Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, July 27, 2009
Pity: A Retelling of Grimm's Spindle, Shuttle and Needle
In a small cottage, set upon a verdant hill, lived a young girl poised on the cusp of womanhood. She resided with her grandmother in the warm home for as long as she could recall. Her dear mother passed away just after she was born and her father’s broken heart left him unable to care for her. He named her Pity and hoped the world would be kinder to her than it was to him.
Pity possessed a simple beauty. Her hair was flaxen and her features straight. Her eyes were emeralds, glistening when the sun saw fit to shine. Her curved cheeks were rose-kissed. She was made even lovelier by the complete absence of vanity.
Pity loved her grandmother. One day when she was very young, but just old enough to understand; her grandmother drew her close and said, “I have very little, but all that I have I share with you.”
She taught the girl the value of hard work and the virtue of responsibility. She taught her to be kind and good, and how to pray and give thanks. They had a small garden where root vegetables were grown and there was a cow for milking and chickens for eggs. Pity learned that when you tended to the land with love, it gave back that love. Pity’s grandmother also shared her knowledge of how to weave and how to sew.
Her grandmother had great skill and could make carpets and dresses and trousers and scarves that the pair would sell or trade to help maintain their modest household.
“It’s kind of magic,” the old woman would explain when the girl’s eyes were wide with wonder. “See how spinning the flax makes the threads and weaving the threads makes the cloth and sewing the bits of cloth can make a dress. Soon you have something where once there was something else. That is magic.”
Pity learned this magic well and practiced until she was nearly as good as the older woman.
Time passed quickly in the love-filled home where the scent of porridge and wild flowers was a sweet perfume. Time had turned the older woman’s hair as white as frost and a frame that Pity once saw as sturdy and tall now seemed small and delicate. As Pity finished up a bit of her grandmother’s sewing, the old woman sat beside her and patted her hair.
“I am old. My time left on this earth is but a gentle whisper left unspoken. These years have left my hands a bit tighter and my eyes a bit dimmer. I can no longer work the magic that now is strong in you.”
The girl’s eyes welled with tears. The grand mother spoke again; “You must never be sad at the way of things. We each get our share of joy and heartache and you my Pity, you have given more joy than anyone could ever wish for.”
The old woman stopped to open a chest by the window; and pulling out a basket she spoke again. “This cottage is as much your home as it is mine already. I have little, but all that I have I give to you. I trust to you my spindle, my shuttle and my needle.” Pity knew these were precious gifts indeed. They were the means by which her grandmother’s magic was worked. Rather than decline the gifts and ask the woman not to speak of such sad things, as was her first intuition, Pity took the gifts. She embraced the beloved woman and thanked her a thousand times. Then, to return the gift of a lifetime of care, the girl cared for her grandmother in turn.
In an enormous keep with golden towers set upon an expansive field lived a young prince. He lived with the king and queen in a castle that was chilly and quiet. His mother named him Sage for she hoped he would be wiser than his father. The young man yearned to make his way in the world.
It was decided that when the time was right, the prince could rule a small portion of the kingdom. His parents summoned him. “We have much, but some small part of it we must share with you. First though, you must find yourself a suitable bride.”
The years had caused a cold silence between the two and each, separately, gave the young man very different instructions.
The queen had decreed the prince must marry the poorest girl in the kingdom. “ You must marry a needy lass. She will always be in your debt and love will not quickly fade in her. Wealthy women have been raised without goodness these days. So, I must insist on this”
The king commanded that he marry the richest girl in the kingdom. “Find your bride from daughters of the wealthiest in the land. The child’s dowry will swell our fat coffers. I will not yield on this point”
To clear his head of the dilemma he faced, Sage had taken to brisk rides across the kingdom on his fastest horse. One day, on such a journey, his horse bolted and the prince was tossed to the ground. Muddied and battered the young man hobbled back to his home.
On his way, he stumbled upon the market where the common folk sold wares and bartered for goods. A rain began to fall. The merchants scattered to cover their products and Sage took shelter beneath a broad canopy. He stood beside a lovely young girl.
“Why sir, your trousers are torn and your leg…it is badly cut.” A soft voice spoke out in concern. Sage looked over and his eyes met her eyes and his heart began to mimic the rhythm of the patter of the rain falling on the canopy.
“Here.” She said taking her hand-made creation; “use this scarf to wrap your wound until you reach your destination.”
“I haven’t any money to pay for this.” He stammered, finding it difficult to speak. Finding the greenness of her eyes too distracting and her face too lovely to easily form any words.
“I have very little but what I have I share with you, for you are in need.”
The generosity touched him. He fingered the offering that was handed to him. “Such finery made from simple cloth; this is a thing of beauty.” At this the girl blushed. She learned his name was Sage and he learned her name was Pity. She spoke of her dear grandmother and the cottage and the spindle, the shuttle and the needle. Sage drank in every word but he said noting of his royal lineage. In his current dress of dirty rags no one could guess his stature.
They spoke for hours until the falling rain had waned. She had bandaged his wound and entered his heart. Each day hence when Pity took her wares to market the young man was there. He would buy some thing each time. When Pity pleaded with him not to squander his money he divulged, for the first time, that he was indeed a prince.
“Pity, since I have known you I have seen kindness and generosity for the first time. I could not love you less for your station in life do not love me less for mine.”
The girl smiled. “I could not love you more,” she admitted.
“Alas, I have been given a task to accomplish two things at once that cannot be done together.” Sadness struck him when he remembered the dictates of his parents. “You do not know what a gift your grandmother’s love is Pity.” Just as quickly as the sadness came, an expression of realization and joy scurried it away.
“Pity, would you trade me your spindle for a team of fine white stallions?” He asked her with a tone of glee. The girl was puzzled.
“Would you?” he asked again.
“Oh Sage, why do you choose to be so silly today?” She chided him but relented in the face of his enthusiasm. “No, I would not trade my spindle for horses. I have no quarters for horses or the means to buy their feed and I need my spindle to weave the thread.”
“Your shuttle then; would you trade that for one of the golden towers of my family’s keep.”
“Now, what cause would I have for a golden tower? I need my shuttle to move the thread.”
“What if I were to offer you a castle in trade for your needle?”
“Stop this silliness. I have a cottage, which is home enough for my grandmother and me. I have no servants or any way to care for such a thing as a castle. Besides, my needle is precious to me. Not only does it help me work the magic of the cloth it also is a symbol of my grandmother’s love.”
“You can be my wife and live with me!” he said, picking up the startled maiden and whisking her off to the castle.
Sage first brought Pity to the throne of his mother, the queen. The humble girl bowed low.
“Mother, I have found this modest seamstress in the village. She has stolen my heart and I wish to share all my days with her. The queen could see the love in her son’s eyes. “So, she shall be your bride.” The woman said smiling.
Then Sage presented Pity before the throne of his father, the king.
"Sire this maiden is an heiress to a great treasure. Why, she has a spindle more valuable than a team of horses, a shuttle worth more than a golden tower and a needle too priceless to trade for this very castle. She has stolen my heart, and I wish to spend all my days with her”
“Then she shall be your wife, my son,” the king said smiling
The two were married in a great festival. Pity’s grandmother lived to see the blissful day. She blessed the two and cried tears of joy. The couple ruled the land with kindness. They loved one another all their days and lived happily ever after.
Pity not the poor and humble, for they may have riches great enough to rival the treasures of kings.
Pity possessed a simple beauty. Her hair was flaxen and her features straight. Her eyes were emeralds, glistening when the sun saw fit to shine. Her curved cheeks were rose-kissed. She was made even lovelier by the complete absence of vanity.
Pity loved her grandmother. One day when she was very young, but just old enough to understand; her grandmother drew her close and said, “I have very little, but all that I have I share with you.”
She taught the girl the value of hard work and the virtue of responsibility. She taught her to be kind and good, and how to pray and give thanks. They had a small garden where root vegetables were grown and there was a cow for milking and chickens for eggs. Pity learned that when you tended to the land with love, it gave back that love. Pity’s grandmother also shared her knowledge of how to weave and how to sew.
Her grandmother had great skill and could make carpets and dresses and trousers and scarves that the pair would sell or trade to help maintain their modest household.
“It’s kind of magic,” the old woman would explain when the girl’s eyes were wide with wonder. “See how spinning the flax makes the threads and weaving the threads makes the cloth and sewing the bits of cloth can make a dress. Soon you have something where once there was something else. That is magic.”
Pity learned this magic well and practiced until she was nearly as good as the older woman.
Time passed quickly in the love-filled home where the scent of porridge and wild flowers was a sweet perfume. Time had turned the older woman’s hair as white as frost and a frame that Pity once saw as sturdy and tall now seemed small and delicate. As Pity finished up a bit of her grandmother’s sewing, the old woman sat beside her and patted her hair.
“I am old. My time left on this earth is but a gentle whisper left unspoken. These years have left my hands a bit tighter and my eyes a bit dimmer. I can no longer work the magic that now is strong in you.”
The girl’s eyes welled with tears. The grand mother spoke again; “You must never be sad at the way of things. We each get our share of joy and heartache and you my Pity, you have given more joy than anyone could ever wish for.”
The old woman stopped to open a chest by the window; and pulling out a basket she spoke again. “This cottage is as much your home as it is mine already. I have little, but all that I have I give to you. I trust to you my spindle, my shuttle and my needle.” Pity knew these were precious gifts indeed. They were the means by which her grandmother’s magic was worked. Rather than decline the gifts and ask the woman not to speak of such sad things, as was her first intuition, Pity took the gifts. She embraced the beloved woman and thanked her a thousand times. Then, to return the gift of a lifetime of care, the girl cared for her grandmother in turn.
In an enormous keep with golden towers set upon an expansive field lived a young prince. He lived with the king and queen in a castle that was chilly and quiet. His mother named him Sage for she hoped he would be wiser than his father. The young man yearned to make his way in the world.
It was decided that when the time was right, the prince could rule a small portion of the kingdom. His parents summoned him. “We have much, but some small part of it we must share with you. First though, you must find yourself a suitable bride.”
The years had caused a cold silence between the two and each, separately, gave the young man very different instructions.
The queen had decreed the prince must marry the poorest girl in the kingdom. “ You must marry a needy lass. She will always be in your debt and love will not quickly fade in her. Wealthy women have been raised without goodness these days. So, I must insist on this”
The king commanded that he marry the richest girl in the kingdom. “Find your bride from daughters of the wealthiest in the land. The child’s dowry will swell our fat coffers. I will not yield on this point”
To clear his head of the dilemma he faced, Sage had taken to brisk rides across the kingdom on his fastest horse. One day, on such a journey, his horse bolted and the prince was tossed to the ground. Muddied and battered the young man hobbled back to his home.
On his way, he stumbled upon the market where the common folk sold wares and bartered for goods. A rain began to fall. The merchants scattered to cover their products and Sage took shelter beneath a broad canopy. He stood beside a lovely young girl.
“Why sir, your trousers are torn and your leg…it is badly cut.” A soft voice spoke out in concern. Sage looked over and his eyes met her eyes and his heart began to mimic the rhythm of the patter of the rain falling on the canopy.
“Here.” She said taking her hand-made creation; “use this scarf to wrap your wound until you reach your destination.”
“I haven’t any money to pay for this.” He stammered, finding it difficult to speak. Finding the greenness of her eyes too distracting and her face too lovely to easily form any words.
“I have very little but what I have I share with you, for you are in need.”
The generosity touched him. He fingered the offering that was handed to him. “Such finery made from simple cloth; this is a thing of beauty.” At this the girl blushed. She learned his name was Sage and he learned her name was Pity. She spoke of her dear grandmother and the cottage and the spindle, the shuttle and the needle. Sage drank in every word but he said noting of his royal lineage. In his current dress of dirty rags no one could guess his stature.
They spoke for hours until the falling rain had waned. She had bandaged his wound and entered his heart. Each day hence when Pity took her wares to market the young man was there. He would buy some thing each time. When Pity pleaded with him not to squander his money he divulged, for the first time, that he was indeed a prince.
“Pity, since I have known you I have seen kindness and generosity for the first time. I could not love you less for your station in life do not love me less for mine.”
The girl smiled. “I could not love you more,” she admitted.
“Alas, I have been given a task to accomplish two things at once that cannot be done together.” Sadness struck him when he remembered the dictates of his parents. “You do not know what a gift your grandmother’s love is Pity.” Just as quickly as the sadness came, an expression of realization and joy scurried it away.
“Pity, would you trade me your spindle for a team of fine white stallions?” He asked her with a tone of glee. The girl was puzzled.
“Would you?” he asked again.
“Oh Sage, why do you choose to be so silly today?” She chided him but relented in the face of his enthusiasm. “No, I would not trade my spindle for horses. I have no quarters for horses or the means to buy their feed and I need my spindle to weave the thread.”
“Your shuttle then; would you trade that for one of the golden towers of my family’s keep.”
“Now, what cause would I have for a golden tower? I need my shuttle to move the thread.”
“What if I were to offer you a castle in trade for your needle?”
“Stop this silliness. I have a cottage, which is home enough for my grandmother and me. I have no servants or any way to care for such a thing as a castle. Besides, my needle is precious to me. Not only does it help me work the magic of the cloth it also is a symbol of my grandmother’s love.”
“You can be my wife and live with me!” he said, picking up the startled maiden and whisking her off to the castle.
Sage first brought Pity to the throne of his mother, the queen. The humble girl bowed low.
“Mother, I have found this modest seamstress in the village. She has stolen my heart and I wish to share all my days with her. The queen could see the love in her son’s eyes. “So, she shall be your bride.” The woman said smiling.
Then Sage presented Pity before the throne of his father, the king.
"Sire this maiden is an heiress to a great treasure. Why, she has a spindle more valuable than a team of horses, a shuttle worth more than a golden tower and a needle too priceless to trade for this very castle. She has stolen my heart, and I wish to spend all my days with her”
“Then she shall be your wife, my son,” the king said smiling
The two were married in a great festival. Pity’s grandmother lived to see the blissful day. She blessed the two and cried tears of joy. The couple ruled the land with kindness. They loved one another all their days and lived happily ever after.
Pity not the poor and humble, for they may have riches great enough to rival the treasures of kings.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Threnody
We learn of death. We try to mark the pain
Of hearts left freshly marred by the cruelest trick.
The dirge is sung with hopes for hurt to wane.
But oh, what choir sings for unburned wicks-
For life unlived. No less absent the flame;
No colder flesh unkissed, never tantric.
Unheard the thought, unspoken to explain
What is not lost but unknown? Pathetic.
Sing the threnody for those not interred.
Let music quell the numb souls screaming loud.
There will be no tears for a life deferred
And beauty will scoff the ugly proud
Who share their precious, lovely world. Absurd,
This need to finish time amid the crowd.
Whistle, soft fife, their time is not preferred
To the now absent hope of those enshroud
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Patron Saint of the Fallen / Virgen de Thermal
Our Lady of Thermal
An original play, based on actual events, Our Lady of Thermal is the story of Saavedro, a first-generation Mexican-American, and his family's struggle with faith in a secular society in the aftermath of a child's claim of a religious vision.
The play is currently in workshop.
The Case Against Mother Goose
The diminutive yet chubby woman opened her door in response to an urgent knocking.
She adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on the edge of her short nose so she could make out the strangers on her porch.
There were three ominous figures, two men and one woman, all dressed in black slacks and black jackets. They each wore a black necktie over a crisp white shirt and mirrored sunglasses.
“Are you Ms. M. Goose?” The taller man asked in a blunt tone.
“Why yes, but everyone calls me Mother.”
He flashed a badge too quickly for her to see. “I’m Agent Riley. These are my associates: Agent Patterson and Agent Williams. We’re from the Bureau for Literary Tolerance, The B.L.T.”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of that particular agency.”
“Well,” he said with a sniff while hiking up his trousers, “we prefer to keep our names out of the headlines.”
“This really is a lovely surprise, an old woman like me doesn’t get much company.”
“This isn’t a social call madam. Were here on government business. Are you responsible for this propaganda? ” Agent Patterson withdrew a slim hard-cover book from a plain brown envelope.
The old woman’s face crinkled as she smiled, “Why yes, that is one of my books.”
“Did you get that Patterson?”
“Sure did chief, she’s not even denying it.”
“That old book has been making children smile for generations. Come in, all of you, I just pulled a tray of butter cookies out of the oven, I’ll put on some tea and will sort out this little misunderstanding, whatever it is. I have a delightful orange pekoe and lavender blend.”
“Nice try lady, you can keep your tea and cookies,” the agents filed into the small home. “Quite a place you have, I guess we know where you spend your filthy lucre.”
“I’ve lived here for a long time, it is a lovely cottage, thank you. Why don’t you tell me why you came here today.”
“We’ve got some questions about the book Goose.”
“Yes, certainly I’ll help however I can, only please call me Mother.”
“Lets start off with a few soft balls shall we? Are you familiar with this Georgie Porgie character?”
“Certainly,” the woman said with a nod. She sat in an overstuffed chair and motioned for the others to sit as well. She smoothed the folds of her polka-dotted skirt.
“According to you he ‘kissed the girls and made them cry.’ Do you think children today are in need of a primer on sexual battery?”
“Oh, sweet goodness no.”
The female agent spoke next. She took the book and turned to a certain page. “There is also the question of Jack Sprat’s wife. The woman you blatantly state: can eat no lean. Is the obesity epidemic in this country funny to you Ms. Goose?”
“Well,” the older woman said patting her tummy, “I actually have quite a serious sweet tooth myself.”
“I don’t guess you have any real psychological training in how devastating body image issues effect young woman.”
“Take it easy Patterson, we’ve got bigger fish to fry here today.” Agent Riley stopped the woman whose tone was getting increasingly terse. “I will tell you what sticks in my craw madam. I read your ‘little storybook’, I see names like Jack and Jill and Peter. Where are Esperanza, Moesha and Jamal? Do we say to these children: ‘sorry kids I guess you don’t have the right complexion for a bedtime story.”
The old woman became exasperated. “No, you mustn’t think that. I am not trying to exclude anyone. I am just retelling the stories that I was told as a girl.”
“Did you get that Patterson?”
“Sure did chief, it sounds like she’s confessing to plagiarism if you ask me.”
“My goodness no,” Mother Goose said shaking her head. “You have it all wrong.”
“Really? And I guess we ‘have it all wrong’ when we notice, in your writing, there is an exclusion of same-sex relationships that borders on the fanatical. Are you homophobic Ms. Goose?”
“Homopho… I’m sorry dear I don’t know what that is.”
“Your bouts of ignorance are pretty convenient; aren’t they lady?” agent Patterson snapped.
“You know, our counterpart in the United Kingdom has successfully changed The Three Little Pigs to the Three Little Puppies. That means one less generation that will grow learning to recite your offensive anti-Muslim manifesto.
“Why would anyone be offended by poem about three little pigs?
“We are Federal agents Ms. Goose; we’ll ask the questions.”
“Cool it Patterson, I don’t want you to go all Rumplestiltskin on her. She’s not worth it.”
“Sorry chief, this creep just gets under my skin.”
The old women threw up her hands. “I have had enough of this rude treatment in my own home Agent Riley. Please go or I will have to call my barrister.”
“It takes a lot more than that to scare a fed lady.” He walked over to the woman and grabbed her off her chair and pressed his nose into hers. “You and your kind make me sick. You sit on your tuffet and spit out Euro-centric, homophobic, and misogynistic rhymes like seeds at a watermelon-eating contest. And the whole world suffers for it. Your day of reckoning is close at hand.”
“Chief, we better get out of here. We don’t want another inquest like we had at the Charming Estate last month.”
Agent Reilly dropped the woman and took a series of deep breaths to calm down.
He tucked in his shirt and stepped past the woman who had dissolved into tears. “Let's get out of here,” he said motioning to the other agents. Going to the open door he let out a disgusted sigh. “God almighty Williams, why did you park under that tree? Do you see what her goose did to our windshield?”
“Geese don’t live in trees chief.”
“Shut up Williams.”
She adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on the edge of her short nose so she could make out the strangers on her porch.
There were three ominous figures, two men and one woman, all dressed in black slacks and black jackets. They each wore a black necktie over a crisp white shirt and mirrored sunglasses.
“Are you Ms. M. Goose?” The taller man asked in a blunt tone.
“Why yes, but everyone calls me Mother.”
He flashed a badge too quickly for her to see. “I’m Agent Riley. These are my associates: Agent Patterson and Agent Williams. We’re from the Bureau for Literary Tolerance, The B.L.T.”
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of that particular agency.”
“Well,” he said with a sniff while hiking up his trousers, “we prefer to keep our names out of the headlines.”
“This really is a lovely surprise, an old woman like me doesn’t get much company.”
“This isn’t a social call madam. Were here on government business. Are you responsible for this propaganda? ” Agent Patterson withdrew a slim hard-cover book from a plain brown envelope.
The old woman’s face crinkled as she smiled, “Why yes, that is one of my books.”
“Did you get that Patterson?”
“Sure did chief, she’s not even denying it.”
“That old book has been making children smile for generations. Come in, all of you, I just pulled a tray of butter cookies out of the oven, I’ll put on some tea and will sort out this little misunderstanding, whatever it is. I have a delightful orange pekoe and lavender blend.”
“Nice try lady, you can keep your tea and cookies,” the agents filed into the small home. “Quite a place you have, I guess we know where you spend your filthy lucre.”
“I’ve lived here for a long time, it is a lovely cottage, thank you. Why don’t you tell me why you came here today.”
“We’ve got some questions about the book Goose.”
“Yes, certainly I’ll help however I can, only please call me Mother.”
“Lets start off with a few soft balls shall we? Are you familiar with this Georgie Porgie character?”
“Certainly,” the woman said with a nod. She sat in an overstuffed chair and motioned for the others to sit as well. She smoothed the folds of her polka-dotted skirt.
“According to you he ‘kissed the girls and made them cry.’ Do you think children today are in need of a primer on sexual battery?”
“Oh, sweet goodness no.”
The female agent spoke next. She took the book and turned to a certain page. “There is also the question of Jack Sprat’s wife. The woman you blatantly state: can eat no lean. Is the obesity epidemic in this country funny to you Ms. Goose?”
“Well,” the older woman said patting her tummy, “I actually have quite a serious sweet tooth myself.”
“I don’t guess you have any real psychological training in how devastating body image issues effect young woman.”
“Take it easy Patterson, we’ve got bigger fish to fry here today.” Agent Riley stopped the woman whose tone was getting increasingly terse. “I will tell you what sticks in my craw madam. I read your ‘little storybook’, I see names like Jack and Jill and Peter. Where are Esperanza, Moesha and Jamal? Do we say to these children: ‘sorry kids I guess you don’t have the right complexion for a bedtime story.”
The old woman became exasperated. “No, you mustn’t think that. I am not trying to exclude anyone. I am just retelling the stories that I was told as a girl.”
“Did you get that Patterson?”
“Sure did chief, it sounds like she’s confessing to plagiarism if you ask me.”
“My goodness no,” Mother Goose said shaking her head. “You have it all wrong.”
“Really? And I guess we ‘have it all wrong’ when we notice, in your writing, there is an exclusion of same-sex relationships that borders on the fanatical. Are you homophobic Ms. Goose?”
“Homopho… I’m sorry dear I don’t know what that is.”
“Your bouts of ignorance are pretty convenient; aren’t they lady?” agent Patterson snapped.
“You know, our counterpart in the United Kingdom has successfully changed The Three Little Pigs to the Three Little Puppies. That means one less generation that will grow learning to recite your offensive anti-Muslim manifesto.
“Why would anyone be offended by poem about three little pigs?
“We are Federal agents Ms. Goose; we’ll ask the questions.”
“Cool it Patterson, I don’t want you to go all Rumplestiltskin on her. She’s not worth it.”
“Sorry chief, this creep just gets under my skin.”
The old women threw up her hands. “I have had enough of this rude treatment in my own home Agent Riley. Please go or I will have to call my barrister.”
“It takes a lot more than that to scare a fed lady.” He walked over to the woman and grabbed her off her chair and pressed his nose into hers. “You and your kind make me sick. You sit on your tuffet and spit out Euro-centric, homophobic, and misogynistic rhymes like seeds at a watermelon-eating contest. And the whole world suffers for it. Your day of reckoning is close at hand.”
“Chief, we better get out of here. We don’t want another inquest like we had at the Charming Estate last month.”
Agent Reilly dropped the woman and took a series of deep breaths to calm down.
He tucked in his shirt and stepped past the woman who had dissolved into tears. “Let's get out of here,” he said motioning to the other agents. Going to the open door he let out a disgusted sigh. “God almighty Williams, why did you park under that tree? Do you see what her goose did to our windshield?”
“Geese don’t live in trees chief.”
“Shut up Williams.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)