Showing posts with label Frida Khalo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Frida Khalo. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 03, 2012

Oct 3: Connections


I come to this constructed room 
each morning --
computer, books, table. 
On the wall,
Frida Khalo, holding hands 
with her divided self,
looks down on me, and yet
in this moment,
my past, present, future 
all stream into story,
into some sense that even on days
too full with obligation,
the African violet 
unfolds its newest blossom,
the tiny marble elephant lifts 
its trunk in celebration,
and I write.

This print of "The Two Fridas" by Frida Khalo, shows that tension between her colonial self (her German photographer father) and her mother (indigenous roots) that informs her self-portraits, divided and connected, affirming and violently separate. The print hangs on my office wall. I have visited Frida's house in Mexico and seen with my own eyes her garden and the narrow passageway that connected her quarters to those of Diego Rivera. This image is from WikiPaintings.

The writing prompt today from OctPoWriMo is connectedness. Here I think of artists and writers who have inspired me. I cannot explain so easily why I am driven to write every day.

ROW80 update. I am sadly behind. The quilt show looms. My volunteer job has expanded. Instead of writing, I work on public relations and the program for 5,000 attendees. The trip to Africa also is just three weeks away. Scored 2 travel shirts today at a thrift shop and 1 from REI, along with power-house DEET. Yes, I plan to wear a head scarf when traveling in Muslim areas. 

Some small success: I did write my goals for this next round of 80 days. I have accepted that I need another year of revision on Years of Stone. I am working on writing exercises to develop character and a deeper sense of their motivation. I will complete a review of Rick Bylina's soon-to-be-published Secrets (a sequel to his One Promise Too Manywithin the next three days. I did personally sell 42 copies of The Mermaid Quilt, though my marketing plan languishes. Sigh. A shy writer. But all is well. I will persevere and return tomorrow. And write.

Friday, July 04, 2008

I can imagine Frida Khalo . . .

I can imagine Frida Khalo
at the 7-11, at 8:30 pm,
before the stars are fully out,
just standing there, checking out
cold rows of Dos Equis in the cooler or the
blistered pizza barely warm on a summer night,
clicking her red fingernails on a torn LOTTO ticket.

She would come into that space,
trailing incense,
earrings touching her shoulders,
jasmine flowers in her hair,
her swirling long skirts covering a limp,
her fingers marked with red
and green and yellow oil paint,
her wide red lips
and dark eyebrows marking her dangerous,
seditious, revolutionary. Her sorrows
fall away in jolting lines of color.

I know this:

I would stand silent behind her.
I would not give away her phone number.
I would hide her canvases.