CLIK ON PIK TO SEE LARGER LAYOUT OF PAGES 6 & 7 

I am not a photographer. I am a poet in a producer’s body. But when I was a little bambi in Beirut growing up in the laps of my nannies I started drawing the world into shades of possibilities and both love and hate became the same color, primary. I knew when I saw something what color to make it and how much love or hate to put in the picture.

A lot of lifetime got spent between the laps of my nannies and the day I took this picture of Brendan Sheelagh Bikko in the hills on top of Lalaland. The instant I saw it I recognized this page, even these words and caption next to the sunshine girl waltzing into tomorrow.

I am no bambi now, and Beirut like Barbarella has lost its balls, so I know when I shoot her the first time that this is my last chance to make something beautiful rather than something cool, which is all I’ve ever tried to do. And that night after we sat beneath the hooting owl and talked about the future I peed blood into the present and got another warning about time and its intention not to stop on my account even if I might be on the verge of knowing how to slow the fucker down.

I have already died once and I do not look forward to doing it again. So I keep moving, an engine with no rust but no starter, until I collide with Danny Bikko, who is trying to be an astronaut and an actor and an assassin and a naughty girl all at once. She will bring me to a stop if I realize her potential before she does, so I do my very best to ignore her.

“When can we shoot again?” she asks on my voicemail.
“Never,” says me on hers.
“What? You looked at me yesterday as if I were a dollar sign.”
“Coz yesterday I was broke, and today I am broken.”

Brendan laughs into my voicemail and tells me she’ll be right over.