Thursday’s Special: Patulous


 

https://bopaula.wordpress.com/2017/05/04/thursdays-special-pick-a-word-in-may-y2/

Thursday’s Special: Patulous

Lost in Translation

pat·u·lous
ˈpaCHələs/
adjective

rare
  1. (especially of the branches of a tree) spreading.

https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/patulous

patulous

ADJECTIVE

literary

  • 1(especially of the branches of a tree) spreading.

    ‘I found him on a remote bench beneath a patulous tree’

 


 

Thoughts of Francesca


In terms of artworks in whatever shape or form it may take your art is your truth. It cannot be labeled or categorized.

Keith Goldstein's avatarFor Earth Below

How far do we step inside of ourselves? Have a look beneath the skin? Is it vanity? It it a search for truth? Justice? The American Way?

I look at the work of Francesca Woodman and see I work that is an exploration in progress for self truth. A process. A work that is left undone. I do not see the genius or tragedy that is expressed and written about her work. I see a young woman, an art student in the fledgling throes of exploring who she is. I do not see a work that is complete. One’s work never is, until that time that we are no more.

The tragedy is the ways and the means of her death. A premature end to her work and exploration. Her images are her mirror. For us they are a window. From her images, we can peer into, but we cannot…

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‘The Mighty’ is not an ally


The Not so Mighty.

Laina Eartharcher's avatarthe silent wave

Many months ago, I came across a blog post titled “Why I no longer visit “The Mighty”.  Unfortunately, that blog post, and the friend’s blog through which I stumbled across the post, are no longer.

That’s unfortunate indeed, because the author of that post shared some excellent information.  And, regrettably, that information is correct.

Let me back up a bit and catch everyone up, for those who might (understandably) be scratching their heads right now.

Here’s what I know about “The Mighty”: it’s an online article aggregate website, featuring essays, op-ed pieces, and articles written by people with a variety of disabilities and chronic illnesses.  It spans a wide range: everything from autism to cancer to lupus to paralysis to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome to…well, you get the idea.

Their “Who We Are” page states that:

We publish real stories by real people facing real challenges. We are building a brand…

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The Rising Sun

Psycho-Babble Barn House Haunted Soul


 

Everybody hates me and nobody listens to me.

 

Alienation

I don’t belong. I’m faking it. Where am I supposed to be?  Not here that’s for sure. Return to the Astral Plane. Dimensions.

 

In Moments of Torpor the Cosmic Shift sired 8 progeny from Pandora’s Box.  Like a decaying socialite rotting away in an abandoned 1920s hotel. Stewing in her own feces and vomit. Opposed to the light. Darkness her 4ever friend. You know that old crone recluse with the Astral twin. Subject to repeated dilemmas. Fragmented into dust and cobwebs. Decaying. A human Titanic. An accident on the way somewhere to happen.

Bordello Orphan morphed into the Corpse Bride. Eyes forever following passing strangers seeking her fleeting groom. I can still hear her screaming as her body free fell into a Mercedes Cadillac BMW SUV.  Mummification. Embalming Nation.

She will destroy you when you let her. Return to your lonely garish garret with smoking Gauloises.

Give me the slow creamy version that slides down the throat easy. This elevator only goes one direction with one destination.  The City Morgue.

Running Salty Rabid claws over raw cuts. Berry Kisst Blood. Nothing but dog shit and drugs. Bums. Crack pots. Crack heads. Singing the dog shit blues.

A Broken Mirror.

A Broken Room.

A Broken Me.

Meaningless hanging onto mere existence like a vulture buzzard hangs over a carcass.

The sharp twinged spines of my tapered Tiara are giving me an Excedrin headache.

 

 

 

 

Hopper