The Eleventh Station
100 Words Only
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 – “LCF Presentation Sarah Moon”
Music, “Comptine d’un autre été – L’après midi”, by Yann Tiersen. *
Untitled 1979-1980 Photography by Francesca Woodman
10 Words Only
Sometimes the dreamers, thinkers and artists are born of circumstance.
“I was so busy trying to maintain my shell, preventing any of my broken, scrambled self from spilling out onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t let any of the ugliness show, not yours and what I thought was mine too. You were convincing, implying how wrong I was about everything. You wore white, I was always dressed in your shade of grey. All the long while, I shrouded myself in uncertainty, a conflicted reality. Yes, I kept the secret, and yes, an eight year old needs a typewriter as they do a bookcase, not a ball or friends that they can make noise with. You were right and you’ve always been right, I was wrong about everything, it’s no longer a secret and I’m no longer standing in your shadow, wearing grey.”
— M. L. Lurie, The Lost Journals
Deep Purple – “Demon’s Eye – Francesca Woodman Pics” . .
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,
By abrasive hands
Slowly eroding away
With a menacing tone;
Time, winter’s ice:
A mirror for reflection.
When the rain arrives
Where do the Papillons hide?
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” . .
Photographer — William Albert Allard
100 Words Only
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” * * * *