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Nov. 1st, 2010
(no subject)
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:50 pmSometimes during meditations my mind unearths some wonderfully vivid imagery which translates well to artwork. After meditating tonight, I leapt up and drew this rather androgynous sea-spirit:
Story-- Will O' the Wisp
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:52 pmI thought for my "revisited writing" post today, I'd share a short story. :) It's still quite rough, as I've never really gone back and edited, but I hope you all enjoy all the same!
*************************************************************************
( Of all the nights for this to happen… The gods must hate me. No, don't preach, don't sympathize, don't colloquialize. Their displeasure with me is quite acute. )
*************************************************************************
( Of all the nights for this to happen… The gods must hate me. No, don't preach, don't sympathize, don't colloquialize. Their displeasure with me is quite acute. )
Story-- Will O' the Wisp
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:52 pmI thought for my "revisited writing" post today, I'd share a short story. :) It's still quite rough, as I've never really gone back and edited, but I hope you all enjoy all the same!
*************************************************************************
( Of all the nights for this to happen… The gods must hate me. No, don't preach, don't sympathize, don't colloquialize. Their displeasure with me is quite acute. )
*************************************************************************
( Of all the nights for this to happen… The gods must hate me. No, don't preach, don't sympathize, don't colloquialize. Their displeasure with me is quite acute. )
(no subject)
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:54 pmMore older writing
Spread your wings, crackling with life, billowing in their own wind. Remember them, remember the starlight and the ocean's beckoning song. You are more than your hands and feet, more than the limits of culture and dogma and materialism and time and decay, these illusions, these wisps of nothing that have become everything. You are of the stars. You are of the earth. You are the wind, the ocean, the whispering trees and the black velvet of the night sky, the cleansing silver cascade of moonlight. You are the trembling bones of the earth, the shifting and folding and twisting subterranean dance, veiled in ancient dust and ancient tales, memory reviving. Touch the universe, and remember who you are.
Spread your wings, crackling with life, billowing in their own wind. Remember them, remember the starlight and the ocean's beckoning song. You are more than your hands and feet, more than the limits of culture and dogma and materialism and time and decay, these illusions, these wisps of nothing that have become everything. You are of the stars. You are of the earth. You are the wind, the ocean, the whispering trees and the black velvet of the night sky, the cleansing silver cascade of moonlight. You are the trembling bones of the earth, the shifting and folding and twisting subterranean dance, veiled in ancient dust and ancient tales, memory reviving. Touch the universe, and remember who you are.
(no subject)
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:54 pmMore older writing
Spread your wings, crackling with life, billowing in their own wind. Remember them, remember the starlight and the ocean's beckoning song. You are more than your hands and feet, more than the limits of culture and dogma and materialism and time and decay, these illusions, these wisps of nothing that have become everything. You are of the stars. You are of the earth. You are the wind, the ocean, the whispering trees and the black velvet of the night sky, the cleansing silver cascade of moonlight. You are the trembling bones of the earth, the shifting and folding and twisting subterranean dance, veiled in ancient dust and ancient tales, memory reviving. Touch the universe, and remember who you are.
Spread your wings, crackling with life, billowing in their own wind. Remember them, remember the starlight and the ocean's beckoning song. You are more than your hands and feet, more than the limits of culture and dogma and materialism and time and decay, these illusions, these wisps of nothing that have become everything. You are of the stars. You are of the earth. You are the wind, the ocean, the whispering trees and the black velvet of the night sky, the cleansing silver cascade of moonlight. You are the trembling bones of the earth, the shifting and folding and twisting subterranean dance, veiled in ancient dust and ancient tales, memory reviving. Touch the universe, and remember who you are.
(no subject)
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:55 pmHello, lovely friends list, exceptionally stellar and beatific lovers of the arts! How are you all today? Well, I hope. My silence is broken this morning... er, well (looks at clock) afternoon. Time has a way of slipping past me unnoticed.
I have a story-in-progress I'd like to share with you all this morning. Honestly, I'd only started it because it was a relentless itch in my brain that wouldn't leave me alone; a constant, incessant prod that created brilliant image-explosions behind the eyes, puzzle pieces slowly culminating to a whole. It is a work-in-progress. Hence, it is very rough and unpolished. I have no idea where it's taking me. But I hope it will be wonderful.
Tentatively titled:
LOST CHILD
( Eyes of an ancient one gazed from the cherub face of a child. Hair that perhaps beneath the layer of grime was the color of sun-bleached straw hung in limp strands, concealing smudged cheeks. She stood before me in the alleyway, incongruous, as if dressing a part, playing a character, far from home. I had been walking home from work, my bag slung over my shoulder, cell phone close and knife in pocket (because one never knew who would be waiting in the shadows around here). )
I have a story-in-progress I'd like to share with you all this morning. Honestly, I'd only started it because it was a relentless itch in my brain that wouldn't leave me alone; a constant, incessant prod that created brilliant image-explosions behind the eyes, puzzle pieces slowly culminating to a whole. It is a work-in-progress. Hence, it is very rough and unpolished. I have no idea where it's taking me. But I hope it will be wonderful.
Tentatively titled:
LOST CHILD
( Eyes of an ancient one gazed from the cherub face of a child. Hair that perhaps beneath the layer of grime was the color of sun-bleached straw hung in limp strands, concealing smudged cheeks. She stood before me in the alleyway, incongruous, as if dressing a part, playing a character, far from home. I had been walking home from work, my bag slung over my shoulder, cell phone close and knife in pocket (because one never knew who would be waiting in the shadows around here). )
(no subject)
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:55 pmHello, lovely friends list, exceptionally stellar and beatific lovers of the arts! How are you all today? Well, I hope. My silence is broken this morning... er, well (looks at clock) afternoon. Time has a way of slipping past me unnoticed.
I have a story-in-progress I'd like to share with you all this morning. Honestly, I'd only started it because it was a relentless itch in my brain that wouldn't leave me alone; a constant, incessant prod that created brilliant image-explosions behind the eyes, puzzle pieces slowly culminating to a whole. It is a work-in-progress. Hence, it is very rough and unpolished. I have no idea where it's taking me. But I hope it will be wonderful.
Tentatively titled:
LOST CHILD
( Eyes of an ancient one gazed from the cherub face of a child. Hair that perhaps beneath the layer of grime was the color of sun-bleached straw hung in limp strands, concealing smudged cheeks. She stood before me in the alleyway, incongruous, as if dressing a part, playing a character, far from home. I had been walking home from work, my bag slung over my shoulder, cell phone close and knife in pocket (because one never knew who would be waiting in the shadows around here). )
I have a story-in-progress I'd like to share with you all this morning. Honestly, I'd only started it because it was a relentless itch in my brain that wouldn't leave me alone; a constant, incessant prod that created brilliant image-explosions behind the eyes, puzzle pieces slowly culminating to a whole. It is a work-in-progress. Hence, it is very rough and unpolished. I have no idea where it's taking me. But I hope it will be wonderful.
Tentatively titled:
LOST CHILD
( Eyes of an ancient one gazed from the cherub face of a child. Hair that perhaps beneath the layer of grime was the color of sun-bleached straw hung in limp strands, concealing smudged cheeks. She stood before me in the alleyway, incongruous, as if dressing a part, playing a character, far from home. I had been walking home from work, my bag slung over my shoulder, cell phone close and knife in pocket (because one never knew who would be waiting in the shadows around here). )
Revisited Writing: Infinity
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:55 pmThis is fairly recent, but it seemed fitting.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
Revisited Writing: Infinity
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:55 pmThis is fairly recent, but it seemed fitting.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
When one moves solitary through the world, echoes of the past can coil around one's being and whisper of oddities and losses and missed opportunities, of the crumbled ruins of beauty and life. Desolation can seem to fill your vision, and you can begin to feel as though you are the last, fading snatches of a dream, insubstantial, at the edge of oblivion. But if you move through these echoes and ghosts, these tears and wishes and longings, if you breathe them and let them pass through you, if you still your mind and truly listen-- in the silence and emptiness there is a song, a symphony. Its strains seem quiet, yet it surrounds us; we are immersed in it, floating in it, dancing in its waves. It is the stuff of dreams, of births and of lives and of childhoods spent racing through crumbling neighborhood streets overhung by the shadows of willow trees. It sings of beloved pets with warm brown eyes and lolling tongues, and sister-friends who with musical laughter weave tales of magic and wonder, and brothers who gaze through veils of time and space, touching this world briefly in greeting through the shell of a broken body before setting off for worlds unknown inhabiting an uninhibited mind. It sings of the snow-draped wood and crystalline waterfalls and those eyes of greybluegreen, dark hair tangled in an unruly mane. It sings of the child yet to be born, of the mother and the father that will love it and teach it and show it the miracle that is the world. It sings of hushed fits of giggling issuing from the mouths of children who are supposed to be sleeping, but who instead lurk around the shadows of a darkened house as they pretend to be adventurers seeking buried treasure. It sings of picking tiny strawberries from a backyard garden and wrinkling a tiny nose at their tartness. It sings of friends floating in frigid water at one in the morning with the spray of a nearby waterfall tickling faces soon numb with cold, as far above, stars streak across the black sky by the hundreds. Time melts away within the strains of this song; all simply is. To touch the song is to touch everything that is.
*******************************
When the two souls came together, they spun and spun and spun, light seeping into light, colors melding and blending in greens and blues, violet and white and rose, golden like the sun and silver like moonlight. The colors were music and the music was color. Galaxies and stars, eons and worlds and centuries, suns and moons and planet-rings and nebulae and millenia, seasons and years and cycles passed and swept beyond their united vision like a living organism. Together and one, they spiraled into infinity.
Revisited Writing: Tides
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:56 pmIf one can unravel these delirious ramblings,
Illuminate the riddle,
Unearth the mystery of old—
These images, these trapped spirits of fleshless eternity
That linger just behind the eyes,
Just past bloodstained words,
A stumbling step into a half-forgotten dream:
Of fire and ash-choked wind,
Of tears falling into a blackened pool,
Of crystals that capture the eyes with stolen light.
The song that was carried on the wind.
The eternity-endless-black depths of a raven's eye
As it looked upon the broken angel in the snow.
Flight and fury and prismatic dance.
Dauntless time, empty time. Meaningless time.
Whispers in the night, caresses of dreams alive, living, dreaming.
Do you know? Do you understand?
Has the song awakened once more,
Within shells battered and barren,
Ceaselessly stumbling,
But housing That which Came Before,
And That which is Yet to Be?
What is the Tide bringing?
Why does the path seem so dark?
Destiny is Choice
Honesty with Fortitude,
With Heart,
With purity of soul,
Alchemy.
Does Love weave this song?
Illuminate the riddle,
Unearth the mystery of old—
These images, these trapped spirits of fleshless eternity
That linger just behind the eyes,
Just past bloodstained words,
A stumbling step into a half-forgotten dream:
Of fire and ash-choked wind,
Of tears falling into a blackened pool,
Of crystals that capture the eyes with stolen light.
The song that was carried on the wind.
The eternity-endless-black depths of a raven's eye
As it looked upon the broken angel in the snow.
Flight and fury and prismatic dance.
Dauntless time, empty time. Meaningless time.
Whispers in the night, caresses of dreams alive, living, dreaming.
Do you know? Do you understand?
Has the song awakened once more,
Within shells battered and barren,
Ceaselessly stumbling,
But housing That which Came Before,
And That which is Yet to Be?
What is the Tide bringing?
Why does the path seem so dark?
Destiny is Choice
Honesty with Fortitude,
With Heart,
With purity of soul,
Alchemy.
Does Love weave this song?
Revisited Writing: Tides
Nov. 1st, 2010 12:56 pmIf one can unravel these delirious ramblings,
Illuminate the riddle,
Unearth the mystery of old—
These images, these trapped spirits of fleshless eternity
That linger just behind the eyes,
Just past bloodstained words,
A stumbling step into a half-forgotten dream:
Of fire and ash-choked wind,
Of tears falling into a blackened pool,
Of crystals that capture the eyes with stolen light.
The song that was carried on the wind.
The eternity-endless-black depths of a raven's eye
As it looked upon the broken angel in the snow.
Flight and fury and prismatic dance.
Dauntless time, empty time. Meaningless time.
Whispers in the night, caresses of dreams alive, living, dreaming.
Do you know? Do you understand?
Has the song awakened once more,
Within shells battered and barren,
Ceaselessly stumbling,
But housing That which Came Before,
And That which is Yet to Be?
What is the Tide bringing?
Why does the path seem so dark?
Destiny is Choice
Honesty with Fortitude,
With Heart,
With purity of soul,
Alchemy.
Does Love weave this song?
Illuminate the riddle,
Unearth the mystery of old—
These images, these trapped spirits of fleshless eternity
That linger just behind the eyes,
Just past bloodstained words,
A stumbling step into a half-forgotten dream:
Of fire and ash-choked wind,
Of tears falling into a blackened pool,
Of crystals that capture the eyes with stolen light.
The song that was carried on the wind.
The eternity-endless-black depths of a raven's eye
As it looked upon the broken angel in the snow.
Flight and fury and prismatic dance.
Dauntless time, empty time. Meaningless time.
Whispers in the night, caresses of dreams alive, living, dreaming.
Do you know? Do you understand?
Has the song awakened once more,
Within shells battered and barren,
Ceaselessly stumbling,
But housing That which Came Before,
And That which is Yet to Be?
What is the Tide bringing?
Why does the path seem so dark?
Destiny is Choice
Honesty with Fortitude,
With Heart,
With purity of soul,
Alchemy.
Does Love weave this song?
I'll be honest. I hate self promotion. I hate pointing to my work, to my projects, to my endeavors, and saying, "Come here; look at this! It's good! You'll like it! Really, come and see!" I think it goes back to the mindset that was repeatedly drilled into my head as a child. Never, ever promote yourself. "Don't toot your own horn," as my dad told me. Raising one's self up is pride, and "Pride goeth before a fall."
Don't get me wrong. Mom and Dad wanted me to succeed, but their philosophy on life, the philosophy which they spoon-fed me from the time I breathed my first lungful of air, did more to inhibit than to help. So many of these mindsets linger in the back of my mind, hidden, subconscious, but not dormant. Not really.
So subconsciously, I think that "tooting my own horn" is going to inevitably lead to disaster. I'm not entirely certain what kind of disaster. Maybe I'll get somebody commenting about how terrible they think my work is. Maybe self-promotion automatically means failure. Maybe a tree will fall on me. There's no logic to it, none whatsoever, so the consequences of such an infringement on percieved morality could be anything and disastrous.
I've gotten beyond that point, somewhat. I'm no longer holding my breath and waiting for the universe to slap me over the head when I promote myself. But I still wonder sometimes if I'm being exceptionally egotistical. Maybe it shouldn't matter, though. I do have a gift, and I use it, and share it in turn. And this is a good thing.
With that, I will share another piece of art. This one is called Desire. It's also for sale at ImageKind
Don't get me wrong. Mom and Dad wanted me to succeed, but their philosophy on life, the philosophy which they spoon-fed me from the time I breathed my first lungful of air, did more to inhibit than to help. So many of these mindsets linger in the back of my mind, hidden, subconscious, but not dormant. Not really.
So subconsciously, I think that "tooting my own horn" is going to inevitably lead to disaster. I'm not entirely certain what kind of disaster. Maybe I'll get somebody commenting about how terrible they think my work is. Maybe self-promotion automatically means failure. Maybe a tree will fall on me. There's no logic to it, none whatsoever, so the consequences of such an infringement on percieved morality could be anything and disastrous.
I've gotten beyond that point, somewhat. I'm no longer holding my breath and waiting for the universe to slap me over the head when I promote myself. But I still wonder sometimes if I'm being exceptionally egotistical. Maybe it shouldn't matter, though. I do have a gift, and I use it, and share it in turn. And this is a good thing.
With that, I will share another piece of art. This one is called Desire. It's also for sale at ImageKind
I'll be honest. I hate self promotion. I hate pointing to my work, to my projects, to my endeavors, and saying, "Come here; look at this! It's good! You'll like it! Really, come and see!" I think it goes back to the mindset that was repeatedly drilled into my head as a child. Never, ever promote yourself. "Don't toot your own horn," as my dad told me. Raising one's self up is pride, and "Pride goeth before a fall."
Don't get me wrong. Mom and Dad wanted me to succeed, but their philosophy on life, the philosophy which they spoon-fed me from the time I breathed my first lungful of air, did more to inhibit than to help. So many of these mindsets linger in the back of my mind, hidden, subconscious, but not dormant. Not really.
So subconsciously, I think that "tooting my own horn" is going to inevitably lead to disaster. I'm not entirely certain what kind of disaster. Maybe I'll get somebody commenting about how terrible they think my work is. Maybe self-promotion automatically means failure. Maybe a tree will fall on me. There's no logic to it, none whatsoever, so the consequences of such an infringement on percieved morality could be anything and disastrous.
I've gotten beyond that point, somewhat. I'm no longer holding my breath and waiting for the universe to slap me over the head when I promote myself. But I still wonder sometimes if I'm being exceptionally egotistical. Maybe it shouldn't matter, though. I do have a gift, and I use it, and share it in turn. And this is a good thing.
With that, I will share another piece of art. This one is called Desire. It's also for sale at ImageKind
Don't get me wrong. Mom and Dad wanted me to succeed, but their philosophy on life, the philosophy which they spoon-fed me from the time I breathed my first lungful of air, did more to inhibit than to help. So many of these mindsets linger in the back of my mind, hidden, subconscious, but not dormant. Not really.
So subconsciously, I think that "tooting my own horn" is going to inevitably lead to disaster. I'm not entirely certain what kind of disaster. Maybe I'll get somebody commenting about how terrible they think my work is. Maybe self-promotion automatically means failure. Maybe a tree will fall on me. There's no logic to it, none whatsoever, so the consequences of such an infringement on percieved morality could be anything and disastrous.
I've gotten beyond that point, somewhat. I'm no longer holding my breath and waiting for the universe to slap me over the head when I promote myself. But I still wonder sometimes if I'm being exceptionally egotistical. Maybe it shouldn't matter, though. I do have a gift, and I use it, and share it in turn. And this is a good thing.
With that, I will share another piece of art. This one is called Desire. It's also for sale at ImageKind