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FOXR Daily News

December 30, 2016

1 Day Left - Pot Stocks Set To Explode

8 States have already approved and many are already making a fortune

Starting January 1st it will be too late - so now is the time to get in on the action and see your-investment triple in just weeks.

Full Story > >

the whole ocean? He does not expect an answer for I am just a young wife, with little life beyond these walls. Around my waist hang keys to nothing but our linen chests, for I have yet to unlock anything of more significance. In fact, I am wondering what clothes I shall wear for my portrait. That is the size of my world so far. Forget oceans and empires. Maria brings in a plate of herrings and retreats, sniffing. Fog rolls in off the sea and she has been coughing all day. This hasnt dampened her spirits. I am sure she has a secret lover; she hums in the kitchen and sometimes I catch her standing in front of a mirror rearranging her hair under her cap. I shall find out. We are confidantes, or as much confidantes as our circumstances allow. Since I left my sisters she is the only one I have. Next week the painter will arrive. My husband is a connoisseur of paintings; our house is filled with them. Behind him, on the wall, hangs a canvas of Susannah and the Elders. The old men peer at the naked girl as she bathes. By daylight I can see their greedy faces, but now, in the candlelight, they have retreated back into the shadows; all I can see is her plump, pale flesh above my husbands head. He lifts a fish onto his plate. He is a collector of beautiful things.

I see us as a painting. Cornelis, his white lace collar against black, his beard moving as he eats. The herring lying on my plate, its glistening, scored skin split open to reveal the flesh within; the parted lips of my roll. Grapes, plump and opaque in the candlelight; the pewter goblet glowing dully. I see us there, sitting at our dining table, motionless our own frozen moment before everything changes. After dinner he reads to me from the Bible. All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field; the grass withereth, the flower fadeth, because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it; surely the people is grass But I am already hanging on the wall, watching us. 2 Maria She must have a diligent eye to the behaviour of her servants, what meetings and greetings, what ticklings and toyings, and what words and countenances there be betweene men and maides, lest such matters being neglected, there follow wantonness, yea folly, within their houses, which is a great blemish to the governours. J. DOD AND R. CLEAVER, A Godly Forme of Household Government, 1612 Maria the maid, dozy with love, polishes the copper warming pan. She is heavy with desire; she feels sluggish, as if she is moving around underwater. Her face, distorted by the curved metal, smiles back at herself. She is a big, ruddy country girl with a healthy appetite. Her conscience, too, is a healthily adaptable organ. When she takes Willem into her bed, deep in the wall behind the kitchen fire, she pulls the curtain to shut out Gods disapproval. Out of sight, out of mind. After all, she and Willem will someday be married. She dreams about this. She dreams that the master and mistress have diedshipwrecked at seaand that she and Willem live in this house with their six sweet children.

When she is cleaning, she cleans for his homecoming. When her mistress is out she closes the bottom half of the window shutters so that she cannot be seen from the street. The parlor is thrown into shadow, as if she is walking on the seabed. She puts on her mistresss blue velvet jacket, trimmed with fur collar and cuffs, and she walks around the house casually catching sight of herself in the mirrors. It is a simple dream; where is the harm in it? Maria is in the parlor now, on her knees. She is scrubbing the blue andwhite tiles around the skirting. Each tile shows a child playing one with a hoop, one with a ball. One, her favorite, rides a hobbyhorse. The room is lined with her imaginary children.

She wipes them tenderly with a cloth. Through the wall she hears the noises in the street footsteps, voices. Bred in the country, she is still surprised by the bustle of the Herengracht, by how close the street presses in against her secret world indoors. The flower seller cries out, his voice as eerie as a peewit. The man from the pewter foundry rattles his tin, calling vessels out to be repaired as if he were summoning sinners. Somebody, startlingly close, hawks and spits. And then she hears his bell. Fish, fresh fish! Willem sings tunelessly; he has a terrible voice. Roachbream herrings cod! Then he rings his bell.

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