Fortieth Day

Francesca Woodman Untitled Rome 1977-78.  Perhaps it should be titled, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”

 

Fortieth Day
100 Words

Thaw, the fifth and final season, follows in muffled white steps behind Winter. It wakes like a charging bull with a caustic rage, unleashing pent-up black thoughts, sullied emotions, and questions of sanity: leaving you fully exposed to blind spots told in epitaph. It’s the cruelest season with the chilling betrayal of your own frostbitten hands beating you down, down to nothing, down to less than nothing. When you realize you’ve had enough you find yourself channeling the iconic genius, Francesca Woodman hanging from the door casing before a final leap of faith into the unknown: leaving a void forevermore.

 

“The joy that isn’t shared dies young.”
― Anne Sexton


Video — “
ARTIST ROOM – Francesca Woodman * *

 

Copyright © 2018 Mia Pharaoh. All rights reserved.

 

Crapshoot

Man Ray Self-portrait

 

Crapshoot
100 Words

Ooh la la, this photo is to die for, even if I do say so myself. It’s all about you, you, you. What about me? You’re brilliant, a diamond in the rough, running circles around me while I clean a loaded gun with my right hand, count barbiturates with my left, wondering if I have time to swallow them all before the hammer hits the firing pin. Choking down dry pills, no water, coughing furiously I hit my forehead on the table, accidentally pulling the trigger, missed by the bullet, clarity arrives. Not to worry, I’m every shade of okay.

 

“I have been accused of being a joker. But the most successful art to me involves humor.”
― Man Ray


A Short film by Man Ray — “
Poison                                                               *

 

Copyright © 2018 Mia Pharaoh. All rights reserved.

 

Blind Orchid

Photographer — Katie Eleanor

 

Blind Orchid
100 Words

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 bloom but once a year, hidden deep within 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, I long to be found, recognized, yet 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.        *           *            *

 

Marrow’s Mediocrity

Photographer — Francesca Woodman

 

Marrow’s Mediocrity
100 Words

Having met life’s fate in the winter of my youth, I’ve lived my passions in pursuit of the truth. Stigma and fear jailed my beliefs, keeping my love under lock and key, found near starvation in rags of hand-me-downs, sucking on pebbles to silence the hunger, blocking the ritual: speaking in tongues. Necromancy of the resurrection, all memories have since fallen away, swirling as leaves on a tempestuous day. Vacant lots of strange-strangers: the half-past dead, unknowing stand-ins for what’s ahead. While waiting for the Four Winds to carry me away, I’m wondering — what’s the weight of a human soul?

 

“I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.”
― René Descartes

Hindi Zahra – “
Don’t Forget

 

The Pardon’s Wife

Triste  — Photographer Mukti Echwantono

 

The Pardon’s Wife
100 Words


When days are long, nights longer, there thrives a predictable chaos to everything that walks silently behind her. It hides beneath her shadow of certainty, which she prays to religiously and righteously. It smiles as she makes missteps, finding glee in the lessons. It frightens her in the dark, having no hands to hold. It lies in wait as she becomes ever more unsure as
to her purpose and direction. It casts a net of paralysis over her will and determination. When she reaches the point of wretched indecision, it reveals itself as a familiar stranger, an unwelcome friend, Fear. 

 

“It was my own fear that allowed me to keep a safe distance from myself.”
― M. L. Lurie, The Lost Journal 

 

Banks – “Beggin For Thread”

The Pardon’s Wife was originally posted September 26, 2016

                                                             Dilemma     Panic

Copyright © 2015 Mia Pharaoh. All rights reserved.