to lie about in the sunshine, taking care of the cattle, and performing such light duties as best suited him, had grown up then into a strong and energetic man. Always thoughtful and serious beyond his years, he had early attracted the attention of M. do Libertas, who, as some authorities say, had him taught to read and write; but this is unlikely; for, with all their affability and kindness to their slaves, these French masters still looked upon them as an inferior order of beings, on whom it would be useless, if not dangerous, to bestow mental instruction. The most probable account is that the young Toussaint gained such slight elementary knowledge as he possessed from one Pierre Baptiste, a shrewd and intelligent Negro on his master's estate, whose naturally good abilities had been cultivated and improved by some benevolent missionaries. Be this as it may, certain it is that our hero did, during the season of his by no means heavy bondage, snatch a few sprigs from the tree of knowledge; and so rich was the soil of the mind in which he planted them, that when he cast aside his shackles, came forth from his prison-house, and stood before the world as the champion and director of his lately enslaved, but now free brethren, all were 041b061a72


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