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Archive for the ‘photography’ Category

 

Water must have flowed from this fountain at one time, but it’s not my concern.  

 

Beyond what was once the tub of plenty: wreckage of love.  
I am headed there because although in ruins, desire is rumored to trickle down those hollow columns.

 

I make a wide detour so I can approach the Ministry of Poverty from the front.  

 

An announcement from one of the three towers: this is your mother’s love, your national department of finance, and the kiss from an unknown lover — all rolled into one. Scavenged tarps shield you from elemental misery — enough for you to make a fire, fill your stomach from a tin, recline your body for sleep.

Indeed love does live here.

 
 

The sun disappears. I walk back to the encircling compound. This is dystopia, presented by modern photographic media. But if you desire, if you care to look, you can find the tender prospect of love in any picture.
 
 
 
 

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Of the postcards from my collection, I’ve chosen a few to intermarry variously. There are four characters: a Sudanese ‘Dervish,’ an Egyptian ‘Fellahi,’ a second Sudanese ‘Dervish,’ and a more generally identified ‘Arab.’

The postcards are all from the 1910’s and could safely be called colonial. Colonial photographers, while choosing beautiful faces to look upon, would categorize each — often incorrectly and presumptuously — by race, tribe, nation, and publish their finds as postcards for collectors and armchair anthropologists.

Heretofore unpublished friendships defy the colonial gaze:  they are eager, attentive, long-awaited to my eyes.

 

 

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Fabric-covered platforms stage a group of dead objects;  people come to look at them in this modest museum.  The fabric is grey, adhered with glue; lint and frays are here and there.  They range in size from one and a half to three inches tall. 

On a platform inside a dead object, unseen moths act all domestic.

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(view from a moving camera)

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

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If you happen to be motionless while a procession is under way, take note the reason.

Did you take breakfast through your ear? Did you swallow the warm broth of your sinuses? Did you not see, but trip over, a knot of copulating birds? And what about the stream of liquid from the lower mouth of your intestines? Your stomach groans; whatever will you have for dinner?

Maybe you are in Baghdad and haven’t yet died. Then again, maybe this is your own little death. Are a handful of friends or acquaintances there to lift your spirits when you are sunk into the depths? Is this your funeral procession?

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Heat rises against a slow shower of dates.  But time’s course takes a sudden diagonal turn:  the lover sees her object and delivers a blast of light sideways. 

(She wears a mirror on her midriff, popping dates in her mouth by the handful.)

  

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Arab mirror.

 
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I had chance to find some of my lost family by the Dead Sea.  We strolled the clipped gardens of a seaside hotel as tho we were staying there.  On the veranda we sipped coffee and filled our lungs with the smoke of flavored shisheh.  Someone asked if I was American.question-in-the-air2.jpg  

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