Lose Screws — Photograph by Mia Pharaoh
Turn Of The Screw
100 Words Only
Blogger on Blogger Bashing
“Come on let’s kick it up a notch. Tighter, is that good? We’ve had plenty of pleasure, now how about a little pain between friends; it’s all about balance. Remember what they say about pain, no pain, no gain. While we wait for the onset of discomfort and bad feelings to take hold, we can guzzle plenty of water, scoring big time on Hydrogen, making like the perfect fractal finding our way to infinity and back, let’s do the math. If you’re not up for that, we can always put on our foil hats, meditate and hope to reach Nirvana.”
— June Gloom, The Gray Zone
Nirvana – “Heart Shaped Box” . .
I’m very pleased to share, “Marrow’s Mediocrity” has been included in the current edition of “The Writing Garden”, an online literary magazine. The editor, Suzy Hazelwood, does a beautiful job. Please have a visit.
“There are painters who transform the sun to a yellow spot, but there are others who with the help of their art and their intelligence, transform a yellow spot into sun”
― Pablo Picasso
Video Short – “Picasso at Work” * *
Photographer — Katie Eleanor
100 Words Only
I am forever young and forever old, from everywhere and from nowhere, memories muddled and memories clear: so many and yet all too few. Yesterday, indiscernible from today or tomorrow, for where there is no time, there is no matter. I am akin to some wild thing that comes into its own bloom but once a year, hidden in the Woods of the Wounded Sparrow. The cruel irony, partners: decay and decadence, dance in frenzied quickstep to Rimsky-Korsakov’s, “Flight of the Bumblebee”, while onlookers: the moon and stars, rule over my endurance: longing to be found and recognized, not saved.
“I am a collection of dismantled almosts.”
― Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters
Video – The poem, “I Am”, written by John Clare, read by Tom O’Bedlam.
Music — “Flight of the Bumblebee”, by Rimsky-Korsakov. * * *
Call Of Duty — Artist Mitch Griffiths
He was the unknowable
He was the ever shallow pool of liquid amber
He was the clink of ice, the red booths
He was the motels, the Murphy beds, the naps
He was the driver, never the talker
He was the ageless, the timeless
He was the smoothness of face, for it never moved
He was the invisible, yet he was the visible
He was the walking wounded
He was the wakeful dead
“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”
― G.K. Chesterton Drive
Video — “Mitch Griffiths, The Promised Land” Frail
Original Post July 18, 2016
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. *