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It’s a lazy Sunday for some of you out there. For those that can cat-stretch and muse the hours away, do I have a recommendation for you (especially you avid readers and writers). Webook is a site that allows you to submit your literary pieces and to rate others’ literary pieces.
Thanks to this site, I have been busy for hours, reading all sorts of material. The range of topics, plots, and characters that people choose to create and explore is fascinating. Since many of my friends do not fancy creative writing, I rarely get to read through another person’s work of fiction. Being exposed to so many different writing styles and capabilities helps me measure my own abilities. I am able to approach my creative writing endeavors with fresh eyes after the rating exercise.
I haven’t yet submitted a piece to be evaluated, but I plan to in the future. Maybe you’ll see me there.
Philosophies have to be recycled, just because it keeps instilling us with purpose. We, maybe more than ever, just don’t know what to choose. (Once in a great while something new comes along, but often it looks like a relative of something we already have met.)
So many concepts and entities are thrown our way. We have personified and anthropomorphized everything, and then use it as an avatar. (Rocket fuel.)
Just in case I was wondering what my obsessions were, Wordle provides a clear visualization of the contents of my text. What really comes From the Horse’s Mouth (Skin’s, in particular)?
I will never wonder again why so many Google searches for Absurdism are directed to my blog. Additionally, what I find amusing is the rather large chunk of space that is taken up by one of my fictional characters.
In honor of one of my favorite bands (and musicians), I have generated a word cloud consisting of all the lyrics off of Them Crooked Vultures album.
To live in perpetual morning-
with the changing sky: a palette of visible passage
with the quiet murmurs: dreams escaping lips, songs escaping beaks
with the subtle scents: hot water passing through ground, roasted beans
This morning, I did not shower. It is the first day in a long time that I did not feel the need. I decided to allow my own oils to coat my skin rather than rinsing them away in micelles formed after the common usage of bars derived from the fat of other animals. My hair is malleable, not dry and flat. My skin does not raise an inflammatory response to enhanced fragrances. It feels more natural this way.
So the bottom comes up
Cows chew their own sick
Are you a cow, Dear?
No new channels are made.
Though the Self is fed the lines
that new channels
are a goal;
stir for the sake of stirring…
sediment rises with acid
and nowhere to go.
A good story never provides ALL of the information on a particular subject in one place. It does, however, provide enough mirrors to reflect upon and angle just so, so that infinity spreads out before a merry wanderer. (And we’re all wanderers.)
The morning is cool and rainy, perfect for the day after All Hallows’ Eve. We remembered the dead and faced our fears; we sought out the forgotten and broke some bounds. Be mindful of one’s costume, for like attracts like. Donning hues of violet and perriwinkle in amidst sparkles and elven mimicry, I was perfectly aware of the visitors to come. They move swiftly on winds and through light and shadow, whispering and giggling as they hide in plain sight. Quiet smiles cross my lips as I match their fun and revelry.
“Keep her away from feisty floral life, bright rings and the hedgerow, for we may never see her again,” they would say as I share my apple with my friends, watching many of them float among dandelion seeds and curtains of mist. I do not distrust them in ways that many humans do (even when there is fair reason to). The mix of blood in my veins, my guardian trees and patron cats afford natural protection as well as tight bonds. We understand each others’ desires and whims, dances and games. Playing does require an odd sense of humor, patience and proper guidelines. If you do not know those guidelines, here is not the place to seek those answers. (Not all at once. Remember?) What I can tell you is this: the answers are found in countless stories, many you have surely heard numerous times before. The secrets are wrapped in silk words that move like water in the brook or clouds across the moon.
Stories have great power: power to inspire, power to lull, ignite, placate, woo, usurp, persuade, break, rouse… the list is as numerous as the stories themselves. Pick your favorites wisely. Commit some to memory, and toss others to the wolves or out your window. You are known by many by which ones you choose to tell. This is how they know you.
Microscopic shards of glass migrate through my hand
I appreciate color
Color by num63r5
(hid secrets in the sequence)
knew more than it would expect.
Math is promiscuous.
If math were a woman, she’d probably be a librarian type.
No, wait! She’d have superpowers!
Her footsteps would be music.
Her doodles would be perfect spirals in the golden ratio.
She’d never be lost.
Her laughter would be coordinates to new lands.
She’d wear geometric patterns and textured stockings.
Colors would change around her,
depending on the balance of her bank account.
In theory, she could be a cook, but she’d never deviate from the recipe,
hence missing the most important ingredient: _ _ _ _ .
Goldfish are always happy in my mind.
I like to see them smile.
(Seaweed salads are much better tasting than I had originally anticipated.)
A collage of thoughts seems to go on forever…
What is that woman’s name?…
That clairvoyant, schizophrenic writer
Hannah Weiner, I think.
Hannah is a palindrome. Oh, how I love them.
Hearts and minds…