Sewing to Frida
FRIDA KAHLO
“The broken column (self-portrait)”
I just watched the movie Frida and realized the telic connection I have with a dead woman. I get her life and her choices. I understand her heroes or sheroes journey and I realize that I am like her. I only hope her fear did not come true in me, which was to return to Earth. Lemme give this a try.
The blatant sexuality sewn into a potentially barren womb that gives birth to the not so living in a jar from broken bones that do not set and cause the constant pain of a reminder of the casket that is the body of the spirit of a dove free to fly from mexico to new york to europe in a space of a short amount of time when the care free innocence was stolen by a steal rod gushing the blood of an unforgiving uterus made political by the men who never loved fully but wanted to see the inner workings of the painter who drew blood from pyramids past and present bringing future generations to understand that politics has no place for love but only friendship that tears the very insides of an artist who paints the pain into a canvassed oblivion allowing room for the imperfect perfection of the woman to burst forth from the confines of a wheeled chair in the hopes of running to the accepts that would only come with impending death and praying the final release is of joy will burn the casketed frame and vowing never to return to this life again.
I dedicate this to the late Frida Kahlo. I get you girl.
“The broken column (self-portrait)”
I just watched the movie Frida and realized the telic connection I have with a dead woman. I get her life and her choices. I understand her heroes or sheroes journey and I realize that I am like her. I only hope her fear did not come true in me, which was to return to Earth. Lemme give this a try.
The blatant sexuality sewn into a potentially barren womb that gives birth to the not so living in a jar from broken bones that do not set and cause the constant pain of a reminder of the casket that is the body of the spirit of a dove free to fly from mexico to new york to europe in a space of a short amount of time when the care free innocence was stolen by a steal rod gushing the blood of an unforgiving uterus made political by the men who never loved fully but wanted to see the inner workings of the painter who drew blood from pyramids past and present bringing future generations to understand that politics has no place for love but only friendship that tears the very insides of an artist who paints the pain into a canvassed oblivion allowing room for the imperfect perfection of the woman to burst forth from the confines of a wheeled chair in the hopes of running to the accepts that would only come with impending death and praying the final release is of joy will burn the casketed frame and vowing never to return to this life again.
I dedicate this to the late Frida Kahlo. I get you girl.
posted by ambandenva2 at 3:28 AM
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