The Padded Pool

Francesca Woodman, Untitled, Boulder, Colorado, 1972-1975

 

The Padded Pool


Birthed from merciful brine
and a primal language of silence.
Deprivation soon realized as enduring loss,
the warmth of weighted water gave freely
as a harbor for emotions: sad and very sad.

 

“…she didn’t do a lot more for you than give birth to you. In case you’re wondering, we—the family—were always aware of this, but there wasn’t much we could do…”
— Anon


Two Feet – “I Feel Like I’m Drowning

 

Copyright © 2018 Mia Pharaoh. All rights reserved.

 

Half Nelson

Call Of Duty  — Artist Mitch Griffiths

 

Half Nelson


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

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

 

Needle & Thread

Photographer Ilse Bing — Poster, Henry VIII, 1934

 

Needle & Thread
The Glue That Binds Us


Charred sentiment dispensed
The remains of our days,
Spent: cleaved away
As leaves torn of paper.

Distant memories engaged
The feeble free fall
End over end;
Tumbled as pigeons
Latched together
With arms open.
We headed towards
Eliot’s perpetual April;
Never gave thought
To the tire of love.
Youth’s newness: blind elation
Staved off the wolves of reality.
Salt of the earth
Took leave, our loss;
We pushed the pieces forward.

Soiled uniforms
Dressed in suits of grace,
Cumbersome and too large,
We traced our paths
Again and again;
With dogged determination
We dragged ourselves

Through foot worn ruts.
In the end, we realized
There would be no phoenix
To rise f
rom the ash.

 

“It may have been in pieces, but I gave you the best of me.”
― Jim Morrison


Hindi Zahra – “At The Same Time”                                                    
Transformation

 

Oblique

A l’Heure de l’observatoire: Les amoureux, Man Ray 1932-1934

 

Oblique


Searching everywhere
For the color: Nothingness;
Fearful it shares shade
With the tint, Indifference;
Found standing beside — No More

 

“For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude, and, of course, its consequences.”
― Elie Wiesel, Night                                                                                                  
Desert

Video — “Man Ray — The Lovers”
When I think of Man Ray, several things immediately come to mind, his relationship with photographer, Lee Miller and his iconic painting, A l’Heure de l’observatoire: Les amoureux, (Observatory Time: The Lovers ).

In 1935 Man Ray wrote the following about the floating lips:

“It is at seven in the morning, before satisfying an imaginary hunger — the sun not yet decided whether to rise or to set — that your mouth comes to replace all these indecisions. Sole reality validating the dream, resisting awakening, it stays suspended in the void, between two bodies.

“It becomes two bodies, separated by a slender, undulating horizon. Like the earth and the sky, like you and me, as so like everything down to microscopic objects, invisible to the eye. The eye itself becomes invisible, just as everything that is too near, like everything that is too far becomes invisible. But your mouth that can come closer without losing anything, which makes itself felt more by coming close up to the intensity of contact, has no need to see. Nor need of light, the astronomical accomplice of time. Now time must go back to see things clearly, but your mouth does not tolerate removal, which stops it from seeing.

“No matter that I become blind — liberated from all concern with appearances, touch and speech will be my strengths. One can close one’s eyes in order not to see — one cannot stop oneself from feeling when one is touched nor from hearing when spoken to. Were it only the finger placed on it to stop it talking, the silent mouth must touch.

“Lips of sun, you attract me ceaselessly, and in this moment before wakening, when I detach myself from my body — I am weightless — I join you again in the neutral light and in the empty space, and sole reality, I kiss you with all that still remains of me: my own lips.”

An Arden Season

Greta Garbo Poster, Paris, 1932 — Photographer Ilse Bing

 

An Arden Season


Tempest, you are as death
Autumn’s diminished smoke;
Leaves the eve of winter
Fragile and bitter.
I wait for the thaw:
Resurrection in hope;
Let not temptation malign me
In tepid thought of naught.
Temperament of the heart
Fickle, full of folly;
Its pain, resilient
Holding to the last
Burr of love unfounded:
The sweetness of pepper,
The sting of salt.

 

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.”
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones      Deprive

Wolf Larsen — “Kitchen Door”

 

Dry Bones

Unknown Artist

 

Dry Bones


I pray to my God
Of The Used and T
he Users
Be still my heart — breathe;
Where hate rages for all time
In the Lone Land of Madness

I pray to my God
Of The Used and The Users
Be still my heart — breathe;
Where hate rages for all time
In the Lone Land of Sadness

I pray to my God
Of The Used and The Users
Be still my heart — breathe;
Where hate rages for all time
In the Lone Land of Mankind

 

“This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
— T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
   Voice   Handwriting

 

Last Stop

Self-Deceit #1  (Roma) 1977 – 1978, Artist Francesca Woodman

 

Last Stop


Placated by your parched overtures

Wooed by your smooth-talking tongue
Enticed by devotion
Deserted by emotion

 

“There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”     *
― Søren Kierkegaard

 

The Kills – “Love Is a Deserter” 


Originally posted January 24, 2016