Monday, December 10, 2012

Francesca Woodman's Photographs

Francesca Woodman
I have been staying up late. Unable to sleep. Anxious about this and that--the holidays? Maybe the collective energy of buying is driving me crazy. I'm writing this blog per my commitment stated in a previous post on rejection. Via hours of Xmas searching on Amazon I came across the book Francesca Woodman's Notebook and then looked up her photographs. She apparently committed suicide due to her failure as an artist (at a young age). I don't ever believe these sorts of reasons for suicide, but I find this one particularly annoying. I like the name Francesca. You see where I'm going with all this? Yes, no where, but this is an acceptable place I'll have you know.

Francesca Woodman
What is this all about? Tuning into the wall... the body of a young girl, most likely the artist. You can tell a woman's age by her belly. Class went well tonight. I adore motherhood some sort of disease of the heart? I feel like there is a fable or tale or myth of mothers eating their babies and I get this...this want to eat him up.

On a different note, there is darkness in my outer family right now...the outer rim, really, of my beloveds. I am trying to shut it out I think. I shouldn't be writing about this after midnight when the mind begins to flood from over-use. But I'm thinking of it and, I think, I'm thinking of it....
I am grateful that I have survived the things I have and that I have my sweet Moses and my darling honey pie husband. But the darkness has a feeling that I don't want to feel, so I dream of other things like skating and the sound of skates on the lake and so on...

I always have winter fantacies that involve a cabin in the woods with a wood stove, cross country skiing, a skating pond, and lots of much that you have to walk through a tunnel to get to the pretend barn which I just might have read about in Little House on the Prairie--I can't even begin to explain how deeply those books impacted my childhood. Night night.

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