This is not your destruction.
This is your birth.
by Mohammad Reza Domiri Ganji in iran of: (1) the dome of the seyyed mosque in isfahan; (2,8) the nasīr al mulk mosque, or pink mosque, in shiraz; (3,4) the vakil mosque in shiraz; (5) the ceiling of the fifth floor of ali qapu in isfahan; (6,10) the vakil bathhouse in shiraz; (7) the imam mosque in isfahan; (9) the jame mosque of yazd
Rumour has it she has replaced her teeth with matches. In her apartment, there is a queen-sized bed. It is littered with pillows. The pillows are stuffed with human hair. That’s what they say. The matchstick teeth catch against the necks of the people she brings home. She sets them alight within seconds, cannot help but watch wide-eyed as fire swallows their limbs, bone and all. Later, she disposes of the body, but not before dripping honey over the char. Not before scalping them with her nail file, which she has sharpened into a shiv against her hipbones. They say she pulls each hair out one by one, say she does it lovingly, say her hands are steady. She cuts out their tongues. So I’ve been told. She cuts out their tongues and serves them to friends under the pretence of pig’s feet. When she was a young thing, her father had a sweet tooth for her body. Helped himself to seconds so often that the sugar eventually turned him to rot. They say she mixed his ashes with soil and the seed of a strawberry tree, watered it with her own saliva. She picks the fruit by hand and dishes it up with cream, eats it every night for supper. Never gets tired of the taste. At least, that’s what everyone says.
"I tried to become a nun," says Mother Nature, "because I needed to hide out."
She didn’t count on the drug test.
Mother Nature onstage, her arms are vined with red henna graffiti. From her fingertips
to the shoulder straps of her tie-dyed, rainbow-colored cotton smock.
Around her neck, a choker of brass temple bells has turned the skin green. Her skin shining with patchouli oil.
“Who knew?” Mother Nature says. “And not just urinalysis.”
She says, “They test with hair and fingernail samples.”
She says, “That’s plus the background check.”
The morals clause. The background check. The credit check. The dress code.
Standing onstage, barefoot, instead of a spotlight, instead of a smile or frown, a movie fragment of night sky washes across her face.
A galaxy of stars and moons.
Her lips red with beet juice. Her eyelids smeared with yellow saffron dust.
There, a shifting mask of pink nebulas. Of planets with rings and craters.
Mother Nature says, “They ask for too many letters of reference.”
Plus a polygraph test. Four pieces of picture ID.
“Four,” Mother Nature says, holding up the hennaed fingers of one hand. Her
bracelets of brass wire and dirty silver, rattling
windchimes around her wrist.
She says, “Nobody has four pieces of picture ID…”
To become a nun, she says, you have to take a sit-down test, worse than
the SATs and the LSATs, put together. And full of story problems, such as:
“How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?”
All of this, Mother Nature says, just to find out:
“If you’re marrying Christ on the rebound.”
Her long hair pulled away from her face, braided and falling down her back,
Mother Nature says,
“Of course, I failed. Not just the drug test - I failed everything.”
Not just as a nun, but throughout most of her life…
She shrugs, her freckled shoulders under the tie-dyed straps,
“So here I am.”
The constellations shifting and crawling across her face, Mother Nature says,
“I still needed someplace to hide.”
We lie best when we lie to ourselves.
3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an exploding volcano, 2 cameras and almost a terabyte of footage… all to turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on movement, learning and food ….into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films…..
= a trip of a lifetime.
My mother said I broke her heart, but it was my integrity that was important. Is that so selfish? It sells for so little, but it’s all we have left in this place. It’s the very last inch of us. But within that inch we are free.
'V for Vendetta' by Alan Moore>>