Olive Charlene

Olive Charlene ~ Woman Once Again 3

Like a nocturnal creature
Who wakes as sun goes down
To feed upon a darkened world
So woman rises
To shed away the hours spent in sensibility and worry
And fill the hollow left behind from tears
that fell like rivers
Down her flushed and sun kissed cheeks

Even now the air is heavy
With lists of chores and piles of dirty clothes in the corner
that today
were forgotten
But this must be ignored
The evening song is heard echoing down the hall
Where child sleeps
And dreams
Of sugar filled clouds and red balloons to sail away on
But this too must be ignored

For just this moment
This is hers
To forget
To feel upon her lips
The salty taste of renewed desire
And so she undresses
From the roles that she plays
To be naked
And free
before the time slips away
For just these few moments
She is woman once more

Olive sent in three pictures as a set along with a poem and a sweet note asking if I would consider publishing them all together. I loved the images and was moved by the power of poem: the the beauty and the power and the honesty of her longing to simply be the passionate and sexual creature, unencumbered by the demands and duties of daily life, she remains at her core.

In the picture, we see her, Everywoman, faceless and beautiful nonetheless, with shapely legs, full breasts, cascading hair, seated, breathing, pausing, gaze heavenward, to reconnect the energies of the earth, the filaments of womanhood which flow around her, the erotic tides summoned from an inner ocean, deep and impenetrable to men, except as they are granted access by women.

I love how Olive has reduced the palette to browns and beiges, eradicated almost all the straight lines of the corners, i.e., where the floor meets the wall, the vertical corners of the walls, and obliterated any kind of representative objects, like a chair, or a wall, or the floor, underneath her: it’s blurred and grunged into a conical or pyramidal shape. She isn’t sitting on anything, rather floating at the center of a vortex, but the vortex is all hers. So she is calm as she reclaims herself.

The air vibrates like a singing bowl.


I found this post looking for something else for the P1XELS Fashion gallery in the next issue of iPM. Kind of stopped me in my tracks. I’d forgotten those days when I would write an essay about the daily pic and then do Sunday night “runner up” gallery with an essay as well. From the era when I spent forty hours a week on P1XELS …

Consider this a fund-raising pitch, like they do on public radio.

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Okay, I’m done for now.

Thanks all!

Your madman across the water,