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
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. I guess it was the beatings that made me wise - initiating my spiritual pilgrimage - looking for something, somewhere, anywhere here. To drive, not to be driven. It is not my mission in life to be a passenger. Before I could only do left turns. Now, the road makes a noise all its own. It is a single note that stretches in all directions, low and nearly inaudible. It is very louring here, and the moon flashed and flickered behind the tall trees. The best way I can think to describe it is the way when you are 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, but the road with an end. The road is a word, only corners joined together, 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 is 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.
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.
By choosing to live above the ordinary level we create extraordinary problems for ourselves. I am here to live, not to calculate. And that is just what they do not want you to do – to live! They want you to spend your whole life adding up figures. That makes sense to them. That is reasonable. That is intelligent. They die comfortably in their little bed of understanding, to become useful citizens of the world. I pitied them, and in short order, I deserted them one by one, without the slightest regret. Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate, or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is. And a night comes when all is over, when so many jaws have closed upon us that we no longer have the strength to stand, and our meat hangs upon our bodies -- as though it had been masticated by every mouth.
Cicciolina takes you on a journey of revenge, lust, and sacrifice. What many would see as a stunning young woman turns out to be a cunning vixen, rotten as an apple hung too long on the tree well into fall. Left by her father too early in life, the victim of men and their lecherous eyes, scarred from years of broken hearts and lies, our darling Cicciolina takes to the road. With her suitcase in tow she hunts, patiently, innocently - driven by a well-calculated plan. Taking a man's car, his heart, and much more to make peace with the pagan Gods who haunt her night after night. Every lover a lamb to the slaughter. The roles were reversed and the wolf now slayed. A quick flick of the wrist and the tables turn, she claims his heart, his soul to burn. Sadness and anger the fertilizer for her growing orchard of mistrust, deceit, and revenge. Revenge upon the entire species. The pedal to the metal, every mile adding to her intoxicating allure. In search of an oblation, a sacrificial lamb to cleanse her dark soul. If you have wheels that catch her eye and a selfish hunger that you can't disguise, be warned, you will be next to find the burn that comes from meeting her rope. The rope that bound it all, that kept her secrets wrapped up tight, was the one thing that onlookers could see but few could truly know just how special it really was. Much more than a rope, a trusted tool, a friend to the end. ~ Francesca
"I’ll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color!" There was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smoldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to him in a soft, coarse voice: “If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny house - the night sky is not for you. The road is life, if you want to be torn apart, let’s go and you will be broken open and devoured, set ablaze in my fire not leaving well dressed, in finely-threaded clothing that keeps out the cold. I will leave you naked and biting in the backseat. So, come to me, and be healed of the unbearable white and black of all that you are. I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your thoughts, can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?” Perception is everything and she drove him to distraction as he intimately pictured her in his dreams. She is the quintessential instinctual criatura and her style is her expression. Her style is her silent speech, a certain flow of mind-to-skin that must be understood. Black has it all, white too, their beauty is absolute. Her style is her sentiment, it is what she shares, it’s those intimate words she shares every time she looks into the mirror -- or every time she looks at her photographs.
Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. No glamor ever transfigures them. One can always find them, obtainable everywhere, at all times. No mystery is in any of them. They show their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. She takes a drive today, time to emancipate. 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 could not 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.
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, Mista? Cicciolina 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 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.
Hey, 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 its pulse, I gauge its flow and current. I'm 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 don't write me off just yet. Old is anyone who stops learning and tired doesn't mean lazy. My every goodbye isn't yet gone, so take my picture, because I heard somewhere that photographs give an appearance of participation. Let me tell you, aging doesn't need any fairy tales. ~ Kalahari