The moon rests en utero waiting for her to release the night. Dusk hangs heavy and exhausted long beyond time for the day's retirement. She lingers in purgatory between ambivalence and confidence, willing to liberate twilight when her powers feel strong and her courage is high. She makes her choice carefully. It must be an unfailing ride to ferry the moths into the depths of darkness, for it's there that broken souls step out of their own hell and find solace in the crowded shadows. She wraps herself tightly in her illuminated coat and contemplates the pounding below her hip. It's not fear, but anticipation. Longing to reach the place where she'll find peace in opaque dreams. Hidden from the eyes of those that would judge her; removed from the tight grasp of those that would tame her. She turns the wheel to her lunar guide and blossoms like the moonflower in eventide. ~ Francesca
There is something predatory about photography, it is the same with love. It allows a glimpse of herself through the trap of the lens. Through this windscreen, she leads you down a road just far enough to show that she is present, you sense there is more to her than she cares to reveal but this is tantalizing, captivating. She will relieve your burden to hunt, her elegance and mystery causing you to be the envy of all hunters and so she becomes yours and gets entangled in your fisherman's net. Love is peculiar, unfathomable. In wise stories it is seldom a romantic tryst between two lovers, rather it is a combination of understanding and misunderstanding but it is an allure that pulls the photographic eye. There will come a time, however, that you see that part of her. That part that the photographic lens did not reveal, the skeletal vision that will follow you where you run. She is the one of whom most men are terrified but if you can endure, if you can find kindness somewhere to untangle and embrace her then she will reward you with passion. The hidden mystery of her will voluptuously feed your every want and need, the destination of her remaining forever a million miles away. ~ Kalahari
The world, as we know it, is a heap of people, a sea of tiny flames. Each person shines with his or her own light. No two flames are alike. There are big flames and little flames, flames of every color. Some people's flames are so still they do not even flicker in the wind, while others have wild flames that fill the air with sparks. Some foolish flames neither burn nor shed light, but others blaze with life so fiercely that you can not look at them without blinking, and if you approach you shine in the fire. There are those of poor spirit and there are those of great spirit. None are without it but the flame flickers pretty low in some cases. The majority of people seem to be nothing but a little flickering flame. You know that when you match them against an individual who is all fire, all radiance. Those in whom the flame of the spirit runs high truly are the extraordinary examples of human beings. If you are great you can stay that way and people will believe in you, swear by you, turn the world upside down for you. But if you are only partly great, or just a nobody, then what happens to you is lost.
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty; that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them - will rain down in buckets. But good luck does not rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck does not even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms. The nobodies; nobody's children, owners of nothing. The no ones, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way. They, who are not, but could be. Who do not speak languages, but dialects. Who do not have religions, but superstitions. Who do not create art, but handicrafts. The nobodies, who do not have culture, but folklore. Who are not human beings, but human resources. They, who do not have faces, but arms. Who do not have names, but numbers. The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
Now, everything above the horizon is clear to me. I am going to live now among the life maladies. Tomorrow is the result of many yesterdays and comes with a potent, cumulative effect. I am tomorrow what I chose to be yesterday and the day before. It is not possible that tomorrow I may negate and nullify everything that led me to this present moment. Death is behind me and birth too. There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or do not live up until their death. They do nott honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on movies, money, family, fucking. They swallow God without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can not hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There is nothing left to die. Now, away with lamentation! Now, away with elegies and dirges! Let the dead eat the dead. Now, let us dance about the rim of the crater, an expiring trampoline dance, but a dance at least!
Youth is one of the great facts of the world, like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark waters of that silver shell we call the moon. It cannot be questioned. It has the divine right of sovereignty. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly, and fully. When your youth goes, you will fade with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and your roses. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. For there is such a little time that your youth will last. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis. Year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.
It is as important where a young man begins his journey with daydreams, as when. Fantasies spawned in youth, with lily pad squatters croaking out nature's secrets, stir the imagination and set a boy to wonderment. The depths of dark ponds hold the mysteries of life, none of which can be seen by the naked eye. Yet, the agile mind of boyhood finds caverns and creatures seemingly not of this world, not of these times. Silver scaled beasts diving and darting. Snake tailed salamanders lurking amongst the brush, glimpses of color against a black and white backdrop. The hum of a dragonfly, off on a mission, carrying precious information to woodland allies hidden nearby. The mystique of hard-shelled guardians that rise to the surface in calming silence to offer a warning, stay up top to avoid the marsh monsters. As you can see, fishing for whales is not easy work, with their tall tails spinning even taller tales. The riddles of the life of a man begin with a boy, a pole, and rickety boat. ~ Francesca
An angel's face showing up at the crossroad. She came from Sicil-y, hitchhiked her way across Ital-y. Hauling her case, thumbin' a ride. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. She's free in her wildness, she's a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules. Time for her isn't something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. As for you girls, you must risk everything for freedom, and give everything for passion, loving everything that your hearts and your bodies love. The only thing higher for a girl and more sacred for a young woman than her freedom and her passion should be her desire to make her life into poetry, surrendering everything she has to create a life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in her imagination. You may call her a tramp, a gypsy, but it goes deeper than that. She's not looking for anything. She's not aimless. It's just that her aims are different from most. No longer to be poisoned by civilization she flees and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild. And home she wrote: "Dear Mom, I've hitchhiked to eternity. I shall not return. Don't be mad."