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“Pictures could not be accessories to the story – evidence – they had to contain the story within the frame; the best picture contained a whole war within one frame”. Tatjana Soli, The Lotus Eaters
“There is a widespread belief – one with no historical or grammatical foundation - that it is an error to begin a sentence with a conjunction. In fact, a substantial percentage (often as many as 10 percent) of the sentences in first-rate writing begin with conjunctions”… what about second-rate and going all Subordinate and possibly recalcitrant?
The Dilettante Diaries: “Goin' Gangsta on the Road to The Lotus Eaters at Loon Junction”
INASMUCH AS a long cool wet drink of a granite eyed man leans tight and straight the full measure of his strong muscular legs and the small of his toned back against the hot slick-wet greasy leather of the burgundy upholstery on his wide open road foot flat to the floor wrist pumping the gear stick up another notch, his gun is not loaded any more than a docile Big Cat purring around the long lithe legs of an Amazonian Kitchen Goddess Warrior pouring milk out of a vintage glass bottle like she is the coolest milk to drink all Bettie Page in her red hot kitchen delivered by the Postman in the Milkman’s absence he is all gangsta and she is half quiet-life wanting to go a little bit effing Gatsby in her seat as she watches the thin white lines on the road speed by and blur into one string of continuum.
INASMUCH AS his wrist commands the steering of a wheel he is in his entirety the captain of his own ship no piking out he is no coward a dangerous Ninja of a mind she glances over at him all guarded like a Mongoose on a King Cobra her smoky jade eyes wonder over him as if he is her country and to tear her eyes away from him for just one second would be like an alarming departure from a land well known her hands make neat the pleats of her skirt while she thinks of her long slender fingers reading his chest like a road map then arriving stranded somewhere foreign torn and loose traversing the hot desert of his skin he turns and says something nonchalantly about catching up with the Lotus-Eaters at Loon Junction some backwater gin joint and his eyes reflect shelter in her sharp now deep mossy pools he is her Oasis and she his a real danger zone she could drink from his lips she is that parched.
INASMUCH AS heaven and hell exist here on this Earth they are each other’s gods the days and nights they worship each other at the altar where truth lies naked in whispers saintly and fiercely taken they are crusaders of their own holy war their bodies the lands they plunder and convert in which they will not wed for in their minds they are already so matched twin flames their liberty taken with prayers on knees before each other and they are whirling Mevlevi in soft Egyptian Cotton they dance their true Dhikir this is how they call divinity in closer to their mind and heart for you can be certain of that one certainty they are now of one heart and mind closer than any church they read each other’s pages like life out of a novel paradoxical.
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