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Betty Blue
I was twenty when I met her.
Sometime in November, at the end of a gray day that was cold and wet and gloomy.
"You won't like her," he said, "you will love her and hate her, you will laugh and cry and look in the mirror and search for her. You will see. Read!"
And he gave me the book.
Betty Blue.
For two days and two nights and another day I read, with just a few hours of sleep in between.
I lost myself between the covers of the book, lost myself in Betty, in Betty, the girl who was so wild and so wounded and impetuous, in her anger, her sex, and her sadness.
I read and listened to her laughter, which was loud, so loud that you couldn't feel the tears.
Betty, Betty Blue.
Sweet, bittersweet, resinous-sweet, poisonous-sweet - thorn apple, paradise apple, lips in black red.
So white, so black, so deep and sad, snotty-tough-childish-small.
Not being like me, not being like you - cheeky, free on the tightrope, no net, no double bottom.
Gruesome, gloomy, eruptive.
Obsessive, destructive, desperately banal.
And so tender, so serious, so velvety soft.
Lilith, Eve, Aphrodite.
Men's nightmare, men's dream.
Desire, longing, torture stake.
Stand by your man - forever and ever, until the tsunami comes.
Betty Blue.
So much woman, so much female, so much girl.
Twitching lightning before a pitch-black sky, the thunder crashes - your arms raised high, your eyes wide open, flooded by the rain, laughing, crying, screaming against the fear, the emptiness, the loneliness.
And naked, so very naked.
No compromises, no "we'll see."
There is only life or death.
I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, a very long time.
She was there, Betty, and yet not there.
She was not me, she was not you.
But she was - so much, so much.
More than a quarter of a century later, I met her again.
Betty.
Betty Blue.
A white vial, small, inconspicuous.
Daim Rouge.
Sometime in November, at the end of a gray day that was cold and wet and gloomy.
"You won't like her," he said, "you will love her and hate her, you will laugh and cry and look in the mirror and search for her. You will see. Read!"
And he gave me the book.
Betty Blue.
For two days and two nights and another day I read, with just a few hours of sleep in between.
I lost myself between the covers of the book, lost myself in Betty, in Betty, the girl who was so wild and so wounded and impetuous, in her anger, her sex, and her sadness.
I read and listened to her laughter, which was loud, so loud that you couldn't feel the tears.
Betty, Betty Blue.
Sweet, bittersweet, resinous-sweet, poisonous-sweet - thorn apple, paradise apple, lips in black red.
So white, so black, so deep and sad, snotty-tough-childish-small.
Not being like me, not being like you - cheeky, free on the tightrope, no net, no double bottom.
Gruesome, gloomy, eruptive.
Obsessive, destructive, desperately banal.
And so tender, so serious, so velvety soft.
Lilith, Eve, Aphrodite.
Men's nightmare, men's dream.
Desire, longing, torture stake.
Stand by your man - forever and ever, until the tsunami comes.
Betty Blue.
So much woman, so much female, so much girl.
Twitching lightning before a pitch-black sky, the thunder crashes - your arms raised high, your eyes wide open, flooded by the rain, laughing, crying, screaming against the fear, the emptiness, the loneliness.
And naked, so very naked.
No compromises, no "we'll see."
There is only life or death.
I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, a very long time.
She was there, Betty, and yet not there.
She was not me, she was not you.
But she was - so much, so much.
More than a quarter of a century later, I met her again.
Betty.
Betty Blue.
A white vial, small, inconspicuous.
Daim Rouge.
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