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The Modern Materialist
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The Remote Island
Nerve's TV blog.
61 Frames Per Second
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Slice
Each month a new artist; each image a new angle.
Paper Airplane Crush
A San Francisco photographer on the eternal search for the girls of summer.
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We all know that in the beginning, People created our heaven and condemned the rest of us to earth. Back in the time of darkness, People told us who to worship, and we followed, blind puppies nuzzling around for an available teat. Now, though, while People still makes a show of choosing the celebrities, we decide what these gods and goddesses will accomplish, what they will do with their powers. We are People.
The elders, Fair Shiloh and Dark Zahara, continue to sit lotus as the first ordained. Their brother Maddox refused People's calling. His treks across the globe, his alpaca-petting and whale-riding, work in much the same way, but he will never sit lotus. A shame for us. Regretfully, the controversial ruling ten years ago did away with their other siblings' ability to join the sisters in status.
I had the honor of tending Dark Zahara from '22 to '25. Before I came to her, she determined, at the age of twelve, that she would represent the dark continent in mourning colors until the troubles had ended. Now, I am a fey old man, but I must admit, I personally urged her to consider the beautiful side of shadow. My small legacy began with Dark Zahara. Today she wears deep violet like no other, brown and wine and navy, tarnished bronze, silver gone to near black.
My new ward, the latest People has designated Holy, debuts this week. She tips the balance of five female and five male. Everyone waits, zealously, chomping at the bit, for our Holy eleventh, Islita. My gut tells me that she lives and breathes not as a product of Love but rather the planning of her very beautiful and A-secreting-blood-type parents. I am certain they procreated with a verbal pre-pro and shook upon it, even though all the Holy are supposed to be born of passionate and spontaneous unions. They parted shortly after Islita's mother tested pregnant. Lithe Islita, the ectomorph, knows nothing of the rewards her parents are soon to reap.
Day One
Islita comes out quietly on her eighteenth birthday, as is tradition, but all the earth and heavens watch. There's little to establish other than her physicality, which I've nurtured for seven months. Islita's appearance is unannounced and choreographed down to the minute.
We've chosen a tofu place on The Strip, just popular enough to pass under the radar with enough buzz for a Somebody to notice, a Somebody to get Islita with a cell-cam.
And one does. I see him at his table, eating noodles. He glances, and then glances again. He tries to be sly, tries to be the first. He may get the credit and the money if his cell-cam server is quick enough. And then the crush begins. I whisper a reminder of her training in her ear as they begin to circle, pointing their lenses at the new Holy. Flashes of light fill the room. I know my job for this day is over. Islita's hair, her breast presentation and her limb ratio will be perfectly represented.
She smiles, her tilted head perfect. She blinks, stands for the followers, for People, turns and poses. Good girl, I nod.
I am old enough to have watched the Hilton empire collapse, old enough to remember Jude Law sober. |
I will take credit for this week whether or not I want to. It's in my contract. Tomorrow she will have her full name. Tonight's debut will determine it.
Day Two
Islita weeps. I suspected she would. None of them are ever prepared enough for the weight of it all. But I am old enough to have seen Princess Diana's wedding and her end, old enough to have watched the Hilton empire collapse, old enough to remember Jude Law sober. And so I know how to help Islita. Gentle Islita, they have named her, and she weeps for the passivity of it, for the lack of strength. Her weeping, of course, speaks to her name, and I have to smile behind my hand.
I remind her of her lessons, of Gandhi and Barack Obama. Gentle Islita's tears fill her aqua eyes, spill out onto her mother's cheekbones, collect in the hollows above her clavicles. If this morning's naming produces such a reaction, I am afraid for Friday's Flower Ceremony.
It can't be undone, I tell her. It is what it is.
I don't want it, she says, wiping at her eyes. I will need to apply cold compresses later, hemorrhoid cream if she keeps at it. Thank goodness for young skin.
I lift her chin, force her to look at me. Gentle, I say, is better than many.
She nods. We cannot change it. She will be Gentle Islita forever and ever, Amen.
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