Life Stories 

So I’ve been thinking lately. It’s the holidays, it’s cold out and I need a healthy dose of humor.

Therefore, I’m starting up another theme-esque exercise. Except it’s entirely different. Though I will get back to theme. Eventually.

This new post happiness comes with a disclaimer. Nobody panic.

DISCLAIMER: This is not an exercise that involves me running around town in a Disney Costume, singing at the top of my lungs. That would be well, a bit excessive.

If you were looking forward to that possibility, I have just crushed your dreams. But you’re still going to get some humor!

What I am going to do is document my day to day life. I’m entirely sarcastic but it’s okay.

Anyway I will be throwing my “life stories” at ya’ll (me mocking my twang that lately people have told me is there).

Paint: Part 2

This week I managed to pen out four poems instead of three. New record!

Each of the four poems that I wrote, have this symbolic connection to paint. A beautiful connection. It is this bridge that allows people to cross from the present into the past. It lets them see a time they may not have lived through. It can bring them a glimpse of the past, where their ancestors stayed in time.

This bridge it can reflect the sides of pop culture, by showing what was big during certain eras. It shows the ever changing style of the past and compares it to the present. Paint tells a story. Look at a painted wall and it can tell you a story you never would have knew.

My poems this week are: Taste of Life, Feral Time, Canvas Face, On the Wall.

Taste of Life, is a poem to describe life as a hopeless pit. It uses paint as a symbol for the leaving of one’s happiness due to failure, and how fast it can happen. The poem resolves by offering the hope of reaching happiness.

Feral Time, is probably my favorite. In the poem is the reference to popular culture, and to the changing of times. It sort of entails the aging of a person and how paint served as the symbol for time. Paint became the indicator when things changed and the drastic point to which they did.

Canvas Face, is a poem about makeup. Ladies rejoice, here ya go. Doing makeup is the painting of the face. The face is art, and foundation is the lucky paint.

On the Wall, is a story that could tell itself. In this poem story, the paint becomes a villain.

Paint: Part 1

Paint is often over looked. There’s a lot of symbolism that it holds. Often times it is over looked for the simple fact that it is in all of our lives in some way. It’s inanimate. It’s just paint. But is it really? When you throw paint into words as a symbol, things really begin to get interesting.

Think of it no more than it is. Paint, a lacquer that comes in all colors and many different consistencies. It is meant to cover something a wall, a canvas, someone’s face, clothing, any number of things. Most importantly it is meant to make something new out of something that has already been there.

Painting is doing makeup every morning. The face, it becomes something new. An alter person.

Plowing a field, turning the grass brown and spreading it smooth. It is an earth painting.

Paint is simply a new beginning.

Add personification to that and the tales of where paint runs, are endless to the imagination.

Whispers: Part 1

Since I’m investigating theme I think it’s important before I do anything else to figure out where I stand on whispers. 

I watched way too many horror movies growing up. It’s safe to say whispers rarely lead to happy places in the movie perspective.

Now when I take a look at whispers as a whole I picture someone cupping their hand over another’s ear to whisper a secret to them. 

When I read about whispers I always see that dark forest scene. Someone running through the woods, scary whisper sounds resonating around every corner.

Whispers seem always to take this form of personification. Whispers come as a sense. They are a sound that comes from between someone’s lips. When these whispers are projected at someone to scare them, it feels as if they are are reaching out or coming after. We can infer that there is a person or thing behind them, but the sounds themself take an entire form of being. 

There is this madness behind it. What drives the force behind the sound?

Any thoughts on Whispers? 

Theme and All Its Horror

I am not one to explore theme. When structuring a novel I stick to one genre and include multiple underlying themes. With a motif or two. I stick in my little bubble.

Lately I’ve been getting this writerly itch. Maybe it’s my time to explore outside the realms of this reclusive writer personality. Write a little stranger. Push boundaries and see where I can go with it.

I asked my lovely writer’s group what they thought about this. They all confided with similar responses. “Being a writer is all about pushing your limits, exploring new things, new ideas.”

So I’m embarking on this weird journey. Exploring not genres, but themes. Another thing I am trying is poetry.

I’ve been on the poetry wagon for about seven months now. It’s entirely outside my realm, but it’s kind of fun.

So in order to understand different ideas, and broaden my thinking. I am trying something different. Each week is listed with a theme. This week’s theme is whispers.

 

Whisper Killings

CHIRP! CHIRP!

Come nothingness.

Bloody cries,

Dry cut.

Stiff trails,

Edging the wind.

Sins,

Spilt from the mind,

Doused in fruitless routine.

Trees,

Giants in frequent darkness.

A forest scene,

In typical reprise.

Day becomes night,

Figures become shadows.

Shadows whisper,

Until shadows scream.

At dawn a body,

Is subjected to whispers.

Everyone knows,

And now they don’t.

 

Habitual

I don’t like to think of myself as a habitual monster. I like spontaneity. Having no plans, living in the moment. Breathing in life as it comes.

But if you are as forgetful as I am, being spontaneous is a hopeless illusion of another life. I make lists, I have to write things down. I am young, but I’ve forgotten who I am a time or two.

My lists aren’t only things I have to do, they are sometimes goals. A few times, even my dreams.

Writing lists is one of my habits, but it reminds me to stay me. It keeps me sane. Even though I am participating in a habit, it teaches me to break the conformity once in a while. Forget something on the list. It’s not the end of the world.

I have a new character. She is unlike anything other character I have created before. She struggles with her conscience, whether she should do what everyone wants her to or forget about it all and stick to her own plan, acting like the world never existed. It’s this power struggle. Stick to a bad habit or run wild? I am interested to see where I can go with with this character. She is leading the story in  many different directions, she is unreliable, unpredictable, she wants you to believe you know the way.

This character has led me to try to break up my habits. Do something different for a change.

One of the new things I started is poetry. I stick to lengthy fiction on a basis, but this. It has opened new doors.

I’m prepared to share some soon.

Breaking a habit can be life changing or a small change can bring a little happiness. It’s not a bad thing to break out of the normal.