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. The nobodies, 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. Who do not have faces, but arms. They, who do not have names, but numbers. The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
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.
There is something predatory about photography, it is the same with love. This mystery allows a glimpse of herself through the trap of the photographer's lens. Through this window 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 photographer 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 mystery of her will voluptuously feed your every want and need, the destination of her remaining forever a million miles away. It is tremendously simple Sir -- are you brave enough to sleep with Lady Death? ~ Kalahari
This damned motor car has caught her clothing disarranging the delicate fabric of her dress revealing white lace-trimmed nylon never intended for public view. She was tempted, sliding into the front seat just to feel and now her and everyone’s eyes are drawn to her bare skin. Her thoughts race to meet the tempo of her heartbeat. ‘Cold and undersexed’ is her charge leaving the pristine virginity of this vehicle to become the symbol of her lover’s desire and she feels incapacitated. He would attend to the chassis in the most sub rosa fashion, lingering on a Sunday morning his hands careful to remove even the slightest blemish from its surfaces. She senses his touch and slowly succumbs to the realization that she competes with the steel and mechanics of his new mistress. Perplexed she has an overwhelming wild urge to deface the cold and heartless beauty of this machine. She hesitates as she admires the gadgets that glitter with an appeal. She considers the freedom it promises. The engine might be temperamental but that is fixable, and the gauges don’t lie. Pedals and levers at his command - the car’s power and speed can induce ecstasy but on demand. It can be neglected and abandoned but will serve on request. She is reluctant to harm this automobile as she recognizes a kindred spirit and yet knows that she cannot rival it. This perception sparks a fierce fire within. Her promise to herself this: She is no man’s possession. Nylon and soft, hot skin skim the cool and textured interior and slowly smiling lips brush the steering wheel; her subtle fragrance is her only remaining trace for she has walked away -- leaving them both behind. ~ Kalahari
I spend my whole life driving in cars with boys. Riding around town drinking in the white noise. Used to talk about where we are and where we go. Now we know, baby, now we know. I spent my whole life wasted in bars with boys. Playing Rock ‘n’ Roll, dancing in the loud noise. Mommy’s Mercedes or Billy’s pickup truck. Comes out late at night and baby picks me up. Tell him just drive on and don’t ever stop. Don’t take me home again, take me to a new land. Sometimes I wanna give in, but I just have to go on. They say I’m wasting time, they said that I’m no good. Summer of my life, not doing what I should. Call me poison ivy ’cause I’m far from good. Pretty from afar, like a dark star. They think I’m dangerous, they think I’m really bad, I’m just making up for what I never had. Go out every night whenever I feel sad, oh, this drive by love got me crazy like a drug.
I am wearing a pair of shoes. Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair. Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them. I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy. I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. They never talk about my shoes. To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable. To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them. But, once you put them on, you can never take them off. I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world. Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them. Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman. These shoes gave me the strength to face anything -- they made me who I am.
In the darkness of the light a Broken Barbie weeps: "My flesh was violated and my heart has been damaged. A dark evil harassed me and abused me. My porcelain world was wrecked and began to crack and break. I’m crushed by that evil, sucked into the darkness of fear! I’m weak – for the hurts haven’t passed away yet. I am doomed to helplessness and pain.’ The Creator Shaman was passing by when he heard her weeping and placed his totemic lens on the ground under her eyes blind with tears: ‘See here, you are broken but not dead! Forget what lies in the past, and reach forward, to what lies ahead. I’ll boost your weaknesses with my totemic lens – for power is made perfect in weakness. I’ll glorify your broken soul, and by serving creativity you will channel your tears into the book of powerful beings. Develop your wings and your feathers – one who has wings will fly off to immortality. A strong woman is a woman standing on tiptoe, shrugging her shoulders and lifting her head. My creativity resurrects you, once at every blink – at the speed of my shutter! Despair crushes the soul, but art has the power to heal and to remind us that we have one." ~ Shadia Alem
No man has tasted the full flavor of life until he has known poverty, love, and war. My roseate super-sensual mist has dissolved along with the exquisite, bonded misery that loving her has caused. How easy it is to make a slave of the master, how we hate to admit that we would like nothing better than to be the slave. I got what I’d paid for, love leaves such beautiful scars. I’m the innocent victim of a blinded alley where I begged her to stab me, she tore my shirt open and I was down on my knees. I staggered as she buried the dagger in her silhouette window light. Even in love the slave is always the master in disguise. The music plays and I see your heart displayed for me, don’t fall in love with me! I hope I don’t fall in love with you because I’ve lost my Saint Christopher now that I’ve kissed her. The ghosts who want a piece of the action, who sell the photographic memories like this one, they know. Ask any sailor or the old men in wheelchairs, who know: ‘The Woman’ is the defendant. She killed about a hundred and she follows wherever you may go, with her perfume on your shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey. Conquer her, subjugate her, bend her to your will, form her according to your desires – but she is much like a wild rose, beautiful and willing to draw blood so are you not the slave to your slave at the mere threat of her self-dependence? Subdue without fighting. Nothing breaks a woman more quickly than a complete surrender -- with no resistance she falls headlong into the trap.
I suppose that he told you everything that I keep locked away in my head but understand in a world so hungry for love it is no wonder that men and women are blinded by the glamor and glitter of their own reflected egos. No wonder that the revolver shot is the last summons. No wonder that the grinding wheels of the subway express, though they cut the body to pieces, fail to precipitate the elixir of love. In the egocentric prism the helpless victim is walled in by the very light which he refracts. To be able to give oneself wholly and completely is the greatest luxury that life affords. Real love only begins at this point of dissolution and it meets the aim of life which is to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely aware. A woman becomes mysterious, indescribably magnificent the moment a man gives her close attention, this is true even for the photographic image of her. He touches her lips, now suddenly bare of all the kisses that were put on some time before and then it’s done. Now love is a secret all over the block, it never stops even when your master fails and it erases the final wisps of pain. I’ve laid by this window long enough to get used to an empty room and I taught your master how you would long for me, no matter what he said, no matter what you’d do because greatness of heart leads to folly and ruin and is to a woman irresistible -- to the woman who loves, that is to say.