The Eleventh Station

Unknown Photographer

 

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.                   *

Petite Burr

Untitled 1979-1980 Photography by Francesca Woodman

 

Petite Burr
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”                        
   .     .

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
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?
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”                                                                                              
.      .

Crossing Lines

Photographer — William Albert Allard

 

Crossing Lines
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”                                                                       *     *     *     *

Fawn’s Nightingale

Ellen Rogers Photography

 

Fawn’s Nightingale
100 Words Only

Each new dawn brings forth beauty’s naïve doe-eyed uncertainty, with slightly parted lips, shallow breath exhales to the clock’s tick. Her moon does its duty, arching across the sky, far behind the good sun. Frustration follows temptation towards the cobblestones of twilight, before reaching the pause of midnight. There’s a certain ripeness and longing contained within the dark, where anything and everything is possible. While all is lulled by sleep’s stagnation, beauty’s uncertainty grows restless. No longer a keepsake, she envisions the once unattainable in the distance, across a field of thorns, her brave heart dares to barefoot the crossing.

 

“I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.”
― Anne Sexton

Groove Armada – “
Think Twice”                                                                         Liminal

Contained

Ellen Rogers Photography

 

Contained
100 Words Only

My mind is an abstract masterpiece of the devious and dubious, a traitorous trickster, jealous jester, and callous handed croupier, chasing lethal fumes of ammonia and bleach: afterthoughts, into a man-made match lit tunnel known as, Disaster, meeting tomorrow’s runaway bullet train, The Lullaby, head on, knocking me into the questionably sane side of today, while yesterday’s memories shake violently, their cries foreshadow the harvest of my very presence and yet to be future: grinding out of control on slippery tracks, there’s no escape from this dimness, confined, caged against my will, I’m at the mercy of my captor: myself.

 

“What fresh hell is this?”
― Dorothy Parker, The Portable Dorothy Parker


Yaël Naïm – “
Toxic

                                                                                             Scorched

In The Mourning

Photographer Sally Mann

 

In The Mourning
100 Words Only

Death did its part, shock and denial offered their condolences: time, it passes too.  Beneath a star-spangled ceiling, counting beliefs and misfortunes as sheep, waiting for sleep to take hold, my mind flashes neon forget-me-nots, signs of Elvis and vows taken.  Taken they were, in all but a moment, time enough to empty the chamber.  The chips, they did fall — sound with the jingle-jangle of spent shell casings.  Remnants of carnations linger sickening-sweet, like cotton candy on sticky fingers in the summer’s heat. Memory’s ghost hugs my curves like a fitted sheet, a second skin, while whispering soft-nothings: promises made.

 

“If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.”
― Ernest Hemingway

Tango With Lions – “
In a Bar

                                                                      Or Flames