Styling and Directing Commercial and High Fashion shoots. Film Directing: Dark Complex (DocuDrama). Styling V.I.P & Celebrity Clients for Red Carpet and High Profile Events. Creating Fashion Show Concepts. Event Co-ordination. On Camera Interviews: Documentaries and Fashion/Style. International Advertising. PR. Couture Event Hostess. Promotional Modeling. Writing. Travelling. Theatre. 18th century Literature. People. Painter/Chagall.
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Sunset Blvd, Boogie Nights, Fields of Dreams, The Birds, The Dark Complex
The Fashionista Daires, America's Next Top Model, Niptuck, Grey's Anatomy, Dexter.
Author of A Woman Who Talks To God: AutoBiography
Brand New Second Novel Debuting Soon on MYSPACE.COM!
Chiedza MavangiraHarare is a fickle city of moods that change like a strangers face. It is as unreliable as a bad friend and as heartless as an unfaithful lover. Once it had been my surrogate comfort and a semblance of an escape. Harare, was now the crippled imposter of this illusion, an unholy phantom and her citizens were her living hostages. Harare, for the one who never sleeps. Harare, why is your night sleepless? Harare, why are your quicksilver thieves stealing purses on your busy side streets? Those hungry, cheating thieves! Harare, how many hopeless, empty dreams is your sleeplessness stealing tonight? Harare is a city of tall buildings, and the black and pale of hungry beggars, kneeling on gray pavements, and tar lining poverty with streets. Like city cows, cars park at city meter, and like country cows they stand at a drinking troth of coins. Dirty silver coins dropped into dirty parking meters. It is in this gray twilight, that the cities poor live, and these dirty pavements are their home. The poor sit huddled around their imaginary fire. Imagine rust, rot and silver cans that vomit up the days trash. This is the potrait of an abstract reality, in juxtaposition to a fading dream. Deep from their bellies, the cans eject a pregnant heat, which then gives birth to the fetus of bad odors, to float aborted into the urban air. The citys pavements have gray walls, marred with the human graffiti of begging bodies. Poverty is a sadistic artist who is drawing on the walls the crying, twisted faces of hungry children. Disillusioned, bitter faced children hold out their dirt soiled, coin snatching hands to passing human traffic. The citys gray walls camouflage the gray of ill clothed children with dirty diapers. Children are desperately scratching the pavement, for solutions to problems that God will not correct. Lost children, in the city know that only the thin, gray breeze is free. A single, mother with her child in her arms seats on the pavement, in a public corner, conquered by these city streets. A once young girl ages slowly like a golden rose losing its petals and turning to bronze. There are children and women with tired eyes, that solemnly search for a God who has forgotten them, erased in the jail of darkness . Only the sky offers its sparkling stars in place of mens kindness and its silver moon in place of mens gifts. Unseeing mothers, led by their sighted infants, late into the night. Unseeing women, with aged breasts, squirt a few drops of milk into thirsty, trusting lips. How surreal it feels, to sit forgotten by both men and God. These people have torn faces. These people have thorns for faces. The city is the withering rose and here are her many thorns. They are the wrinkled, and the unworthy faces, tirelessly searching through the gray debris, for another chance at life. They are the black and gray, of silver bearded strangers, kneeling in gray, thorny, desert streets at night. Kneeling, in the middle of urine glazed pavements and seemingly praying for a futile cause. Perhaps, these are not beggars but angels kneeling on gray pavements and praying for Harare's soul.The lost, yet wise, walk the eternity of thin, scared pavements, searching for a way out a cement and glass hell. Men, with their hands glued into their pockets, walk past the feeble and fading with souless and unseeing eyes. A young girl leans against the wall and perhaps she will die on this graveless, pavement tonight. Harare, shame on you! Shame is like the bulldozers of the government, that tear down the fragile homes of ageless widows. Shame, is what grown men should feel when they walk past troubled women and piss behind boxes with sleeping children! Tsitsi is only sixteen and already accommodating grown men in between her legs.Just call me simply silver baby whats your silver thrill tonight? She asksThoughtlessly and unknowingly, she has just sold her life, for a few dollars, to feed her family, to Aids tonight. Compassion is frozen like that dumb bird tattooed to the pseudo-rainbow flag! The living will not act and the dead cannot speak, but an old woman on a busy pavement is faithfully holding out her silver cup for coins. There are little boys dreaming immaterial dreams in cardboard boxes. There are many others down at the station, getting left behind by dirty black trains, disappearing with lost souls into an uncertain future. People are like poisons snakes to be avoided. They are the desperate human debris, laying face - down and crying on the citys unlistening streets. Men with lips cracked and chiseled by the cruel taskmaster called poverty are mumbling incoherent prayers, to ancestral spirits or to God, all day and some of the night. There are pregnant, young girls wondering aimlessly, on cradle - less streets, with the carcasses of deceased hope buried deep in their hearts. Poor people are without a voice. They are the mimes of an international play, unfortunetly the audience is deaf and God himself is blind.Harare: RATED H: FOR HEARTBREAK
Current mood: angry
Category: Writing and Poetry
A.I.D.O (NON-PROFIT ORGANIZATION) CARES!
THE DARK COMPLEX CARES!
SPIRITUAL EVOLUTION CARES!DO YOU?SPIRITUAL EVOLUTION: GROUP OF CONTEMPORARY CLASSICS.
VOCALS, SPOKEN WORD & AFROKRUMP.
THE DARK COMPLEX: DOCUDRAMA
ADD ADD ADD ADD ADD ADD AS FRIENDS
My mother. The most noble human being I have ever been blessed to know.