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Hooksexup@SXSW 2006.
Blogging the Roman Orgy of Indie-music Festivals.
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two best friends pursue business and pleasure in NYC.
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The lustful, frantic diary of a young London photographer.
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Hooksexup @ Cannes Film Festival
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Day Three
Today she goes unbathed in public protest for the Fair Water Agreement. The move is planned, but I make certain to see to her appearance, am sure to approximate impulsiveness. She goes braless beneath her gauzy shirt. The shoot takes place in the desert of Nevada. Dry ground. So much dry ground. The cracks remind me of the lines on maps.
The cameras snap away, click and click, the photogs clamoring, and I stare at the ground, wonder if the boundaries of the former Soviet Union are marked anywhere in the earth at all. Maybe it is only an invisible border of karma alone.
Gentle Islita performs like a trouper. She smiles at me near the end of the shoot. I smile back, but I have seen the images of the man for her Flower Ceremony. He feeds the children of Guatemala for three years for Gentle Islita's hymen. It is not, in my humble opinion, enough, her blindfold and his anonymity the only saving graces.
Day Four
On her fourth day, Gentle Islita joins the stars, moves from one club to the next. She breaks a shoe strap. A woman from television elbows Gentle Islita in the head. Her casualties are minor, however. I smoke a joint in celebration behind the pool house at night, stare at the moon, and wonder what People will print the next morning. The smoke fills my lungs with regret instead.
Day Five
On the fifth day, Gentle Islita says, Today I will fly.
Today you will fly, I agree. Like a bird.
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On the seventh day, Gentle Islita rests. She must.
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Like a flying fish.
Higher, farther, than a flying fish, I tell her. I am guarding her against tonight. Parachuting, today, will keep her in the moment, for a moment at least.
Later, I watch through the designated screen. My word alone constitutes consummation. I have to watch. I must. She does not make a sound. My fist likely does not hide my sobs.
Day Six
An elder sends her thanks. At breakfast, we watch Fair Shiloh's message on the wall screen. Gentle Islita scoops at a mango half. She says, I heard you crying last night.
I'm sorry, I tell her.
Why?
Because.
I'm fine, she says. Children will eat for years.
I look at the oats in my bowl, the traditional nudes, the men and women copulating around its ceramic edge. I can't eat.
And that is when it comes, when the wall screen switches to People Live, and we see the act as it unfolds.
The man is small and muddy-colored and clutches a knife. He holds an image of Gentle Islita aloft for the crowd to see. He asks of someone to his side, off camera, if People Live has tuned in. He appears satisfied with the answer he gets. He kneels. He proclaims his undying love for Gentle Islita. And he slices his own throat.
The screen fills with a torrent of blood, and I know my future will change.
Day Seven
On the seventh day, Gentle Islita rests. She sits lotus as she must. The chosen followers have paid righteous money to view her live, and she has announced her prayers, as is tradition. The Holy have a success rate beyond question. Over half their prayers have been answered with the power of People. Maddox should be so successful.
Gentle Islita sits lotus, and the people pray for what she wants. She has asked that they pray for understanding and for forgiveness. She is eighteen years and seven days old. And because of the events of yesterday, she is the first to sit lotus behind bulletproof glass at the end of the runway. I see her future and know, beyond question, she is needed, and she is ready, and she will be lonely beyond belief. I vow to renew my contract. I vow to earn bonuses. I understand my role. I know I will never be Holy by association. I know who I am, and I know what I will be called, forever and ever, Amen. n°
©2006 Amanda Boyden and hooksexup.com.
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