The Eleventh Station

Unknown Photographer

 

The Eleventh Station
100 Words

The Art of Distraction is mischievous by design, some elements are known, some unknown, some — subconscious. I look away, and back again, mute, questioning the arrival of white noise riding a train of moonlit thoughts through the pane glass, disguised as subliminal dust, coating everything with a pretense of sparkling bright. It breaks all barriers, talking over the primitive language of silence, with its frequency and static: sharp as the rip of a chainsaw chewing through tin cans loaded with coin. Distraction comes from a place where time is void, illusions are kind, no boundaries exist, nor any other voice.

“I create situations that do not exist. I seek the truth from fiction.”
— Sarah Moon

Video – “Sarah Moon is a Master of Photography”

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The Glue Factory

Photographer — Aaron Siskind

 

The Glue Factory
Grenades and Landmines

She was doubt,
And she knew it.
Yet, in her heart
She was always more
Than the counterculture image
Of a hundred Warhol glances.
An “It Girl” lookalike,
Deteriorating
Becoming invisible
Abrasive hands
Slowly eroding
With a menacing tone;
Time: winter’s ice
A mirror for reflection.

When the rain arrives
Where do the Papillons hide?
And why,
Do they break wild horses?

 

“The very things I might have given in to, that demanded, that said, this is your life. I mean, this is your only way to survive, are the things I fought hardest to end. ‘Cause I believed in something else. And um, what makes that sane is that I can understand other people’s situations in their own terms, but ‘they’ still can’t understand mine.”
— Edie Sedgwick

Mazzy Star – “Into Dust”                                                                                               .      .

 

Copyright © 2015 Mia Pharaoh.

 

Crossing Lines

Photographer — William Albert Allard

 

Crossing Lines
100 Words

There it is, I feel it again, something extraordinary, otherworldly caught within the movement of air, a silent hullabaloo. Sometimes it arrives riding the scented tide of sandalwood and musk, other times it arrives drenched in that of sweet ambrosia, this is life. During these moments, I’m at the mercy of the unknown, an invisible breeze that’s magical and mystical, much like the rush of my lover’s breath against my skin. The flutter, beauty in motion, sheets to the wind, the ebb and flow of the here and now. When the spirit’s gone, the music stops, until you’re home again.

 

“Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”
― Kahlil Gibran

Mazzy Star – “Fade Into You”                                                                       *     *     *     *