My spare time is a “write” off

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Knowing the fall-out I may face, I’ll admit it – I miss the fall and winter nights but only because I miss the time I had to write and to read blogs.  The summer months are unforgiving when it comes to spare time.  I miss the words that used to come so easily and I miss being able to read the words of those I follow.

My imagination used to be ready and waiting as soon as I sat in front of the laptop but recently my muse has been accused of taking vacation and enjoying the summer weather along with the many guests at the resort where I work.  The time I used to have to read the many blogs I follow seems to be non-existent and the pond of creativity I had the benefit of floating on is now a dry well of sand and I am stuck making angels in the dust.

sand angels

(image credit)

But in those moments of creative drought, I have the good fortune of interacting with many smiling faces so all happiness is not lost.  The forecast for my upcoming day off looks promising for a day on the couch, laptop in position and hopefully a few creative thoughts will drop like the rain that is supposed to fall on Monday.

 

Or sometimes more than a thousand words

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When I first saw it, I was captivated by it.  A simple photo of a friend on Facebook grabbed and held my attention but it was no ordinary photograph.  I had hoped there was more of an explanation to it than mere Photoshop and I was thrilled to hear her tell the story behind the picture.

She had agreed to have her portrait done by her friend who is fascinated by the origin of photography.  He posed her and painstakingly went through the process that photographers went through back in the late 1800’s.  His camera was an antique with the accordion-style lens and the black hood that covered the head of the photographer.

He waited until the precise moment that he thought he had captured her true essence and he let his finger plunge the button that would acquire every detail of her spirit.  The result of his effort was remarkable.  He printed her face on tin to truly encapsulate the original process of printing a photograph.

I stared at her photo for a long time.  There was so much more to it than just a picture of her face.  There was a story in her eyes.  His diligent process captured much more than just who she is now.  This snapshot seemed to hold the story of generations, perhaps lifetimes of moments that led up to her being in his studio and posing for this shot.

It wasn’t a selfie or a picture as a second thought.  There weren’t 100 takes in a minute because that is all we have time for nowadays.  He paused, he let the camera do what it was meant to do and he took a thousand stories, captured them in one single photo and printed them on a piece of tin.

erin

Look at the artwork in this photo and hopefully you can now understand why I was so drawn to my friend’s picture.  Without the use of any computer tricks, this photograph projects so much more than just a face on a piece of paper or a computer screen.  This picture has depth, emotion and a lifetime of moments that led to her presence in our present reality.

If I ever have the chance to do this, I will jump at it.  I would love to see what kind of story my face has to tell and what ghosts from my past linger in the background, searching for recognition.

Turn off the light on the vacancy sign

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Drawing-Room-Empty

The hotel in my brain had been open but every room, on every floor, seemed to be empty.  I got home from another 13-hour work day yesterday, opened the laptop and stared blankly at the screen.  The lobby in my hotel was lifeless, the elevator was stuck on the ground floor and there was no movement in the confines of my cranium.  The hotel in my head, for all intents and purposes, was closed for business.  The hamster on the wheel of creativity was dead.

After a much-needed ten hours of sleep, the elevator is faintly humming once again.  The front desk staff are present and smiling and the bellman is waiting patiently to assist me with my words.  The neon vacancy sign still hums but the ideas are slowly coming to check in and the hotel is back in business.  I’m hoping after a few coffee breaks the writing staff will be comfortably ensconced in their suites, ready to work, and the writing hotel will soon be sold out.

I have enjoyed the interaction with other people over the last five days but I will eagerly anticipate the required maintenance being finished at the hotel in my brain so I can hop on the elevator when I get home and reach the penthouse of idioms upon my return.

The vacancy sign of inspiration is flickering because the ideas have begun to occupy the rooms in the recesses of my brain.  I’m hoping by tonight the prolific hotel in my mind will be sold out.

(image credit)

I’ll show you a full moon!

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Yesterday was an interesting day.  The energy in my work space was charged with an unknown element and the entire day felt like I was living in an alternate universe.  People were doing inane things, the simplest conversation turned into a painful thirty minute ordeal and the tension could have been cut by nothing less than a chainsaw.  My rhetorical question was to ask, “is it a full moon?” and the response was an embellished “yes”.

Although there is no direct correlation between the phases of the moon and human behavior, the full moon gives human beings a fantastic excuse for acting like idiots.  The blame is put solely on the celestial orb, taking the onus from the one acting completely out of character but, when the sky is dark, strange behavior is accepted as exactly that with no other plausible justification.

full moon

 (image credit)

Many of our references to luck, or the lack thereof, are written in the stars.  We wish on a falling star.  Our horoscopes are creatively tied to constellations in the sky.  And we blame a magical orb of light for any unfavorable happenings during the phase in which it finds its truest beauty.

On those days that society deems the moon to be the cause of all of its woes,  the child who still resides in my mind hopes that the fantasy man who inhabits that enchanting sphere is truly giving us the full moon.

You only live once

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It is not often (or ever) that I have put a load of pure crap into a subject line but there is a first for everything.  Let’s dispel a myth.  The truth really is you only die once, you live every day.  And there are those, like me, who believe you live more than one lifetime.

Living is done on per diem basis and can only be defined by how much life you put into your life.   We all think that life is about spending countless  hours finding ourselves but, really, life is about creating ourselves.  Each day we wake up and we yawn.  We pull ourselves from the cocoon of covers we have created during the night and we stretch.  We take a deep breath to start a fresh day with a fresh outlook.  This is not our one shot to live.  This is our chance to wipe clean the slate of the previous day and draw a unique plan for a new day.  It is our constant do-over.   The thought of only living once is a complete fallacy.

Life is an amazing gift.  To look at it as a one shot deal is sad. We are afforded countless days to live.  We are given a blank canvas to create our own masterpiece and, as we tread through our days, we add the colors in which we find true happiness.  We paint the shapes that give us structure.  We create the lines that separate the things we wish to keep at a distance and we pencil in the shades to mask the things we wish to avoid.  We also have the ability to erase the things that we thought would fit into our portrait but those things just didn’t seem to blend into the bigger picture.

The beauty of our life’s canvas is that it can be recreated.  An intrinsic piece of art can always be remastered and designed to portray the life that we want it to convey.  The Mona Lisa, had anyone wanted her to, could have had a completely different smile.  Our opus is our own. No other person has the power to tell us that our life must follow a set trajectory.

Use the spectrum of color and live your life.  Live it every day and live it to the fullest, but live that way because you want to.  Believe that your life is your canvas and change the lines whenever you feel the need.  Erase the colors and start with a new palette and, while you are splashing those pigments to create a new spectral portrait, laugh in the face of those who think you only live once.

Rekindling your first love

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There are not enough hours in a day to do all of the things I love to do.  I have always had a talent for artistic things and have dabbled in many different genres of craft since my early days.  I have painted, sketched, enjoyed calligraphy, I have carved wooden signs, done needlepoint, sewn clothing, holiday gifts and teddy bears, decorated birthday and wedding cakes.  I have even reinvented some pieces of furniture.

This world of creativity is my happy place.  It allows me to play by my rules and recreate the world I see in my head.  Sometimes that world is edible and sometimes it merely hangs on a wall but that portal of imagination opens and allows me the freedom to choose how I portray my vision and the medium transforms as time goes on.  But the one outlet I seem to consistently rekindle a relationship with is writing.

I may cycle through my repertoire of inventiveness and hastily spend my time with one art form or another but I always come back to the written word.  It has been my staple.  It has been my constant.  And it has been my comfort zone because it was my first real love.

hugged by words

(image credit)

I know words will always be there for me.  I learned at a very early age that I could freely express myself through my writing.  I could vent frustrations, express buried emotion and free the feelings that yearned to be expelled from my head and my heart through composition or poetry.  Words permeated my brain.  Words soothed me.  Words helped me escape.  Words encouraged me to love more deeply than I ever imagined I could.  And even if those words did not come from my brain, words still connected me to a world beyond the world I live in every day.

There will always be moments I cheat on my true love with other avenues of creativity but I will always come back to the truest art that knows me better than any brush stroke or any jagged seam.   Words reassure me and always have the ability to welcome me back into their world.   Words will always be the embrace in which I find the most comfort.  Words will always be my first love.

 

The wind beneath his wings – fiction

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Da-Vinci-glider

His ambition was unwavering and his dream was simple.  He wanted to fly.  And not by way of a commercial pilot’s license, he wanted to soar like a bird and feel the wind on his face.

He had studied Da Vinci’s sketches and the logic behind his contraption was irrefutably genius.  He set out to recreate Da Vinci’s brilliant apparatus and after a great deal of toiling and more than a few expletives he was able to stand back and appreciate all of his efforts.  It was finished.  It was brilliant.  It was ready for its first test.

After his laborious journey to bring Leonardo’s masterpiece to life, he intuitively knew he must wait until morning.  He wanted to be mentally and physically prepared for what would happen next and he knew a good night’s sleep would help him be at his best.

He looked up to the ceiling and yelled, seemingly to himself, “Get a good rest tonight.  Tomorrow, we fly.”

Morning came and the weather was perfect.  The sky was clear and the breeze guaranteed a splendid baptism into the world of flight.  He climbed the stairs to the attic and the sun beams peeked through the cracks in the roof.  The man in the corner of the room looked terrified.  The stranger was haggard, unkempt and the duct tape over his mouth prevented him from nourishing himself.  But even in the man’s fatigued condition, he was sure this man would still make a great test subject for the inaugural voyage.

He left his captive once again and wheeled his new gadget out onto the crest of the large hill that protected his house from unwanted visitors.  He had already created the launch ramp and after some serious effort on his part the plane was set and ready to be cut loose.

He ran back into the house with the enthusiasm of a child and dragged the man out of the attic.  The man put up a great struggle but he was no match for the willpower of the scientific mind.  Once the man had been strapped in, he viciously tore off the duct tape.  The man’s curses echoed in the valley below.  He methodically explained the steering mechanism to the man and explained what would have to happen during updrafts and downdrafts.  There was a pause in his instructions when he sadly mused that he would not be the first to test his gizmo but he was not stupid and knew there was room for error.

Once the tutorial was finished, he wished the man well and cut the umbilical cord holding the plane to the launch pad.  Gravity took over and the plane began to pick up speed.   The man’s screams could not be heard over the cacophony of the plane hurling down the launch ramp.  The loud noise of the wheels on the track stopped suddenly and the plane was in the air.  As graceful as an Eagle, the plane hovered on a gust of wind and seemed to stand perfectly still for a few seconds.

The breeze changed direction and he thought he was about to witness a magical flight.  But the plane seemed front heavy and could not maintain itself in the air.  He watched in horror as the plane did a nose drive, plummeted and crashed violently in the valley far below his house.

Reluctantly, he climbed into his ATV and drove down the long and winding path to see the carnage and sort through the wreckage.  His pilot did not survive the crash.  There were pieces of the plane he could salvage and he would begin building as soon as the light of the morning allowed him to begin.  Tonight he had another job.  Tonight he had to find himself a new pilot.

~~

Written for the Grammar Ghoul Challenge to use the above photo of Da Vinci’s sketch and the word “dream”.

mutant750-wk

 

The portal of wants and wishes

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I love dreaming.  I love waking up in the morning and putting together the pieces of colors and images that have splashed themselves onto the blank canvas in my sleep.  I thrive on spending time over coffee attempting to put together the jigsaw cut-outs and make sense of what they are trying to tell me.   Mornings are a constant source of recollection, collaboration and interpretation.   The maelstrom of the previous day becomes a masterpiece in my dreams that only I can put together the next day to make any sense of it.

Does that ever happen to you?  You spend so many conscious hours with something or someone at the forefront of your brain that they unwittingly seep into your nocturnal hours and wreak havoc in your dreams?  And it may not be the type of havoc that has you waking in a panic, covered in sweat, but the thought of them is left lingering in your mind to chase you around for another day.  It happens to me quite often with a myriad of things I encounter during my day.  It could be work or it could be a person I just can’t seem to shake from my thoughts.  I spend so many minutes of my day thinking about those things that I carry them into my dream world in a back pack that seems to open of its own volition and spill out into the landscape of my REM sleep.

(Image courtesy of Google)

And it is not that I go to bed with these thoughts whirling around in my head.  I have found a way to relax my brain before I drift off into that long-awaited slumber and wipe the stress and experience of the day from my mind.  But no matter what good intentions I have as I let the night pull down the shades of my eyelids, those waking thoughts transform themselves in my nightscape and travel through that mystical door of my dreams.  The invisible portal is opened and a new world of ideas and scenarios creeps into my subconscious.

And sometimes, if I wake early with the dream still lingering in the realm between awake and asleep, I long to get back to the dream.  Cherished moments, although created in another dimension of my reality, seem so real that I can live there again if I could only drift back into sleep.  My wishes wait there for me.  My desire holds firmly in its place to anticipate my safe arrival back through the portal of my dream world.

However, the invasion of my reality into those dreams is anticipated.  On occasion, work and family are now holding the seats in the front row of the performance of my dream to watch as the scene plays out for those final moments of my reanimated sleep.  The panorama that I had so carefully constructed in the previous hours of my dream world becomes interrupted with more genuine actuality than was originally anticipated.  Somehow that carefree abandon is now speckled with a plethora of reality and the dream that I truly wanted to dream about is invaded less by my unconscious and is now dominated by my conscious waking moments.  My dream is now a host to real life.

What about you?  Do your dreams take you on an adventure or do your dreams consist more of your reality?

Allegory of Madness – fiction

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Botticelli-primavera

The longer he stared at the painting, the more his grip on reality began to fragment.  His work had begun so innocently but, now that he had become so captivated by this painting, he knew his collection was far from complete.

He finished his lunch and made his way out of the museum.  Every day he spent 45 minutes, vaguely noticing that he was eating because he was so moved by Botticelli’s depiction of these women.  He was hypnotized by the way they seemed to be suspended in time.  He wanted that for his masterpiece.  He wanted to capture the very essence of life standing still as the famous painter had been able to achieve on his canvas.

The day dragged on and his thoughts turned to his work in progress.  If he put his artwork into perspective, it was a little over half-finished.  He knew he had a great deal of work to do before he could compare himself to the master.

As the office day came to a close, he gathered his artist tools and ventured out into the waning daylight to get inspired.  His black van wound through the streets and he steered towards the park.  He saw her from a distance.  Her blonde hair danced in the breeze and he was mesmerized.  Her had found her.  He had found his Flora.

He pulled up under an overhang of tree branches and, after a great deal of effort on his part, coaxed her over to the van.  He could see she was nervous and he enjoyed the ruse more than the actual abduction.  He had told her how much he wanted to capture her vitality on his canvas and she was duly flattered.  She didn’t see the syringe until it had been plunged into her upper arm.

When he arrived home, he flung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took her to the basement to meet the others.  The three Graces huddled in the corner, chained together, while the man who would portray Zephyrus lay unmoving in the corner.  Flora had not yet regained consciousness and he placed her gently on the mattress in the far corner, making sure to bind her wrists and ankles and chain her to the wall.

He was so close.  He only needed Spring and Venus to complete the picture.  He, of course, would play Mercury and, when all of the pieces were found, he would recreate Botticelli’s masterpiece in a living, human tableau.  He was convinced he would be able to display his masterpiece beside the original painting in the museum.

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mutant750-wk

Written for the Grammar Ghoul Challenge to use this visual prompt by Botticelli and the verb form of the word “fragment”.