Arabian Nights
What if Scheherazade forgot the story?
The only way to save herself and her kind was to lure her king, her executioner, by one tale after the other, while she was painted in words, that enchant and bewitch, the words turned to gestures and the gestures to subtle moves, moves that tempt and beguile, and her king moved from a listener to a spectator and she, to fend for herself, had to dance desire, instead of verbalizing it, and what was once heard was now seen and touched.
But the king is dead. Long live the king.
The royal box is empty, Scheherazade forgot the words, forgot the dance.
And the king long gone is replaced by queens.
And the belle époque, the beautiful lakes and grand boulevards, the reincarnation of Paris along the old pathways of medieval Cairo is nothing but an endless market of mass produced basic commodities and cheap florescent lights.
And the grandeur of multiple layers of architecture and the fancy cars that once drove down those boulevards are all but a distant memory.
And while I walked, I thought about the enchantress, the words, the gesture that disseminated desire, 'if you still want me, you can't kill me, you must possess me first, and you never can, not for this night'.
This is how the story went on, night after night, one gesture after the other.
Little glimpses of magic, weaved once by words, and another by subtle motion.
Now the words are forgotten, the movement no longer subtle, the enchantress a whore.
The beautiful columns, the painted panels, the engraved geometrical patterns, and the nights long gone.
Scheherazade no longer needs to remember the story or lure her spectators.
She can just offer her ass and that would do the trick nicely.
The only way to save herself and her kind was to lure her king, her executioner, by one tale after the other, while she was painted in words, that enchant and bewitch, the words turned to gestures and the gestures to subtle moves, moves that tempt and beguile, and her king moved from a listener to a spectator and she, to fend for herself, had to dance desire, instead of verbalizing it, and what was once heard was now seen and touched.
But the king is dead. Long live the king.
The royal box is empty, Scheherazade forgot the words, forgot the dance.
And the king long gone is replaced by queens.
And the belle époque, the beautiful lakes and grand boulevards, the reincarnation of Paris along the old pathways of medieval Cairo is nothing but an endless market of mass produced basic commodities and cheap florescent lights.
And the grandeur of multiple layers of architecture and the fancy cars that once drove down those boulevards are all but a distant memory.
And while I walked, I thought about the enchantress, the words, the gesture that disseminated desire, 'if you still want me, you can't kill me, you must possess me first, and you never can, not for this night'.
This is how the story went on, night after night, one gesture after the other.
Little glimpses of magic, weaved once by words, and another by subtle motion.
Now the words are forgotten, the movement no longer subtle, the enchantress a whore.
The beautiful columns, the painted panels, the engraved geometrical patterns, and the nights long gone.
Scheherazade no longer needs to remember the story or lure her spectators.
She can just offer her ass and that would do the trick nicely.
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