The Farmer’s daughters watched in the rain. The prettiest, shyest one hid far back in the field to watch and she had good reason because she was absolutely and finally the most beautiful girl. She was about sixteen, and had a plain complexion like wild roses, and the bluest eyes, the most lovely hair, and the modesty and quickness of a wild antelope. At every look she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed. Oh, a girl like that scares me, and I’d give up everything and throw myself on her mercy and if she didn’t want me I’d just as simply go and throw myself off the edge of the world. It’s okay, girl, we’ll make it till the sun goes down forever. And until then what you got to lose but the losing? We’re fallen angels who didn’t believe that nothing means nothing. We are nothing. Tomorrow we may be die -- we are nothing, you and me.
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
I've always been a fast driver, even before I could afford a fast car. It was impatience as much as anything: chafing at the fact that I couldn’t actually do anything while driving -- except drive. In fact I don't drive fast, I just drive young. They say life is a highway and we all travel our own roads, some good, some bad, yet each is a blessing of its own.'Loneliness has been good to me' is playing on my personal radio. My spiritual pilgrimage - looking for something, somewhere, anywhere here. The road makes a noise all its own. It's a single note that stretches in all directions, low and nearly inaudible. It was very louring here, and the moon flashed and flickered behind the tall trees. The best way I can think to describe it, she said, is the way, when you're driving on the roadway at night how everyone can see the moon in their window. Every car feels the moon is following that car, even in the other direction, right? Everyone in that entire hemisphere can see the moon and think it is there for them, is following where they go. Don’t be afraid of an endless road, only corners joined together, but the road with an end. The road is a word, conceived elsewhere and laid across the country in the wound prepared for it -- a word made concrete and thrust among us. One reaches a destination by driving on that road, not by laying back to enjoy the view -- that's how life works.
What she sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as she advanced on her journey, because the traveller’s past changes according to the route she has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, she finds again a past of her that she did not know she had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places. She cannot stop; she must go on to another city, where another past awaits her, sight of desperate squalor, with all those low buildings, petrol stations. The more she was lost in unfamiliar quarters of distant cities, the more she understood the other cities she had crossed to arrive there; and she retraced the stages of her journeys, and she came to know the port from which she set sail, and the familiar places of her youth -- and the surroundings of home.
Hey mister! You who are sitting there on the hill with that little photographic jar box in your hands, when you look at me what do you see? So few people take the time anymore. Do you see how I am shackled to this shoreline fated to dream of the ocean but never swim in it? My antennae feel it's pulse, I gauge its flow and current. I am steadfast in my consistency unaffected by storm or condition and did you know that my design was created when Jesus was a boy? My arms may be old, my skill obsolete but do not write me off just yet. Old is anyone who stops learning and tired don't mean lazy. My every goodbye is not yet gone, so take my picture won't you? Because I read somewhere that photographs give an appearance of participation. Let me tell you boy, aging don't need no fairytales. ~ Kalahari
Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. No glamour ever transfigures them. One can always find them, obtainable everywhere. No mystery is in any of them. They show their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. From her handbag she takes a round gilt compact with violets on the cover. She opens it, unclosing her other self, and runs her fingertip around the corners of her mouth, left one, right one; then she swivels a pink stick and dots her cheeks and blends them, changing her shape, performing magic to herself. Pink on the cheeks; black discreetly around the eyes, as red as blood as black as ebony, a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere, a captive princess in someone’s head. Even an immaculately crafted porcelain doll couldn’t have been as lovely. Beauty is given to dolls, majesty to haughty vixens, but mind, feeling and the crowning grace of fortitude are the attributes of an angel.
I'll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color. Collars are buttoned down so they don't flap in your face when you're playing polo. What is style but a form of silent speech? When I put together an outfit to wear, I am putting together chapters of a story that needs to tell itself to the world in merely a minute! When I choose an outfit to wear, I am choosing a speech, a certain flow of mind-to-skin that is important to be understood. Style is the sentiment that I make without needing to speak to anyone and it's also an internal conversation that I make with myself throughout the day, I share those intimate words every time I look into the mirror -- or every time I look at my photographs.
When I am in my car I am laid back. I guess it was the beatings that made me wise. I took a drive today, time to emancipate, to drive, not to be driven. Cars are the ultimate symbol of freedom, independence and individualism; they offer the freedom to go anywhere, whenever it suits and with whomever one chooses. The whole idea of the road, of going from one place to another, is essentially American. And when Henry Ford made cheap, reliable cars people said, ‘Nah, what’s wrong with the horse?’ That was a huge bet he made -- and it worked.
The point in photography is that you picture what you know is there not what you can see. Am I in the picture? Am I getting in or out of it? I could be a ghost, an animal or a dead body, not just this woman placed against the sky. Photographs don’t discriminate between the living and the dead. In the fragments of time and shards of light that compose them, everyone is equal. Now you see us; now you don’t. It doesn’t matter whether you look through a camera lens and press the shutter. It doesn’t even matter whether you open your eyes or close them. The pictures are always there. And so are the people in them. We can’t get outside the aura. We’re part of the aura. We’re here, we’re now.
Bare feet and bare soul, I think I’ll keep walking ‘til I don’t feel so alone. How is it that the mind can wander even when there’s nowhere to go? Asphalt might seem rough to some, but to me it is the grating pain that reminds me I’m alive. A pebble to the heel is as exquisite as a sharp knife. I stop for a moment and remind myself to take it all in. The ethereal valley before me is surely a charming viridescent hue, how is it I see only in grays? They say that when one of our senses is weakened another is heightened. This must be true, because I am so acutely aware of the silence that I’m sure I could hear the wind, were it ever to decide to blow again. How I ache for a morning zephyr to kiss my hollow cheek. I wonder how many, if any, feet have touched the same spot on which I stand. How many have been lost on their journey and found themselves in this wanderers land? ~ Francesca
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