How To Walk Your Human

Why (so many) critics are full of shit

OK, so this is JUST ONE example of how full of shit critics can be. Being as how I am in yet another Dylan cycle, triggered by the album he released just last year, I've gone back into some of his classics, including one of the most atmospheric songs ever written, his paean to Sara Lownds (and if people still puzzle over "gee, who could he have written this for?", just insert a "la" in the middle of her name), and have been hypnotized and enthralled all over again. 

One does not "listen" to Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. One is overwhelmed by it. It is a pavane, a stately, courtly processional that has just a hint of a nihilistic funeral march. It is relentless, and it builds on itself in rumbling, trembling piano chords that express a passion we can only guess at.  In Rough and Rowdy Ways, he similarly creates a world and pulls us into it - or we go willingly, captives with our hands tied behind our backs. But man, he was doing that back in 1966 at the age of 25. Already he had lived several lives as a dazzling creative artist and a Byronic, if not TITANIC figure in popular culture.

But let's get to the good stuff, that "critics are full of shit" part. I call this this little passage "HOW WRONG CAN YOU BE, YOU DUMB-ASS?", for want of a better term. In poking around in Wikipedia to find out more about the roots of Sad Eyed Lady, I found lots of commentary and analysis, much of it lame and completely missing the point. Here is how one self-proclaimed "Dylan scholar" described it initially, and how the scales fell from his eyes decades later - FINALLY - so he could hear it for the erotic masterpiece it is.

Dylan scholar Michael Grey expressed a similarly contradictory attitude to "Sad Eyed Lady". In his book Song & Dance Man III, Gray writes of the song's imagery: "Dylan is... cooing nonsense in our ears, very beguilingly of course. The only thing that unites the fragments is the mechanical device of the return to the chorus and thus to the title... It is, in the end, not a whole song at all but unconnected chippings, and only the poor cement of an empty chorus and a regularity of tune gives the illusion that things are otherwise."

In a footnote to this passage, written later, Gray adds: "When I read this assessment now, I simply feel embarrassed at what a little snob I was when I wrote it... When I go back and listen, after a long gap, to Dylan's recording, every ardent, true feeling I ever had comes back to me. Decades of detritus drop away and I feel back in communion with my best self and my soul. Whatever the shortcomings of the lyric, the recording itself, capturing at its absolute peak Dylan's incomparable capacity for intensity of communication, is a masterpiece if ever there was one."

"Masterpiece"! But one wonders if this bastard-piece (of shit) and his stupid assessment of a classic affected Dylan at all, if he was bruised by such inane and plain STUPID remarks about the most potent of the many dozens of heart-stabbing love songs he has written. Maybe yes, maybe no, but, relentless as that chord-rumbling chorus coming around and around again (much as Dylan keeps rolling like that Big Wheel that keeps on turnin'), Dylan kept on touring for concert after concert while the audience boo-ed him, literally threw things at him and swore at him for being a turncoat and a sell-out and a "fake". But Dylan knew he had it, whether they got it or not, and that is the true mark of genius.

So what happened to all those people? Who gives a shit! But they remind me of the time I soaked a carrot in bleach and pulled it out white and sickly, devoid of all colour, flavour, or meaning. It had lost its vegetable essence. These people never had it to begin with. Is it any wonder Bobby could be a tad bitter, to the point of writing the most genius lines of all:

"I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes

You'd know what a drag it is to see you."

 

It's all come back too clearly (Diamonds and Rust)

Well I'll be damned

Here comes your ghost again

But that's not unusual

It's just that the moon is full

And you happened to call

And here I sit
Hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest

Ten years ago

I bought you some cufflinks

You brought me something

we both know what memories can bring

They bring               diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene

Already a legend

           The unwashed phenomenon

                                                                                                   The original vagabond
                                   
                           You strayed into my arms

and there you stayed

      Temporarily          lost at sea 

The Madonna was yours for free

Yes the girl on the half-shell       Would keep you 

                         unharmed

Now I see you standing

With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel
Over Washington Square

Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you're telling me     You're not nostalgic      Then give me 

another word for it               You who are so good with words        And at keeping things 
vague

Because I need some of that                         vagueness now
It's all come back too clearly                                                                 yes I loved you dearly

And if you're offering me diamonds and rust

I've already paid

HOLY CATS: the spiritual nature of kitties

 

The horror at Lynn Valley Library

'She's such a fighter': Students of teacher who survived Lynn Valley stabbings send her strength, love

David Molko Senior Reporter, CTV News Vancouver

VANCOUVER -- Seventeen-year-old Callan Ashcroft has never had a teacher quite like Sheloah Klausen.

“She really goes out of her way to make everyone feel included,” said Ashcroft, who was in Klausen’s chemistry class at Argyle Secondary School in North Vancouver for two years.

“She’s just an amazing teacher,” Ashcroft said.

Klausen was one of seven victims attacked outside the Lynn Valley Library on Saturday afternoon, when police say a man with a knife repeatedly stabbed people ranging in age from their 20s to 70s, before turning the knife on himself.

The veteran science and math teacher was hospitalized.

On Sunday, her sister posted a photo on Facebook of Klausen in her hospital bed, with her head bandaged, a big smile, and a thumbs up.

Later that day, Klausen was released.

And on Monday, she was back at school, albeit for a brief visit, to show her fellow teachers she’d pulled through.

“That’s kind of who she is,” said North Vancouver School District superintendent Mark Pearmain.

“She’s very well-respected and loved by her colleagues, and wanted to make sure that folks knew that she was okay,” Pearmain said.

He confirmed the school has put together a drop box for students and staff who want to send Klausen well wishes.

Seventeen-year-old Caitlin Paterson, who also took chemistry with Klausen for two years, described her as “a fighter.”

“It really threw me for a loop,” said Paterson, when she learned her science teacher had been injured.

“I couldn’t image that someone would do this to such a lovely, incredible, kind person."

Klausen, who has a young daughter, is someone with a “bright and kind energy,” who always sought to make sure all students felt included, and who brought chemistry to life, Paterson added.

Now, after some time off to recover, Klausen will have the chance to bring what Paterson called her “incredible personality” to future students.

“I just want to tell her, I’m sorry that this happened to her,” Ashcroft said.

And Paterson added: “I mean if it weren’t for COVID, I’d love to just give her a big hug…I want to thank her (for everything she’s done) from the bottom of my heart.”

BLOGGER'S NOTE. Did I tell you there is too much to write about now? Is this why I post crazy cat videos and Easter cards - to keep from going insane? The lovely young woman in this video, Caitlin Paterson, is my granddaughter, and she witnessed the screams, blood and chaos of the stabbings from across the street from their quiet, cozy little neighborhood library, where she's been meeting friends and taking out books even before she could read. Thank God her mother was there with her - my daughter Shannon, also horrified and grief-stricken as this nightmare unfolded. What has happened to us? Why do murderers wander the streets and slash and kill for "no reason"? Why must we talk about "whack jobs" and "crazies" rather than damaged human beings? Why are we no good at all at prevention and finding the roots of these problems so we can HEAL them, but so quick to judge and dismiss with such utter contempt? Why do we blather on and on about "reducing the stigma" of "mental health issues", and in the next breath cut off mentally ill people from the rest of the human race? We MUST find ways to stop this kind of random carnage before it begins. I told you there was too much to write about.

🌺🌼EASTER JOYS BE THINE!🌷💐

"BAD KITTY!" Cat steals cookie from baby

An internet classic. That baby is probably 40 years old by now. This was made from an old gif that I've had lying around for ten years or so, and comes from that great first wave of pre-YouTube gifs, before they all became so lame. I finally found a way to transfer my beloved gifs onto MP4s, which means I can now put them on YouTube! Which is weird, because most of my gifs came from YouTube in the first place. 

Why aren't I writing much these days? Because there is too damn much to write about. Blood, knives, heroism, death, confinement, the murder of people too close by, children disappearing only to turn up as adults, Bob Dylan playing endlessly in the loops of my mind. . . 

I promise to get back to it.

ALLIGATOR ATTACK!

Oh my God. . .an alligator wearing pants and a rubber turtleneck!!

Baby Margaret's First Birthday (1955)

A montage of vintage photos taken on my first birthday in 1955.

♫ Jesus Take The Escalator ♫

Or maybe take the stairs, next time.

MEGHAN AND HARRY: the lies heard 'round the world

                       

SARAH VINE: If Meghan Markle was wrong about the wedding, how can we believe anything else in her Oprah interview?

By Sarah Vine for the Daily Mail

Truth, we are told, is central to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. Indeed, it was supposedly the desire for truth that drove them to give that explosive interview to Oprah Winfrey, broadcast just over two weeks ago.

'How do you feel about the Palace hearing you speak your truth today?' asked Oprah.

'I don't know how they could expect that, after all of this time, we would still just be silent if there is an active role that The Firm is playing in perpetuating falsehoods about us,' replied Meghan, casually dropping the first of many bombshells.

It was supposedly the desire for truth that drove Harry and Meghan to give that explosive interview to Oprah Winfrey

It was quite a moment. Oprah nodded in solemn agreement as the nation took a sharp intake of breath.

As the interview progressed, Meghan's 'truth' was broadcast to millions, unchallenged and uncompromising.

The Royal Family is a dysfunctional organisation; the royals were racist; the Duchess of Cambridge made Meghan cry. No one was spared.

She, by contrast, was just a naive young woman who had fallen in love with a handsome prince and found herself in over her head, attacked from all quarters.

She even compared herself to the Little Mermaid, a wide-eyed innocent adrift in an ocean of monsters. Oh, the pain. Oh, the agony. Oh, the injustice of it all. Oh, just leave my oat-milk latte over there, will you?

This was their truth, as told to Oprah, and many viewers — though far from all — lapped it up. Well, most of it anyway. Except as it turns out, not all of Harry and Meghan's truth was the actual truth — more like their own, somewhat Disneyfied, version of it.

Yesterday, after days of speculation, the couple finally admitted that, in one respect at least, they'd got their facts wrong. Despite what they told Oprah, they were not, after all, married three days before the royal wedding, on May 19, 2018, by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Despite what they told Oprah, the couple were not, after all, married three days before the royal wedding, on May 19, 2018, by the Archbishop of Canterbury

That particular nugget was one of the more startling revelations in the interview, a much-trumpeted 'exclusive', delivered with all the emotion that only a seasoned actress like Meghan can muster.

'You know, three days before our wedding, we got married. No one knows that,' she gushed coyly.

'We called the Archbishop [as you do] and we just said: "Look, this spectacle is for the world. But we want our union between us." So, like, the vows that we have framed in our room are just the two of us in our backyard with the Archbishop of Canterbury.'

How romantic, how touching. No doubt that was the point of telling the story. Except the Archbishop didn't marry them. By all accounts he administered a blessing; but it was not their wedding.

In other words, what Meghan said was — by her own admission — not accurate.

This then joins another misleading claim in the interview — that the Royal Family had somehow contrived to stop baby Archie being a prince.

The rules are crystal clear: under protocols established by George V, a great-grandson of a sovereign has no right to such a title. And if there is one thing the Windsors like to adhere to, it's protocols.

By all accounts the Archbishop of Canterbury administered a blessing but it was not their wedding

No doubt fans of Meghan — and they are legion, including the President of the United States himself — will dismiss such points as minor misunderstandings. But even so, it presents us with a problem.

If she is wrong about the wedding, then what else is she wrong about? How do we know that when she speaks her truth, it is the actual fact of the matter rather than her, or Harry's, Hollywood-tinted interpretation?

Until now, it has been almost sacrilege to question many (any!) of their more damning assertions without risking the wrath of the couple and their supporters.

Indeed, to do so runs the risk of being 'cancelled' by Meghan's self-appointed army of powerful players in the world of media and politics, as Piers Morgan discovered when he left his job on Good Morning Britain after daring to say he 'didn't believe' Meghan's side of the story.

But now we know she got the wrong end of the stick about events involving the Archbishop and her 'backyard', surely it is not unreasonable to wonder what else she may have misremembered?

And it matters because so many of the things said in that interview were so incredibly damaging. I'm thinking in particular about the allegation that 'concerns' were expressed by a senior royal about the colour of Archie's skin.

In the febrile aftermath of the interview, when feelings were running high on both sides of the Atlantic, the Queen issued a statement saying that while she did not underestimate the seriousness of the issues raised, 'recollections may vary'.

We see now that Meghan's recollections do vary from the actualité in respect of the wedding; might the same also apply to other events mentioned in the interview?

The more you scrutinise this interview, and the claims made in it, the more holes start to appear. And the worse it starts to look for Harry and Meghan.

Prince William, for example, has now vehemently denied via friends his brother's incendiary assertion that he and Prince Charles find themselves 'trapped' in their roles, as well as stating in public with ill-concealed fury that the royals are 'very much not a racist family'.

The more you scrutinise this interview, and the claims made in it, the more holes start to appear. And the worse it starts to look for Harry and Meghan.

Because if you are going to accuse people of doing terrible things — as they have done — you have to make sure you are on solid ground. The moment you allow yourself to embellish things, or attempt to cast the facts in a different light, you undermine your case. You become your own unreliable witness, and no one knows what to believe any more.

The fact is that these are two of the most judgmental people on the planet. They are relentless in their criticism of those they consider to be in the wrong. Which is, in some ways, commendable.

But the problem with pitching your tent so firmly on the moral high ground is that you risk it being blown away because it's so exposed up there.

Perhaps they just couldn't give a fig. These two are so wrapped up in their cloak of righteousness it probably won't even register that what they have done is so deeply damaging.

And besides, their concern now is surely their profile in America. Who cares what the peasants back home think?

Now that their chief-of-staff has stepped away from her role after less than a year, they have teamed up with a top producer to work on their lucrative projects with Netflix and Spotify.

Meanwhile, in what many consider to be a nod to Meghan's future political ambitions, they have forged new links with an organisation called Invisible Hand whose founder, Genevieve Roth, worked on Hillary Clinton's (unsuccessful) 2016 presidential election campaign.

Harry even announced yesterday that he's got himself a job — working as 'Chief Impact Officer' for BetterUp, a company specialising in professional coaching, counselling and mentoring.

But while all these moves may be seen as positive — or should that be 'empowering' — in the U.S., in the UK the interview has done untold damage to their reputation. Harry's personal popularity rating has plummeted, while 58 per cent of people now view Meghan in a negative light. A majority in one survey said they should have their royal titles removed.

However much Harry may be enjoying his new Californian lifestyle — he was recently doing his bit for the planet cycling around sunny Montecito (albeit dogged by a 4x4 bristling with bodyguards) — the truth is that while he remains a Prince and an HRH (a title Meghan also continues to hold, despite her clear disdain for 'The Firm'), Britain is his home.

Whatever version of events he may have manufactured for himself to justify leaving, however little he may value some things we hold so dear, that will never change.

That is his truth, however inconvenient it may be. Even if it's not Meghan's.

Cat bullies Husky

Cute cat and dog video? You betcha. It's that sort of Monday.

Barbra Streisand says something terrible!

Barbra Streisand dares to display her moral compass to an incensed Robert Redford.

MEGHAN MARKLE: Harry-Go-Round!

One of my better gif animations. 

Run, run from the little folk

When you're in the Little Land

You watch the wee folk play,

You see them through a game or two,

You come out old and gray.

When you're in the Little Land

They fill your hands with gold,

You think you stay for just a day,

You come out bent and old.

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

Lights shine in the Little Land

From diamonds on the wall,

But when you're back on the brown hill side

It's cold pebbles after all.

Music in the little land

Makes the heart rejoice.

It charms your ear so you can not hear

The sound of your true love’s voice

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

When you’re in the Little Land

You watch the wee folk play,

You see them through a game or two,

You come out old and gray.

Dead leaves in your pockets

O my enchanted, have a care

Run, run from the little folk

Or you’ll have dead leaves in your pockets

And snowflakes in your hair

Why did this leap into my head today, and where did it come from? Until this morning, damned if I knew. I remember my brother singing it in the '60s when he came home from university. Everyone was singing and playing the guitar and going to hootenannys, whatever they were, and most of us sucked our songs off record albums, often with wrong words and crazy chords.

It took me quite a while to find any semblance of this song, except for a very Irish version of it on YouTube. His didn't much resemble mine. It spoke of leprechauns, which gave me a clue as to what the song was about. But my version was one of those cobbled-together-from-memory things. I was only 9 or 10 years old and impressionable. I had NO IDEA what this song meant or even where it came from: I remember finding it weird and disturbing, which it still is.

So today, thanks to the good graces of YouTube, I more or less hunted it down, but it wasn't easy. This was originally written by Malvina Reynolds, an eccentric folk genius who wrote Little Boxes (on the hillside) and What Have they Done to the Rain? This was one of her more obscure numbers and sounds like it's based on folk poetry. One false lead took me to a poem called The Little Land by Robert Louis Stevenson (ph?), but it was one of those "How Would you Like to Go Up in a Swing" kind-of things, echoes of childhood, etc. Not threatening enough.

Somewhere I found a reference to the Limelighters, a folk group we listened to a lot back then. It featured Glen Yarbrough (borough? Who has time to check?), a tenor with a voice that would cut through barbed wire. I remember quite a few of their songs, but not this one.

So it was still pretty obscure when I finally tracked down the available fragments and pieced them together with my bits of memory: hey, folk singers do that all the time. (I left out one line: someone's version said "Deadly in your pocket," which is completely nonsensical. 'Scuse me while I kiss this guy.) But somewhere else, someone made a comment that actually made sense: Reynolds had a sense of social satire which could be quite biting (see Little Boxes). Perhaps the song was about another kind of "enchantment", not by leprechauns, faeries or other "little folk", but by the seductiveness of riches and fame.

It actually works. First you're just looking in from the outside, watching all these charming people at play, and it looks harmless enough, so you stay around for "a game or two". But then, bizarrely, you wake up and realize that decades have passed in a flash. The gold pouring through your hands eventually runs out and disappears. As in those alien encounters where people mysteriously lose time, the lurch ahead into old age is frightening: suddenly you're a has-been who never was.

The dead leaves in your pockets that I took so literally as a child could be the deadened browned scorched currency of false fame, crumbling away into nothing. And I don't need to explain those snowflakes. Bright lights, white hair, cold stones. To enchant, literally, means to gain magical power over someone by chanting, usually in song. Soon the sound of enchantment becomes so strong that we can no longer make out the voice of the one we truly love, the only one whose love is not based on greed.

It's a kind of evil reverse fairy-tale where the victim quickly shrivels under forces he or she can't comprehend. So much for cute little leprechauns, Lucky Charms and Kiss Me, I'm Irish.

As you can see, this is pretty close to the version at the beginning of this post, without those few lines about the leprechauns. The possible meaning of the lyric (being bedazzled by wealth and fame, while at the same time seduced and sucked dry) is made more clear by the line, "They'll dazzle you and promise you, and lead you by the hand". It couldn't be more clear, in fact. The Limelighters version leaves that verse out, so it starts in the middle, kind of. But we still get the message. 'Tis luck to catch a leprechaun. Except when it isn't.

Re-enchanted: Marina Bychkova's masterpiece dolls

 

Cat ear-flip

Ever see your cat do this?

"Hold on, kitty!" Cat barely makes it to the window

 

Happy and Well and Corseted to the Limit

                                

The Saga of Abbie 

Who Is Happy And Well And Corsetted To The Limit 

by Anonymous

1 In my hourglass corset I'm laced every day,
My little wasp waist is shrinking away.
The stays squeeze me inwards so small and so nice,
In a pattern of lacing that grips like a vice.

2 When I was a child I could never understand

Why the shape of my mother was stately and grand,

But early one morning I once chanced to see

How Dad laced her corsets as tight as could be.

3 Dad said to Mama, "You're not tightened yet",

And he pulled till his forehead was glistening with sweat,

While Mother said gaspingly, "Close them you must",

While breathing so fast in her trembling bust.

4 At last Dad succeeded, the laces were tied,

An Ma was so slender, I ran to her side,

My eyes big with wonder, my mouth wide agape

As I longingly gazed at her beautiful shape.

5"O Mother, o Mother," I gasped out of plea,

"O when can I have a wasp waist for me?

A real lady's corset, all lace-trimmed and blue.

I so want to be beautiful, just like you".

6 Mother smiled as she held smelling salts to her nose,

Then she said "Ask your Daddy", and pulled on her hose,

But Daddy demurred, "We need more time to think",

But Mum whispered, "Let her", and tipped him a wink.

7 That night Mother said as we sat round the fire,

"Is a nice waspy waist what you really desire?"

"O yes, Mummy, yes. Do let it be soon".

But suddenly Mummy fell down in a swoon.

    

8 Up jumped my Daddy and went to the drawer

And took out the scissors (I'm sure that he swore)

To cut Mummy's laces. She feebly gasped,

"No, don't cut the lace", as her waistline she clasped.

9 It did not take long for my Mum to recover,

While Dad fussed around like an overwrought lover.

He said, "Listen, Abbie, now I'm warning you

That's what tight-lacing will usually do".

10 I replied, "So I faint, but I truly don't care,

I want a wasp waist like my Mummy, so there.

O, please Mummy do try dear Dad to persuade,

To let me be corsetted. Please get one made".

11 Daddy hummed and he hawd, "So that's what you say,

You're just like your Mother; she gets her own way.

If that is the garment you're dying to wear,

Tomorrow we'll go to the corsetière".

12 My anticipation was loaded with bliss,

I rewarded them both with a hug and a kiss.

That night in my bed as in slumber I curled,

I dreamt I'd the tiniest waist in the world.

13 We went the next day to the corsetières.

And inside the shop she displayed all her wares.

So graceful the shapes of the corsets and stays,

I stood there enchanted, my eyes all a-glaze.

14 She measured me up, she measured me down,

She looked through her pince-nez, her brow in a frown.

"A wasp waisted corset? We have just the thing

To make you a lady with a waist like a ring".

15 They took me upstairs, I was in such haste,

The corset was clasped round my tender young waist.

"Now come to the mirror and see with your eyes

Your waist whittled down to its tiniest size".

16 I looked in the mirror, my heart was so full,

And then on the laces I started to pull.

I wanted the tightness, so comfy to savour;

My parents had done me the loveliest favour.

17 "Do you think you can manage to lace in yourself?"

Asked Mother. In answer I grinned like an elf.

"I love the sensation", I tugged hard with zest

Till my arms ached again and I took a short rest.

18 "How do you feel?" asked the corsetière,

"It's a lovely sensation", I had to declare.

"I want to be smaller, with bosom up thrust,

And the smaller the waist the larger the bust".

19 Then mother said, "Let me start pulling you in".

"Your arms are not strong enough for you to win".

So taking the laces she started to tug;

Oh, the sheer joy of that beautiful hug.

20 "Please pull. O please pull my little waist in,

I want to be tiny, delightfully thin".

I felt the desire to endure like a saint,

But I fell to the floor in a rapturous faint.

21 I opened my eyes, and I smiled with delight.

There, I'd had my first faint in my corset so tight.

I rose to my feet and I asked, "Where's my corset?"

Mother said, "It is here, but this time don't force it".

22 "Please Mummy replace it and wrap it round me,

A wasp-waisted lady I'm dying to be.

I'm no longer a child, I'm a woman, so there,

And when I get home please put up my hair".

23 Once more in my corset, the corsetière

Pulled slowly the laces with consummate care.

"I'll not close the corset this time", she averred,

"We don't want a faint like the last", she observed.

24 Gently she pulled the laces along,

My waist became small in the corset so strong.

The stays, readjusted less tight than before,

Were fastened, but open an inch or more.

25 Across at the mirror I gazed with awe;

I stared, and could hardly believe what I saw.

My waist was a stem, a beautiful figure,

My chest looked and felt extended and bigger.

26 I saw my breast heave I was breathing so fast,

But I had an hour-glass waistline at last;

And later as Mum and I walked down the street,

We were conscious of pride in our figures so neat.

27 Then back at home the day was to face,

With a corset so tight that I could not unlace.

At lunchtime I ate up as much as the rest,

And felt that my dinner was stuck in my chest.

28 "Don't worry", said Mum at the end of the meal,

"It's only a transient discomfort you feel;

It will all pass with patience and rest,

And in time you will tackle your eating with zest".

29 I patiently got trough the rest of the day;

My corsets felt tighter, but I felt so gay,

And upwards and downwards I savoured the touch

Of the tapering body I wanted so much.

30 My waist is reduced to an eighteen inch span,

A sight for the eyes of susceptible Man.

Be it never so tight I'll endure the squeeze,

For a lady must ever appear at her ease.

31 One lovely night I went out to a dance.

My favourite swain I sought to entrance.

A corset that measured half an inch less

I wore with patience under my dress.

32 Then David my boy-friend said, as he went past,

"Our Abbie's a grown up young lady at last",

And in the first dance, he held my hand tight,

And asked "How many dances can you spare tonight?"

33 In no time at all my dance card was filled.

This night was my night, and how I was thrilled;

And as we whirled round in the gaslight so shady

I was no more a child but a regular lady.

34 My little wasp waist felt as solid as wood,

I bravely endured it as much as I could.

The joy and excitement helped me to forget it,

A wasp waist is mine, I'll never regret it.

35 And as we went round in a lighthearted whirl,

David said softly, "You beautiful Girl".

I gently responded without any haste

And daringly guided his hand round my waist.

36 And then on the lawn outside the dance floor

He placed his two hands round my waistline once more.

We kissed and we kissed, and he held me so tight,

I very near fainted with tightness that night.

37 My next tiny corset reduced by an inch

To sixteen and a half, a regular pinch.

I'm wearing the corset, awake or asleep,

My hour-glass stem I'm determined to keep.

38 Now that I'm tight in my corsets all day,

I sometimes feel consciousness fading away.

The pain and discomfort deny me my peace,

But nothing will urge me my stays to release.

39 It's my firm intention with might and main

A sixteen inch corset my size to attain.

Said Mum, "It will cost you devotion and tears

If you want a waist measure the same as your years".

40 The new corset came and was opened in haste,

A garment in elegant beauty and taste.

A sixteen inch corset with lace white and blue

To make my desire to be smaller come true.

41 "Please, Mummy, come help me the corset to try".

"You'd better ask Daddy, he's stronger than I".

So up in the bedroom, the corset was placed

Around my slim body prepared to be laced.

42 As Daddy pulled only gently at first

I felt that my up swelling bosom would burst.

The tightening in was an exquisite thrill

As I put all my trust in his strength and my will.

43 Daddy tugged on the lace until he perspired,

And the corset was closed as I had desired.

Across to the mirror I tottered to see

My new shape reflected; oh could that be me?

44 Hips flared into curves so majestic and sweet,

My chest was so large I could not see my feet.

My waist was a sensuous curve of blue,

A tight little thread that united the two.

45 As I went to the door, I knew I was pale,

But I entered the room like a ship in full sail,

My chest, as I walked swayed from side to side

And Mummy and Daddy surveyed me with pride.

46 That night in my bed, so determined was I

To sleep in my corset I wanted to try;

But try as I might, I started to weep,

For the merciless corset would not let me sleep.

47 By midnight I just couldn't stand any more,

And I tiptoed downstairs past Mum's and Dad's door,

And there on the sideboard, because it was handy,

I took a large drop of Napoleon brandy.

48 The tot was so strong, so I staggered to bed,

I fell on the mattress and lay down my head;

But sleep was denied and just would not come,

And by four in the morning my tummy was numb.

49 To breakfast I went all tired and teary,

My wasp waist had left me weepy and weary.

Said Mother, "In time you'll not feel the pinch.

Come up and I'll let it out just half an inch".

50 The pain and discomfort transcended belief,

I was grateful to Mum for providing relief.

But I was resolved that come what may,

My stays would be closed by the end of the day.

51 To hold and keep your waist small and indented

Expansion by night must be firmly prevented.

Your corsets by night will your figure be moulding,

A seductive wasp waist is an asset worth holding.

52 When I took off my stays a new pleasure I found,

Without their support I tottered around;

My uncorsetted waist was fragile and frail,

My top half would give way like a tree in a gale.

53 On opposite walls two mirrors I've placed,

So I can admire the back of my waist.

Minus my stays, of support I'm bereft,

And in rapturous pleasure I sway right and left.

54 I see in my mirror my outstanding chest,

While my heart is a-fluttering inside my breast.

A sigh of content comes up to my lips

As my burgeoning breast overhangs my hips.

55 My sixteen inch waist I now carry with ease,

My waist has adapted itself to the squeeze.

I thought I was down to my limit in size,

But the Man of My Heart thought otherwise.

56 Now Raymond my husband you must understand

Loves to caress my waist with his hand.

He said, "Now your waist is down to this size,

A waist like your neck would bedazzle my eyes".

57 'Twas the voice of the charmer, and I as his wife

Will go to extreme for the man in my life.

To be much smaller my waist must be pressed;

I'll make him so happy, I'll give of my best.

58 A corset of half an inch smaller was brought,

A body of fifteen and a half inches taut.

That evening my husband requested to lace,

And into his hands the new corset I place.

59 "Just let me relax for a moment", I said,

You can lace me in tight as I lay on the bed".

My spouse took the laces all set to begin,

And slowly but firmly he pulled my waist in.

60 He tugged at the cords till I asked him to rest,

To close the new corset would be a big test.

With only one inch left apart to defeat,

I arose with his help, and I swayed on my feet.

61 I found if I went on my hands and my knees

He could pull in my waist with more expertise;

The flesh fell away and my body felt lightened

As Raymond pulled hard and the corset was tightened.

62 He pulled and he tugged till the corset's constraint

Became far too much, and I felt a fresh faint.

With Raymond I desired no quarrel or friction,

But my waist was protesting against its restriction.

63 A last final heave and Raymond was able

To tie up the laces as taut as a cable.

He tenderly helped me to stand on my feet,

As he clasped me around his fingers could meet.

64 I hugged him and kissed him in mounting passion

My slenderness made me exult in my fashion.

Connubial bliss we have found every time,

Is enhanced by a corset, and truly sublime.

65 "I'll never remove my corset", I said,

"Until it has moulded my waist to a thread;

It shall squeeze me and train me, that's my resolution,

I'll take it off only for regular ablution".

66 Raymond's delight and encouragement worked.

From lacing my corsets my man never shirked;

And several weeks later without any haste

Another proud inch was removed from my waist.

67 At fourteen and a half my waist was my pride,

The pain and discomfort I took in my stride.

Though I sometimes have fainted because of the pinch

I'll not ease the lacing, not even an inch.

68 My hips and my bust were a sight to be seen,

My waist was a tiny tight tube in between;

Whenever I ventured alone in the street

I felt pride in the sound of following feet.

69 My husband, enraptured, was bursting with pride

At the way people stared when we walked side by side,

And often young ladies bedizened in style,

Asked, "How do you stand it and still keep a smile?"

70 If Ray wanted something, he put on the charm;

His speech became like silver while stroking my arm,

He murmured such love, so caressing his voice,

"Please, please lace in smaller", he gave me no choice.

71 I tried to demur, even put up defiance,

My smooth-tongued charmer induced my compliance.
I had to admit as he gave me a hug,
Tight-lacing had captured me, just like a drug.

72 He gave me a corset so tiny to don.

A fourteen inch body, Could I get it on?

As he pulled came Desire, to be smaller yet.

I will be fourteen inches without a regret.

73 The corset went in with a pitiless grip,

I said, "Hold the laces, don't let them slip".

Ray answered, "I'll close it by hook or by crook.

Ah, I've done it. Now go to the mirror and look".

74 "Hold me up. Raymond, darling, my knees feel so weak",

He did so, I leaned with my head to his cheek.

My waist was compressed in its captive confinement

In superlative style and rounded refinement.

75 My mirror I love, for to see myself there

With a waist like a wasp is an ecstasy rare.

There I can admire my middle so frail,

My breathing so rapid, my features so pale.

76 He held me so tight as he stood by my side,

He knew that my knees were about to subside.

My small strangled waist could be crushed in no more,

I felt my knees give and I sank to the floor.

77 A few moments later I roused with a sneeze,

For Ray had pushed my head down to my knees.

His murmuring words were of love and of praise,

But all I could say was, "Don't loosen my stays".

78 "Are you sure you can stand it", asked he.

I answered, "That only depends upon me.

I am quite determined the tightness to bear,

And I'll sleep trough the night in my corset, I swear".

79 I slowly awoke as the dawn came to creep,

And below my wasp waist my hips were asleep.

As Ray pressed my tummy with finger and thumb,

I had lost all feeling, my muscles were numb.

80 There are many sensations tight-lacing bestows,

There's a feeling of weakness from hips down to toes.

When walking your chest sways from side to side

And your waist gives way weakly if you take a big stride.

81 These lovely sensations when felt in good measure

Will give the tight-lacer a world full of pleasure.

All men will admire your delicate sway,

The envy of women will make you feel gay.

82 In spite of the pain and discomfort I felt,

I wished that my flesh could be ordered to melt.

Now Raymond has said that he'd love me to wear,

A thirteen inch corset like Madame Polaire.

83 He showed me Polaire in a corset of lace,

With an hour-glass form of perfection and grace.

"That's only a picture, it may be quite true,

But I'll have a REAL thirteen inch waist for you".

84 I wanted so much my wasp waist to maintain,

But could I endure being smaller again.

The drug of desire to be tinier still,

Has conquered my body and strengthened my will.

85 The promise of gaining a torso so trim,

To be really admired in my figure so slim

Was almost too much, I chafed at delay;

But the thirteen inch corset arrived the next day.

86 The corset was lovely, I just had to smile,

I held the stay up to admire it awhile.

"Don't let us hurry", I ventured to say,

"Enjoyment is better for a little delay".

87 Though Ray was impatient, "All right", he agreed,

"To see you laced in is a pleasure indeed.

Whilst I don't mind a little suspense,

My desire for your lovely wasp waist is intense".

88 With arms around each other we stood tightly clasped,

I could feel my heart thumping; "Please lace me", I gasped,

With a movement of joy and in trembling haste

He fitted the corset around my waist.

89 "Please place it on loosely at first", I began,

"My shape in the mirror I'd like to scan,

My fifty four inches of bust to admire,

I think my new corset can lift it up higher".

90 "I'm waiting no longer", at last he declared,

"I'm lacing you in, or will you be scared?"

I smiled at him fondly and said, "Let's begin",

And in tense excitement he was lacing me in.

91 He pulled on the laces quite gently at first,

Then tighter, still tighter, I was ready to burst.

The hold of the corset was gripping at length

As firmly he pulled with all his strength.

92 My waist in its corset was much tighter now,

I wanted it closed no matter how.

My tight little waist was protesting amain

As Raymond continued to tug once again.

93 "Don't stop, please go on," Ray responded with vigour,

While I held my breath and endured the rigor.

As Ray on the laces his finger did press,

I heard him ejaculate one word, "Success".

94 The corset was closed, I was smaller still,

My thirteen inch waist was martyring thrill.

Swaying I went to the mirror to see

My waist microscopic; oh could that be me?

95 I clasped my hands round it as tight as I could,

My waist felt as hard as a column of wood.

My fingers and thumbs almost touched front and back.

How fragile it looked, but I felt on the rack.

96 I walked up and down with unsteady stride,

Ray holding my arm as he paced by my side

My waist was protesting, I swayed like a tree,

Enjoying the weakness that came over me.

97 Ray gave me some brandy, I took it in sips.

I rested my hands of the shelf of my hips.

The cone of my bust emerged like a flower,

I could gaze at my figure for hour after hour.

98 My thirteen inch waist by now is the norm,

My waist has surrendered, I keep it in form.

My body's resistance to corsets has gone.

No more do I tight-lace, I put corsets on.

99 The envy of women, the praise from the men

Would urge me to tight-lace all over again.

So if you desire to be praised for your taste,

Wear an unyielding corset and sport a WASP WAIST.

100 My upper part sways with each step as I stride,

My burgeoning bosom I carry with pride.

The ground I can only see eight feet ahead

In my six-inch heel shoes as I daintily tread.

101 The span of my waist is a minuscule measure,

A wee link my husband adores like a treasure.

I love my wasp waist, I'm the happiest wife,

With a waist like a stem I will wear all my life.