The misty afternoon sunk into the tall grass growing on the roadside. An angel's face showing up at the crossroad. Could ya give me a lift, mister? 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 is free in her wildness, she is 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 gipsy, 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. Home she wrote -- Dear Mom, I've hitchhiked to eternity. I shalt not return. Don't be mad.
Through photographs, each family constructs a portrait-chronicle of itself; a portable kit of images that bears witness to its connectedness. They are on the auction block; a big ’4 Children For Sale – Inquire Within’ sign in a Chicago / Illinois yard mutely tells a family’s tragic story. For long months the family waged a desperate but losing battle to keep food in the mouth and a roof over their heads. With no place to turn, they decide to sell their four children. The mother was shielding her eyes from the camera while her four small children stare wonderingly sitting huddled on steps outside. This photograph is the remake of an infamous historical photo originally taken in 1948, that made its way into many U.S. newspapers. Redone to put focus on the tragic case again because things haven’t changed very much. Human trafficking is still around in many countries and still numerous children are sold throughout the world. Many of them abused by child labor and kept in child slavery; not to mention sexual abuse and child prostitution.
I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. I am saying to myself: here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere. You could fool me, I wouldn’t know it. I can’t fool you – and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal – it’s not in me. I love women, or life, too much – which it is, I don’t know. I don’t know what to expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you – even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me. You make me tremendously happy to hold me undivided – to let me be the artist, as it were, and yet not forgo the man, the animal, the hungry, insatiable lover. No woman has ever granted me all the privileges I need – and you, why you sing out so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even – yes, you invite me to go ahead, be myself, venture anything. That is where you are truly regal, a woman extraordinary. I laugh to myself now when I think of you.
There are some girls, that never become women. And some women that never become ladies. Females are innately the more vulnerable species, though saying so out loud just pisses them off. But it's the truth. Leading with emotion, hearts on sleeves, timid and subservient due to low self worth; low self esteem. Those that are happy to remain girls, don't question their inner strength. They have not been tempted by the fruits of their own minds, by the ache of their untouched souls, by the places deep within the female body that once touched, must be touched again and again, or she'll fade away. Those girls kneel before life, without the call to submission, but simply because that is where they fit comfortably in their own existence. What makes a woman a woman, is the ability to allow the call of her inner Goddess to be heard by all parts of her being. Finding her inner masochist, her inner witch, her inner Aphrodite, by allowing temptations of the mind and flesh to seep into her soul. That woman craves the strength her power instills in her. And she craves even more a man that can take her power and make her even stronger, by relieving her of it. The burden of power can be heavy for a female, and sometimes a woman needs to be a girl. And as for the woman that may never be a lady, she is unique. Some women can turn off the inner beast, present themselves with a certain level of reservation, in the right company. But some, those truly wild creatures, are of the rawest natural state -- those are the women that need to be tamed, by one that holds their best interest, within his reins. ~ Francesca
It was, you know, one of those nights where the only sound is of you drinking and the people outside who have each other to drink with. The cityscape was dark except for some building lights. Well, the lights, they can't give me the sunset, but they can give me the night and I will rather walk alone in the light than to live in the dark. By night each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark and even the most commonplace and familiar objects take on another character. People group themselves differently - they draw closer together, as if in fear. But down there, at the carousel, the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil. Like a wheel of fortune the carousel starts to spin. Step aboard and we will fly through the sky. Rien ne va plus. Laughter illuminates the darkness. All over there lights were coming on in the purple-blue dusk. Colored lights blink on and off, racing across the deepening sky. Shadows follow, joyful, laughing sprites. Long twirling ribbons of light, red, green, violet, all flashing like fire. The street lights looked delicate and frail, as though they might suddenly float away from their lampposts like balloons. Everything was beautiful. It was hard to tell which was reality and which was reflection, as if there were two displays, above and below, going on simultaneously. And the painted wagons go up and down. We're captive on the carousel of time. We can't return; we can only look behind from where we came. And go round and round and round in the circle game. The seasons change, things change, but the old carousel is always here -- it reminds people of the good times.
It's not very easy to grow up into a woman. We are always taught, almost bombarded, with ideals of what we should be, but amidst all the many voices that bark all these orders and set all of these ideals for girls today, there lacks the voice of assurance. There is no comfort and assurance. I want to be able to say, that there are a few things admirable for a woman to be. It's always wonderful to be elegant -- elegance is a glowing inner peace. It's always fashionable to have grace -- grace is an ability to give as well as to receive and be thankful. It's always glamorous to be brave -- glamour only radiates if there is a sublime courage and bravery within. Glamour is like the sky; it only blazes because the clouds are there. And it's always important to own a delectable smile. Yes, wearing a beautiful smile is in style at any age. Wear it as you wear an exquisite perfum; to be wrapped and cradled in an enchanting scent upon your face is a magic all on its own. The notes in that precious smile will remind you that you love yourself and will tell other people that they ought to love you because you know that you're worth it. The love affair created by an alluring smile between you and other people, you and nature, you and yourself, you and your memories and anticipations and hopes and dreams; it is all too beautiful a thing -- woman is never overdressed or underdressed with a little seraphic smile.
What have I become? – she asked herself in soft whispered tune while laying the unknown depths of her thoughts down beside her. Life has become lifeless and disheartening. In her hiding place there is no soul to be smelled, not even a fowl in the air. The expanding deep sighs hurt the void within her, holding secrets that are withheld from others eyes. Only yesterdays sweeps upon the shores of her eyelids, refusing to let them shut. Oh, not another sun shall rise that cannot be seen. As her sight starts to fade to the colorless end of hues, so there on the dock in death's hands she waits for time to receive her. She waits ... like the black cloth upon her delicate skin reluctant to the coldness of silent winds that brush against her shoulders in a sweepingly manner. The sweetness of memories at last has been cast away within the ripples of the water. No longer are they soothing as the salt from her gaze stream like fire down the high rises of her cheeks -- and every one that plunged into her hands was added to her pond of many tears.
Fishing provides time to think, and reason not to. If you have the virtue of patience, an hour or two of casting alone is plenty of time to review all you’ve learned about the grand themes of life. It’s time enough to realize that every generalization stands opposed by a mosaic of exceptions, and that the biggest truths are few indeed. Fishing in a place is a meditation on the rhythm of a tide, the arc of a year, and the seasons of life. To scratch the surface of those mysteries, for nearness to the beautiful, to reassure the world remains, to wash off some of the grief for the peace we so squander, to dip into that great and awesome pool of power that propels these epic migrations and to feel, and steal, a little of that energy. If you went through life refusing all the bait dangled in front of you, that would be no life at all. No changes would be made and you would have nothing to fight against -- and life would be dull as ditchwater.
Art should be functional. And art should tell a story. The art of storytelling, a narrative that places you in the situation of every photograph; allowing the viewer to be as closest to the soul of the subject as possible. The distinctive feature of the photographer is his ability to surprise and to exceed our expectations. But who really knows what is on in the photographer’s mind when work is created? In spite of all the advances of civilization, woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates her at the moment. Decipher me or I will devour you! The female bloom, nearly stripped, but never obvious, nor offering little, rides lightly on the time’s line where the space opens into the high plain’s depth. The feminine form factor, represented by the curves of elegance and playfulness, positioned in a barren, male landscape, symbolizing life's portraiture of relationships – the joining of the two human universes, male and female, merged in nature’s perfect, but therefore also rare, Fibonacci harmony. But if men and women would begin to live their ephemeral dreams, every phantom would become a person with whom to begin a story of pursuits, pretenses, misunderstandings, clashes, oppressions, and the carousel of fantasies would come to a halt instantly.
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