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
The last few days have felt longer than most, the sweltering heat only adding length to the road, but he can't recall a time when he was in a better company. Now he found himself headed to the coast, the pedal to the metal and his companion looking most breathtaking, every mile adding to her intoxicating allure. Cicciolina hadn't much to say, quiet and mysterious, as all exquisite things are. She was happy to let him fill the voids between them, both with his words and his hands, reaching for her thigh, his eyes stealing glance after glance. He was curious about her, it was true, but more so he was hungry, hungry for a taste of that spot just under her ear, the one that seemed to beckon him with the sweet smell of honey. The inevitable came to fruition late into the fourth night of their Italian journey into the abyss. Pulling to the roadside, he slipped stealthily across the seat selling an infatuated boyish guise, fawning and pawing, whispering sweet nothings, his mouth descending and his grip intensifying. With tender kisses and slight of hand, Cicciolina was free of his power before his first command. She was off again, not a moment too soon, not a moment too late. He, so distracted by her soundness that he fails to catch himself as he falls. He was likely in a drunken stupor by now, cursing her name, spewing a dangerous cocktail of venom and pain. Cicciolina hadn’t even thought to feel a tinge of guilt, and try as she may, she could feel nothing but disdain for one with the cockiness to believe she could be tamed. How challenges of her will and tests of her body made her appear to be the weaker party, but actually mitigate his mastery without him even realizing it. For each time a woman bends without breaking, a man is left in awe -- his heart a literary gold mine for the dark poetry he would write of her, for the rest of his days. ~ Francesca
The first time I saw her, she was lounging in a car with a seductive, feline smokiness that infiltrated a room and demanded the attention of the men within her territory. Her magnificent form and persona ever present even amidst the debauchery or maybe because of it! She had the eyes and intelligence of a big cat predator and your every instinct warned you that she was dangerous, but your every desire demanded that you not take your eyes off her. Sphinx, Aphrodite, Cleopatra and her. She was their legacy, she drew on their mystery, and she was the personification of femme-fatale. She was eloquent, witty and sexually insatiable with a drug habit to rival this desire. One could only gasp at this woman's open challenge to judge her. She was powerful, intelligent and a serial sexual slayer. She was a woman set apart by her elegant grace. She had an air of sophistication and almost superiority. She had the rhythm of nature and the body and voice of a siren. She could command even the 'Garden of Allah' when she chose to -- for she was the quintessential, cultivated woman. ~ Kalahari
Louise does not wear a watch but she always gets to the essential places on time. She is adventurous and not particularly quiet. She was reprimanded in grade school because she couldn’t sit still all day long. Louise needs to move. She thinks with her body. Even when she goes to the library, she starts reading out loud and swaying with the words, and before she can figure out what is happening, Louise is asked to leave. As you might expect, Louise is a disaster at office jobs. -- Thelma has exquisite skin and she appreciates it in others as well. There are other people whose skin is soft and clear and healthy but something about Thelma’s skin announces that she is alive. When the sun bursts forth in May, Thelma likes to take off her shirt and feel the sweet warmth of the sun’s rays brush across her shoulder. This is not intended as a provocative gesture but other people are, as usual, upset. Thelma & Louise love to sleep on the beach and to wake up in the middle of the night to look at the moon. They both like to make love at the border where time and space change places. They do not understand why everyone else is so disturbed by them. "Happy. Just in our summer dresses, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running -- that's the way to live."
Yet, at every moment there could be a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in a city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence.
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.
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.
It’s disturbing. Where did everyone go? Children, horses, parents milling around the perpetual motion of the carousel. The people watchers and the people pleasers; all distracted by the magical joy of the amusing park. The spinning of the carousel eases us into the lull of dreamlike wonder, the place of our memories represented by the ticket printed on cheap paper. When the movement stops, we are confronted with reality. The deconstruction of the fairytale whose age-old wisdom is revealed through the dissolution of the disillusion. Absent mothers, always protective, allow for risk-taking and adventure that might turn into emotional growth. The fragile little princess, through suffering, becomes an adult and probably a strong woman. Some would need repeated experiences but the ticket allows only one turn at a time. Some might hope that other carousels will follow, and will be compelled to get up and try the different shapes and dimensions of the various emotional swings. Life demands fulfillment of assigned, preconditioned roles. So the carousel keeps on turning and can lead to emotional conditioning in life. The up’s and down’s, within predetermined patterns, is permitted, just don’t jump off - the carousel offers no exit. Comply. Submit. Discipline, or existential boredom? Emptiness powers the jump, but knowledge gives the power of choice. At some point there was, or will be, a preprogrammed turn where inevitable shouts of joy cherish the dream of the moment where magic invades the little bodies. The choice and the given ride becomes electrifying. From constancy and repetition, surrounded by the sound and lights, the hypnotic effect arises, and emotional dressing is gained -- till the last horse. ~ Deise Lemos Almeida