A random morning thought...

I realize half the time when I'm feeling bad or upset about something, it's not something I actually should feel bad or upset about. It's me beating myself up because I've been socially programmed to react a certain way, even though the intellectual, rational side of me doesn't really see the point.

Must learn to be more callous and less humanitarian. Could be so much more effective of a person that way.

Freewriting: Language and Goddess

Free Writing Assignment: Write whatever for 10 minutes on the words "language" and "goddess".



The proverbial Muse is a haggard bitch. She sits in the corner, spitting at me with crooked yellowing teeth, a far cry from the graceful goddess of epic lore. I wrinkle my noise at her stench, a sour odor of piss and sweat, mixed with the uncomfortable smell of a stale living room. It's the smell of my own imagined failure. No goddess of light and love, of poetry and music, of words and art, blesses me today. Today, she is a fucking bitch and won't let me write.

(Image is courtesy of //Big Bang Art)

500 Words on a Photo

Writing Assignment: Write 500 words or so, based on looking at a photograph of your choice. The writing must be about what cannot be seen in the photo, about an inner story suggested by the photo, based on the photo, etc.

It was a beautiful autumn morning, full of soft, warm light with a fresh breeze filling the air with just a taste of the ocean. Most mornings, I barely noticed such things, rushing as I did to get to work, run my errands, and keep up my life. It was the busiest time of year for me and I had much to do.

Every morning as I rushed to work, I passed by the man who sat in the courtyard. Sometimes, I saw him being assisted down the stairs by a younger woman, perhaps his granddaughter. On especially fine mornings, like this one, the young woman (a girl still, really) always made sure to find the warmest spot in the yard. She spoke to me once, as I passed them in the courtyard, smiling in greeting.

However this morning the man was alone. He sat in a patch of sunshine, the rays slanting as they do at this time of year, with the late-blooming foliage of fall delicately shaded about him. There was something about him, the way his face was thrust out to greet the sun.

I realized with some shock that the man must be blind. His eyes gazed out into the morning sun without faltering, but his ears were attentive, twitching at the sound of a truck rumbling by, the sound of a woman’s laughter coming through an open window. He just sat in the sunlight, listening to the passing traffic, rubbing his hand over the rough stone texture of the bench he sat on.

Emboldened by his blindness, I studied his face. He sat forward, leaning slightly into the sunshine, neither smiling nor frowning, with eyes wide open, staring, seeing nothing. With some surprise, I noticed his face had relatively few lines and that the skin was still quite smooth in some places, at odds with the age I had mentally assigned him. His habitual stillness and the helpful girl had misled me.

As if we had been chatting together this whole time, the man spoke to me across the courtyard. His voice was a deep, rich bass with a musical lilt to his accent. He spoke so naturally to me I found myself moving towards him and sitting beside him on the rough stone bench without a second thought. He did not turn towards me and together we sat in the sunshine, framed by delicate autumn foliage.

And then he began to sing. What a glorious voice this man had. Like him, it was neither old nor young, but replete with something I had lost and had forgotten. In the warm sunshine of a beautiful autumn morning, a blind man sang to me.

Oh take me back to the days when I was young

When the light was warm and soft and not yet done

Oh take me back to the days when I was young

Take me forward to the day

When my hair is old and grey

Take me forward to the day

When the jewels of youth I may exchange

For pearls of wisdom, a crown of age

Take me forward to that day

It was a beautiful morning that I have never forgotten.

Free Writing: Exercise 1

Write at random for 10-15 minutes using these words:

Produce

Storm

As I walked past the street corner, I suddenly realized it was a grocery store. The realization startled me, freezing the moment and warping my perception of it. In that moment, the inside of the store gave off an unreal bluish glow. The bright bits of orange and yellow, arranged in cunningly charming ordered piles, were strangely seen, as if through a piece of tinted blue glass.

As I continued on past the street corner, I saw how small it was, with non-industrial standard shelves (quite homey, really) displaying available goods, mostly expensive boutique food. Huh. Who would have thunk? Your very own grocery store, on the bottom floor, just like it was New York. Not that I'd ever lived there. Nor did I think we were in New York at the moment. Irvine is probably as opposite to Manhattan as you could get.

I'm going nowhere with these very pointless speculations.

So I sat down and smoothed down my skirt, waiting for him. Oh, there was a very big and noisy fountain. All lit up. Figures.