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Archive for the ‘photoshop’ Category

As promised.

I have attached pictures of the house: receiving room, bedroom, kitchen. I spend most of my time outdoors since I cannot bear the emptiness inside these walls.  

As promised, if you visit you will always have a place to rest your head.  Although there is difficulty in such a proposition:  the flight in, the check points, the intermittent house raids. You are much too sensitive for this military state.

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I announce that I am there.  I make a few adjustments; sweep the unsightly into the shadows, move unlikely objects from view.  I even alter the mother of all symbols to coincide with the one I saw as a child.  I claim no feeling for it, only for the droop of its swag. 

I brush the plaque from my teeth and comb the lint from my hair.  I hold a glass of water in my hand as I head in.

The animal makes its presence known, bellows as I walk by.

And the uncertain maw — it seems to contract.  I crawl into its womb with hopes for a peaceful sleep and an eventual return to consciousness. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

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Heretofore unpublished friendships defy the colonial gaze:  they are eager, attentive, long-awaited to my eyes.

 

 

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Every time I visit Iraq in pictures, I die another little death.  

Yesterday I was in Sadr City.  I insisted that I would stay — even while I watched families leaving the city ahead of the rumored air raids.  I sat eating a nervous breakfast when I heard a whirr and a violent crash; I went deaf a split second before the US mortar round killed me.  I was a thirty-five year old woman; how had I survived that long?

 

I’ve edited my face into the circumstances;  see below.

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