Sakineh's Dictionary of the Modern Odalisque

Don't call me “sweetheart”! I'm not your sweetheart! Because a sweetheart we don't snub, we don't throw through the window, we don't despise. I'm your bad, your poison.

Wise words, Anita. Hello, I am the philosopher that died in the last episode. You may be thinking: but how is it possible for a philosopher that died to be writing something if he's dead and the dead people can't write? Was his death a lie? Is this letter being psychographed by Chico Xavier but, how is it possible if he's dead too? Then I ask you: what's the death? Have you ever died to know how it is? Why don't you die then? So later you can tell us how it is!

Anyway, I'll be here to comment Sakineh's history, just an ordinary odalisque of an ordinary harem of an ordinary country. Pay close attention to her history, her wishes, her needs, her daydreams and try to understand this disturbed soul that disturbed the most undisturbed of the men, the most comprehensive and spiritually closed of the psychologists. Here it starts her letter...

Morocco, January 2012

I would put here the full date but I'm so crazy in Allah that I don't know anymore which day is today, where I am and who I am. Why do the days have to change each morning when midnight starts? Why can't it be always May 31, February 7 or July 14? Why? Why so many whys? Why wasn't I born stupid, insensitive, blind, deaf and mute? Why can't I be just a bitch like the other women in here? Because if this way I was born, perhaps it wouldn't ache so much as it does.

When in Lebanon I still lived, with my Barbies wearing black burqas, I played. And dreamed. Years passed and reality stepped on my dreams and on my happiness conception. Getting married, having children, taking care of the home, teaching my daughter how to dance to hypnotize the men and having a camel on the garage. However, it wasn't just a dream of mine, but of many odalisques.

I don't know what capitalism means. Yes, I'm stupid, hate me for that. Once I've heard of “supply and demand law” and I discovered that, in love, it's similar. In my mother's time, when a man said he would call, he really would call. According to Sakineh's Dictionary of the Modern Odalisque, it means that he won't call, but as you are stupid, you'll wait the life to pass and the telephone to ring. He doesn't call you and you cry.

Today the odalisques themselves are hunting for the men that can have until four women if very rich he is. And we have to humiliate ourselves learning sensual dances, cooking, washing, taking care of the kids, dying our hairs and they don't even notice anything! Odalisques cheat one another, they hate themselves.

Men: I hate them. They should born with a plate on their forehead saying what they want. They lie to gain you and lie one more time do discard you. They are loving and romantic to gain you, and cold and heartless to discard you. I hate when they vanish. I hate when they don't call me back. I hate when they don't answer the phone. I hate when they compare me to other women saying they were better than me. I hate the speech “let's be only friends”. I hate when they look to the odalisques with visible eyes in the public market. I hate when they discover my dreams and vulnerabilities, when they make me happy and special, and later they leave me and I have to rebuild myself all alone once more.

No lies: say what you want! Don't apologize, I won't, I don't want forgive you! Yes, I'm crazy! Yes, I'm not a civilized woman. Because the pain you caused me hurts only on me, not on you. You don't know how it feels, you have no feelings to understand.

The odalisque had fallen in love with the king, with the desire. Not with herself. She consumed cocaine from Bolivia to stop the pain and danced while listening to Coldplay. Dancing was her shelter.

[This post was written with the partnership of Juliamaris de Oliveira].

COLPLAY - Princess Of China (feat. Rihanna) by DJ Erm

Gears of the system

The neighbors of the apartment below complained of the noise and hit the roof with their Scoth-Brite brooms.

The young and handsome king was looking at himself into the mirror. He looked to the interior of his pupil through the reflexion and some of his memories were relieved unintentionally. His kingdom wasn't socially fair, but what would it be fair? Where are the moral rules? He didn't follow rules, his father didn't follow rules, nobody followed rules. They were the rules, they wrote their own. Desirous for power, they cheated one another, killed one another and imposed innocents to fight for the defense of their exclusively personal interests.

Truth doesn't exist, justice doesn't exist, right and wrong doesn't exist. What exists are conceptions developed by men that wanted to turn out to be as absolute truths their ideas, obviously satisfying their personal wishes as well but with a more wide vision (or something to look like this). Anyway, the policy of promoting ignorance in the kingdom was successful. Any policy that requires the veto of all the people always will be successful.

Kings, princes, dukes and the royalty in general created rules to defend their personal interests while the people was starving and dying due pests. Nobody complained, it was the destiny. The divine choose determined a destiny that couldn't be changed. We weren't in the Middle Age anymore but in contemporaneous days. The medieval thinking resisted to the centuries and it's still believed as a divine choice. The royalty luxury is supported by the bottom of the capitalist pyramid and their people without access to the truly truth, without access to knowledge and totally manipulable, either for the money or the fear of the divine anger.

“Dreams are for the dreamers because dreaming a dream is dreaming of a impossible dream. Dreaming is keeping illusions alive. Not dreaming is living a known or unknown unhappy reality. There isn't a mid-term between dreaming and not dreaming in our society of Shiites and Sunnis. Dreaming is expecting that, with the power of the pray, a wish can be fulfilled and, as it doesn't happen, many blame God for their failure. Not dreaming is only surviving: is living the life thinking of the great beyond doing all the things wishing only a egoistic salvation? I sought the mid-term and I felt alone. My knowledge only brought me loneliness. Humankind is despicable, detestable, stingy and coward.”

These were the last words of a philosopher that hit his body against the wall and rolled on the floor until his death, in a long and suffering attempt of suicide that almost failed. The neighbors of the apartment below complained of the noise and hit the roof with their Scoth-Brite brooms. They also complained of the spots and blood that were exuding from the light bulbs, they complained of the bad smell from the body in decomposition of the misanthropic philosopher and finally complained of the police that was on a strike and, because of that, refused to take the already rotten and stinky body that lied on the same place for over three weeks.

The suicide didn't touch a little the philosopher's neighbors. Obviously, his death was criticized by the religious and it was a theme for their terror policy: “The one who commits suicide, it means, the one that takes his own life, it's not a good person; either is crazy of the head or sick of the foot. And they go straight to the hell to burn eternally on the eternal flame while they are lashed by the Devil. Is it what you want, bros? Hana Macantarava Suya!”

His neighbors were disgusting people, selfish, hypocrites. They were an example of the negligence of the king to educational and social justice. They were an example of manipulation. They were examples of people that didn't dream and that accepted misery as their fate.

Xucuncia was a woman that worked from Sunday to Sunday, 10 hours per day. Her routine was resumed to working, taking care of the impolite kids and bearing her husband, Cloriswald, that belch and farted frequently. In spite of that, she used to love the life of Queen of Home. She married Cloriswald because he was a honest, hard-worker man but she was pregnant and needed to join the little goods they had. She used to consider herself as a happy woman, but actually, she wasn't, however, due to her susceptibility to manipulation and the lack of self-critique she couldn't realize the truth. She was also very insecure and used to forbid Cloriswald of going out to play soccer with his co-workers on Sundays.

Cloriswald, Xucuncia's husband, had a humble job and used to say he worked overtime to her when, in fact, he was at the bar. His life was empty and his wife was suffocating him. He cursed the day he got married because all the money he earned, was destined to the house bills. His short periods of happiness were resumed to the soccer games with his co-workers and the goings to Blue Nightspot where he used to maintain promiscuous sexual relations with transgenders. He would die years later to the weaknesses caused by the AIDS disease and he would transmit the HIV virus to Xucuncia.

Cassius was another neighbor of the philosopher. He was a well-known homosexual but, nevertheless, he was desired by the women of the building that he used to snub them. As he was handsome and sexy, he also snubbed all the gay guys in the nightclubs. His relationships used not to last more than three weeks, but he used to be always stuck with someone. However, the years passed, his beauty faded away and his breast felt down. He reached the age of 40 all alone and died alone due to a cancer in his rectum, syphilis on his eyes and other STDs.

Then the king stopped looking inside his pupils on the mirror. The philosopher's neighbors, these were his people, but not his reality. They were gears that helped all the system to go ahead.

MARCUS VIANA - Sob O Sol by souzart

A new tomorrow

The young and gorgeous king stroke his blonde, bright and sleek hair. He rode his pure-blood white horse and went to the closest river accompanied by his agents and voluptuous assistants. The agents were wearing black suits, sunglasses, some were making deals through their iPhones while others were taking part of a teleconference via Skype with the emir Hamad bin Khalifa, from Qatar. All of them being driven by their Indian drivers, once renown Bollywood actors inside their Mercedez Benz.

The assistants came sliding through the mud like snakes, as if they were swimming with bravery from Cuba to Miami. They were wearing microscopic bikinis that ultravalorized their breasts and butts. And they were swimming fast, in the same speed of the fancy cars and the king in his white horse that seemed to float over the ground.

The sky, that remained cloudy all day long by black clouds that were announcing an imminent summer thunderstorm, were getting without clouds little by little, providing a sunset that was painting the skies with very intense hues of orange and mainly, red. When he arrived, the king stopped in his horse, powerfully. The Mercedes Benz braked silently in synchrony and the assistants raised from the mud and threw their long hairs back, breathless with the lips half-opened. The rain fell while the Sun was setting, washing and revealing the women curves, the water streaming down their faces while they were whispering sensually “yes, yes, yesss”!

Behind the bushes, new assistants emerged in a synchronized jump, as if they were part of the Russian rhythmic gymnastics team. They took books that appeared from nowhere, spinning in a choreography perfectly symmetric. They groaned sensually when throwing the books into the bonfire in a little distance from the king, that remained motionless maintaining a powerful face. It was a luxurious and hypnotist spectacle of dance that kept the king's attention. The agents were twittering from their iPhones: “bitches dancing, I think it's d-i-s-g-u-s-t-i-n-g, kisses”.

The books were burning in the bonfires. Knowledge was on fire, love, pain, dreams, lust. The king wanted to reboot the whole system because there wouldn't be any repair to their kingdom's and his past pollution. He wanted to write a new book, with new inks and new colors.

The last sunray projected its light on the sweated, hunky and furry king's body. The assistants, breathless and messed hairs, slid their tongues on their lips in synchrony to nibble them right after. They were desiring the king's body and all of them, discreetly fondled their genitals while whispered softly as if the sound echoed without origin “yes, yes, yesss”. Going down slowly from the sky, a book came to repose on furry and strong king's hand that took it with vigor. He read:

“For the broken hearts, the instant glue!”

The assistants bowed to the person of the king, worshiping him keeled on the mud. They completed the king's speech speaking in exotic languages in a lascivious whisper.

“Jsme otroky potěšení. Dělat, co chcete s námi. Yes, yes, yesss!”

The king went on:

“For those who had setbacks, there's going to be a new tomorrow!”

Just like the last time, the assistants whispered:

“Jesteś tak mądry. Twoja wiedza sprawiają, że czujemy tak zajebiście. Yes, yes, yesss!”

And then the king finalized his speech in a convict tone of voice:

“And from now on, let's the anger, angst, desperation and indignation to be substituted by abstraction and the only concern will be to enjoy the pleasures of life. Amen”.

The assistants were in ecstasy and looked like imploring in their tired words while worshiping the king:

“Kérem, engedje meg, hogy érezzük az ízét a tested. Használja minket, dominál minket, mivagyunk itt, hogy megfelelnek valamennyi, a szexuális fantáziák. Yes, yes, oh yesss!”

Looking at that highly erotic scene of the king being devoured by the assistants salves of the lust, the philosopher scratched this beard and pondered:

“Nietzsche foresaw that Freud surely would be interested in such an epic and lascivious scene. And he cried, rolled on the floor and hit his fragile body against the wall, totally crazy in Christ. Christ would send them to the hell for them to burn in the eternal flame in order to repent of their sins, but this is not a religious issue. Perhaps the grass of the neighbor is greener because our gardens are made of cement, right? We are totally against life, we don't allow that in our gardens the smaller unities of life to grow. It's sad, Nietzsche, I understand you.

There's uranium inside us. And in the same time it causes cancer in the weaker ones, it makes us good at the same time it makes us bad. Paradoxical, I know. It's a battle we will set against ourselves, unless we do like the king did opening our minds to throw out our brains. The more we try to extirpate or irradiate our inner uranium with all our might, it will be infinite, it will remain inside us until the day our bodies will fall on the ground and will be decomposed by the worms”.

A last tear rolled upon his face. The philosopher inflated and exploded subtly into a cloud of dust that was rightly taken by the wind along the red horizon.