Thanks, Guys

Thanks for listening to my story and giving lots of ideas for making it smaller and making it larger. All were helpful. I promise not to hog next week's meeting. Cross my heart.

And now for something completely different. I will write directly onto the blog, no notebook between me and the screen to catch me if I fall.

January 15--Jean Clouet Francois. Look at the look on his face. He thinks he's the coolest, the best, the top, doesn't he? You can see it in his eyes, the way he looks down his rather large nose at everyone, the way his lips are just slightly pursed, and the way his eyes are not fully open. He's reserving judgement, judgment of us. As if we care. Look how tiny his head looks perched there on top of that ridiculously large costume and his little hands flapping out the sleeves remind me of a clown deliberately wearing too-big clothes to make you laugh. How hot and sweaty he must be in all that silk and brocade and embroidery and padding, and how stinky by the end of the day. Ooh, and he has a sword, an external display of his manhood. Hmph, I'll bet when his manhood gets interested in someone it isn't nearly as long as even the hilt of that sword. And look at those ladylike hands, so smooth and manicured. Those are not the hands of a real man; they are a courtier's hands used for flattery not for work. Do you think he is wearing a wig? That looks like fake hair to me, and that silly little hat with its limp little plume. Too small to balance the grandiosity of the padded clothes. Poor Francois, out of balance, out of friends, and too rich to be a real man.

Stay warm, please, it's crazy cold out there.
--Barbara