You know, I haven't posted in a while. I haven't written in a while. I recently started a deal with Stephen that if he works on game development and I work on writing, we must share with each other every Friday. This encourages us to keep a deadline and put a fire to our feet! Hopefully this will work! For now, I am posting an old story that I still feel has lots of potential to get bigger. What do you think?
Thanks for any advice/suggestions.
It is a big lengthy...
Intervention
By: Anna R. Fay
I came to my computer and sat down within the plush leather chair before the old hand-me-down desk. I scanned quickly over the cluttered counter and counted the Coke cans. I attempted alliteration about all the awkward objects in array. They were clever consonants and counts to poetic construction. I fell and failed famously… I decided to grab a pen and a Post It Note to scrawl my artistic ideas. Perhaps a haiku could break this atrocious block in my path.
College life sucks hard.
Individual failings.
This haiku sucks too.
Okay, so perhaps that wasn’t the best option either. I scratched out the haiku and attempted it again. A new motivation!
Squares keep me held back.
Creative expression, gone.
I want a cookie.
So the haiku bit wasn’t working for me. I scrapped the idea all together. Furtively I tossed the Post it Notes in the garbage and turned to glare at the darkened computer screen. This was my own personal hell I had designed. All the creative juice a writer could ask for and I was wasting it before a computer I was too lazy to turn on.
I glanced around the small cube like room and begged for something to catch my interest. The remote control to the television was a full three feet away from my current position. Television was instantly scratched off my mental list. Playstation might be an option, but alas! It too was a full five steps from my chair. Entertainment by blowing buildings up vanished. I looked longingly at a book I should have started reading weeks ago but had left to rot in a drawer. Should I dare be an overachiever now? Poof! That was eliminated. I turned to the only object left within my reach. The computer. I pressed the button…
The mechanics of the computer within crackled and groaned to life. I heard Poe, my computer, grumble at me in machinery language. “Do something else… Please, I am begging for a break.” It was true. I stayed on my computer more than any college student should. I spent my life wasting away on flash game sites and playing Free Cell until my mind was numbed by red and black symbols and numbers. Windows seethed at me in a flickering fashion, glaring as procrastination was setting in. I looked away.
The background exploded in my face and I stared at the colorful background. It was a façade for some semblance of normality or happiness. Oh beautiful fall! It’s a time of peace and pumpkin pie! It’s not a time of locking yourself away in the library, pulling your hair out over seven papers, three projects ten books and a million power point slides. Of course not! It’s a season of joy and cuddling, not contemplating if you can survive the semester.
I clicked on Microsoft Word in prayer that something would spark me. Nearly ten minutes I sat there, fumbling with the idea of pulling up Free Cell to “generate ideas”. I knew that if I clicked that King avatar I would play the game for two hours with no advancement on the Word page except “the”. What was a good exercise to try? I had heard of one.
“Have a conversation with your creative conscious,” the site had said. How the hell was I supposed to do that? How the hell was I supposed to talk to myself without sounding schizophrenic? Without my even wanting to the scene began to form before me.
My creative conscious would stroll in the room with a pair of ripped dungarees and a stained t-shirt. She’d probably be smoking a cigarette to spite my asthmatic state and even possibly chugging a beer. God forbid she have a Greenday shirt on, I’d have to kill us both. Her hair would be in disarray, poking from a low kept ponytail and her face would be covered in pimples and scars. Scars from where she pushed too hard at them in an effort to keep her appearance.
I’d be in my chair glancing nervously at the clock every few seconds, waiting for her to show up. When she finally arrived I’d tuck a strand of hair neatly from my face and glare at her.
“Where have you been?” I’d pipe in first, my voice a little higher than I would have liked.
“Seeing the world while you crash and burn in your damn room,” she sounded like a woman on more drugs that a pharmacy had to offer. I had really let her go to waste.
“I have been here, waiting for you. Why haven’t you come?”
“Bitch, I was out having some world class fun. No way was I going to sit here and rot with you.”
“I am not rotting.”
“You’re a nervous wreck. You haven’t used me in weeks.”
“Days.”
“Weeks.”
“Maybe months,” I sighed at her in resolve and looked her over again. She had gone to shit. There was something poking out of that shirt, something I hadn’t noticed before.
“Is that a beer belly?” I squealed and jumped from my chair, startled by the absolutely piss poor shape my creative conscious had gotten too.
“Yeah, and stop referring to me as ‘creative conscious’. That’s way too mature for your lame ass. Call me… CiCi.”
I blinked at her; once, twice and a third time before I finally replied, “CiCi? Alright, fine.” I had no urge to argue with her over a nickname. “Where have you been?”
She flopped down in one of the chairs, sitting like a jock with an itch problem. The beer arm laced over the back of the chair and the cigarette would go to her lips. I could feel my lungs blackening already. “You can’t smoke here,” I muttered in refute. CiCi let out a cackle of laughter and shook her head. She tossed the beer left and right and finally took a long hard swig. I could taste it on my tongue. It was that mundane flavoring of watered down piss.
“Jesus that’s foul.”
“Yeah, like you would know,” she scoffed at my lack of partying and alcohol interest.”Besides, I’m not real. Smoke alarms don’t detect the imagination, Anna.”
“Touché,” was all I could think to spit at her under my breath.
“I have been hitting the road, touring the campus. Oh, yeah I’ve been with you but always a few steps behind. You know that tree you liked so much the other day? Yeah, I saw it too. Made a few lines about it, scribbled them down and then burnt them. ‘They weren’t any good.’”
Her voice was mocking of my words spoken not a day or so ago. My eyes widened and I shook my head. “You did what? What were they? Why would you do that?” I screeched at CiCi and she smirked. “Give me that Post It Note.” She nodded to the stack of yellow. I grabbed it and handed it and a pen over to her. I felt the pen scratch across the paper as she scrawled in familiar hand writing. The lines were passed to me and I read them carefully four times over:
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
That is true.
But what admiration for this tree is due?
It’s older.
It’s tall and it’s nearly bare of leaves and life.
There’s color.
Red and green mix to make astonishing gold.
It’s a war.
The wind blows remaining cadets into dust.
It is still.
No more cadets, no more colors, only claws.
The lines possessed a beauty I had only glanced over. These… These were my words that I had been too selfish to put down. Here CiCi had taken the time to slap them on a tarnished yellow Post It Note to rub it in my face. My eyes welled with tears and I quickly blinked them away.
“That’s beautiful. Why would you destroy that?” My voice sounded hopeless.
“It wasn’t for an assignment.” She eyed me with wise chestnut brown hues and looked over the wire glasses that I knew so well. It seemed that the poor rendition of trailer park brilliance was correct.
“You pass off all writings unless it’s for class. If it’s not for a grade or if it’s not an assignment you abandon it and put it off to the last minute. But-“
“The last minute never comes.”
“Bingo,” she made a fake gun with her cigarette fingers and took a long hit from the roll. The smoke filled my lungs again and I looked down at the Post It Note. She was right; I had been letting myself go. Here I had to have a conversation with my creative- with CiCi when I could have written all those things before.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could choke out to her.
She smirked and downed the rest of the beer. She straight shot it to the garbage and took the cigarette to the sink and doused it in water that was left in a milk glass.
“Let’s have an intervention,” was what she said to me. The strangest words I had ever heard but the most useful. She crossed the room and sat down in the chair next to mine. My fingers began to work.
Marquee
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Country Fun
Greetings everyone! I am back with a new photography project. My nieces and nephews have come over the past few days and I began thinking about the fun we have. It seems different than what others might expect. We live in the mountains of North Carolina and the backyard they all play in has a creek that stretches as far as their imaginations, a huge pasture, and a bunch of woods.
I decided to take a look a the finer details, the small things in their country living. Tell me what you think, editing, composition, etc.
Thanks!
I decided to take a look a the finer details, the small things in their country living. Tell me what you think, editing, composition, etc.
Thanks!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Graduation
I had an eye opening experience last night. It was probably the most adorable thing I have ever seen as well!
If you haven't heard about my nephew Caiden... Well, then, you might need to sit down.
Caiden is a five year old bundle of a mess. He is a fast and smooth talking kid who has a mouth bigger than his behind, if you catch my drift. For example- My family shares "Caiden Stories". These stories are normally the product of the phone ringing at my house at dinner time, mom answering it and the following one sided dialogue comes from her:
"What? No."
"No..."
"He did what?"
"Uhuh."
"Yeah."
"HAHAHA!" (If you know my mother then you know her laugh!) Odds are, the louder her laugh the more hysterical the situation.
My sister, his mamma, has decided that the family is going to clean on their beautiful Saturday. Cameron is sent to clean his room and the grudging ten year old saunters off to a room filled with books, toys, and sheets that haven't been straightened since the first time he slept in them.
Keith, her husband, is vacuuming around the house while my brave, brave sister has taken on the task of teaching Caiden how to clean. She has started this by going through the play room. This room is stocked with piles of toys. It contains everything from large motorized toys to broken pieces from an ancient Monopoly set.
"Caiden," she says, "Do you pay with this toy?"
She holds up a toy that is half removed of its color.
Caiden has taken a sudden interest and launches for the toy. "I do now," the then four-year old says.
"No, Caiden. Have you played with it this week? Last week? Any time?"
"Yeah! I love this toy!"
The toy is soon abandoned in sad slow motion as it falls to the ground and watches Caiden grab another, more interesting toy that was forgotten in the clutter.
Imagine three hours of this. My sister has the largest attention span and dedication of the family. I would have given up at forty minutes let alone three hours.
She moves onto the kitchen and leaves Caiden in the play room to revel the memories he won't ever recall. After five hours the house is finished and grocery shopping is needing to be accomplished.
"I'm going to the store. I'm going alone this time."
Keith turns from the baseball game on the screen and gives her a wide eyed stare. Yes, the death sentence. Cameron emerges from his room, disgruntled but alive. "Can I go mamma?"
She looks at Cameron and an idea hatches. "Yes, Cameron. Of course you can go. Caiden has to stay here because he didn't clean his room."
Caiden launches himself at her feet and latches on tight. "Mamma! Please! Mamma, please, take me! I want to go."
The melodrama is too much and she caves. Caiden goes with her to the grocery story and when they arrive she grabs him up to place him in the buggy. If you've ever seen a cat resist a bath in the older cartoons then you can imagine Caiden trying to be pushed into the buggy. Claws are out and he is sucking in his stomach to stay away.
"Mamma, I'll be good. Please, please, don't put me in the buggy. I'll be good. Hands in my pockets, I swear!"
Again, she goes against better judgements but allows him to walk like a "big boy". Well, the short list is completed and within the last three objects to collect, Caiden is in the buggy, slumped in defeat. His "big boy" instincts and promises couldn't be backed up.
While my sister is deciding if she wants almonds or chestnuts a clap resounds behind her. Caiden has his hands clasped over the buggy handle and his forehead pressed on his knuckles. His face is scrunched into pain, begging, and longing.
"Dear God," he begins, "please never have my mamma make me clean my room again. And God, please, if it takes that long again- never let it take that long again. And God, let her know that a messy room is a happy room." My sister has dropped the nuts in the isle and is staring at her youngest son. Cameron is stuck between fits of laughter and absolute disbelief. "Amen."
Caiden looks up, the spiritual moment has passed and he is wondering why the lady at the end of the isle is laughing at him as she puts beans into her buggy. My sister doesn't know whether to beat him leave him to be claimed by some other family.
Whether it is a religious experience or some profane knowledge he has learned, Caiden is not abashed to share it with the world.
Little Caiden graduated from pre-school yesterday and it reminded me of how far he has come. Like many say, it feels like yesterday that I had to hold his hand to make sure he can walk steadily. I remember being only ten and holding baby Kirsten Dawn (my niece on my brother's side) in my arms. She was the first baby I had ever held or taken care of. Then came Cameron, the first baby I ever truly babysat after school. I didn't have much hand in David because I met him a little after he was beyond the bottle.
Last summer was one of the hardest summers of my life. I watched three boys and one girl. The ages were 10, 9, 8, and 4. By five o'clock I was ready to pass out. However, the was rarely a day that I said "I can't do it" or I even considered not having them back. I never second guessed my decision to watch them and play with them.
I grew a lot that summer and I have a feeling I am growing a lot now too. It isn't going to stop. I used to be in the mini graduation robe playing with the foreign object stringing down from my funny shaped hat. I used to be the girl who wanted to be Indian Jones when I grew up. It is nice to see that in my younger family members, it is nice to know that I used to be that and I don't have to stop being that. My need for adventure and pits filled with snakes has adapted. I can now write it or inspire it in other people.
So, here is to you Caiden! I will go into the next years of my life praying to God that cleaning my room doesn't last too long and that people will realize a messy room can be a happy room.
Enough about me! What about you guys out there? I don't like professing myself as if you came here just to read all about me! Ugh, how egotistical. Do you have any crazy family members? Any younger siblings that drive you nuts but speak profane knowledge?
Let me know! I'd love to hear it!
If you haven't heard about my nephew Caiden... Well, then, you might need to sit down.
Caiden is a five year old bundle of a mess. He is a fast and smooth talking kid who has a mouth bigger than his behind, if you catch my drift. For example- My family shares "Caiden Stories". These stories are normally the product of the phone ringing at my house at dinner time, mom answering it and the following one sided dialogue comes from her:
"What? No."
"No..."
"He did what?"
"Uhuh."
"Yeah."
"HAHAHA!" (If you know my mother then you know her laugh!) Odds are, the louder her laugh the more hysterical the situation.
My sister, his mamma, has decided that the family is going to clean on their beautiful Saturday. Cameron is sent to clean his room and the grudging ten year old saunters off to a room filled with books, toys, and sheets that haven't been straightened since the first time he slept in them.
Keith, her husband, is vacuuming around the house while my brave, brave sister has taken on the task of teaching Caiden how to clean. She has started this by going through the play room. This room is stocked with piles of toys. It contains everything from large motorized toys to broken pieces from an ancient Monopoly set.
"Caiden," she says, "Do you pay with this toy?"
She holds up a toy that is half removed of its color.
Caiden has taken a sudden interest and launches for the toy. "I do now," the then four-year old says.
"No, Caiden. Have you played with it this week? Last week? Any time?"
"Yeah! I love this toy!"
The toy is soon abandoned in sad slow motion as it falls to the ground and watches Caiden grab another, more interesting toy that was forgotten in the clutter.
Imagine three hours of this. My sister has the largest attention span and dedication of the family. I would have given up at forty minutes let alone three hours.
She moves onto the kitchen and leaves Caiden in the play room to revel the memories he won't ever recall. After five hours the house is finished and grocery shopping is needing to be accomplished.
"I'm going to the store. I'm going alone this time."
Keith turns from the baseball game on the screen and gives her a wide eyed stare. Yes, the death sentence. Cameron emerges from his room, disgruntled but alive. "Can I go mamma?"
She looks at Cameron and an idea hatches. "Yes, Cameron. Of course you can go. Caiden has to stay here because he didn't clean his room."
Caiden launches himself at her feet and latches on tight. "Mamma! Please! Mamma, please, take me! I want to go."
The melodrama is too much and she caves. Caiden goes with her to the grocery story and when they arrive she grabs him up to place him in the buggy. If you've ever seen a cat resist a bath in the older cartoons then you can imagine Caiden trying to be pushed into the buggy. Claws are out and he is sucking in his stomach to stay away.
"Mamma, I'll be good. Please, please, don't put me in the buggy. I'll be good. Hands in my pockets, I swear!"
Again, she goes against better judgements but allows him to walk like a "big boy". Well, the short list is completed and within the last three objects to collect, Caiden is in the buggy, slumped in defeat. His "big boy" instincts and promises couldn't be backed up.
While my sister is deciding if she wants almonds or chestnuts a clap resounds behind her. Caiden has his hands clasped over the buggy handle and his forehead pressed on his knuckles. His face is scrunched into pain, begging, and longing.
"Dear God," he begins, "please never have my mamma make me clean my room again. And God, please, if it takes that long again- never let it take that long again. And God, let her know that a messy room is a happy room." My sister has dropped the nuts in the isle and is staring at her youngest son. Cameron is stuck between fits of laughter and absolute disbelief. "Amen."
Caiden looks up, the spiritual moment has passed and he is wondering why the lady at the end of the isle is laughing at him as she puts beans into her buggy. My sister doesn't know whether to beat him leave him to be claimed by some other family.
Whether it is a religious experience or some profane knowledge he has learned, Caiden is not abashed to share it with the world.
Little Caiden graduated from pre-school yesterday and it reminded me of how far he has come. Like many say, it feels like yesterday that I had to hold his hand to make sure he can walk steadily. I remember being only ten and holding baby Kirsten Dawn (my niece on my brother's side) in my arms. She was the first baby I had ever held or taken care of. Then came Cameron, the first baby I ever truly babysat after school. I didn't have much hand in David because I met him a little after he was beyond the bottle.
Last summer was one of the hardest summers of my life. I watched three boys and one girl. The ages were 10, 9, 8, and 4. By five o'clock I was ready to pass out. However, the was rarely a day that I said "I can't do it" or I even considered not having them back. I never second guessed my decision to watch them and play with them.
I grew a lot that summer and I have a feeling I am growing a lot now too. It isn't going to stop. I used to be in the mini graduation robe playing with the foreign object stringing down from my funny shaped hat. I used to be the girl who wanted to be Indian Jones when I grew up. It is nice to see that in my younger family members, it is nice to know that I used to be that and I don't have to stop being that. My need for adventure and pits filled with snakes has adapted. I can now write it or inspire it in other people.
So, here is to you Caiden! I will go into the next years of my life praying to God that cleaning my room doesn't last too long and that people will realize a messy room can be a happy room.
Enough about me! What about you guys out there? I don't like professing myself as if you came here just to read all about me! Ugh, how egotistical. Do you have any crazy family members? Any younger siblings that drive you nuts but speak profane knowledge?
Let me know! I'd love to hear it!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Catch-Up
Catch up! My favorite game... (Insert Sarcastic Laugh Here)
Working with old photographs this late allows me time to learn Photoshop, a beast I haven't tackled very heavily. I can do basic touch ups but nothing too extreme. I have recently made some new backgrounds and photo effects. I also learned some severe touching up skills and after nearly three hours of tutorials I feel like I can actually take a baby step on my own.
Aside from the overexposed clunkery (made that myself) that I see around, I decided to work a bit more naturally with some photographs. As always, you can see the results at my Flickr and the link to the right... Yes, right over there. Click it and you will find all my previous photographs!
Enjoy, comment, suggest, whatever you please!
Working with old photographs this late allows me time to learn Photoshop, a beast I haven't tackled very heavily. I can do basic touch ups but nothing too extreme. I have recently made some new backgrounds and photo effects. I also learned some severe touching up skills and after nearly three hours of tutorials I feel like I can actually take a baby step on my own.
Aside from the overexposed clunkery (made that myself) that I see around, I decided to work a bit more naturally with some photographs. As always, you can see the results at my Flickr and the link to the right... Yes, right over there. Click it and you will find all my previous photographs!
Enjoy, comment, suggest, whatever you please!
Monday, May 16, 2011
Post-Apocalyptic Punk
Greetings!
I finally have time to write again! These past few months have been the most difficult of my life. Trying to balance friendships, a wonderful boyfriend, family, internships, normal college courses, and various extra activities is a hard thing to do. In a way I am glad for it because it makes me appreciate good readings and the times I get to read, write, and do some photography.
I have done all three.
First off I would like everyone to take a few days out of their summer and read "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
Whether you like young adult or not, this book is sure you leave you satisfied and craving for more of Panem, a post-apocalyptic America. It has reached several generations, both genders, and many different interest ranges. I haven't met a person yet who has walked away from this series without satisfaction or an absolute love of the characters in it. Suzanne Collins is stunningly creative and high visual. What is on the page really comes alive! Do yourself a favor and pick this up at the local bookstore.
I have also had a chance to write a short story inspired by a certain song!
"Give Us a Little Love" by Fallulah
I will ago ahead and apologize for the typos and rough style. I have not had a chance to edit. As always I would LOVE to know what you think of it! Any help, editing, and critique is loved!
The story is:
The Desert
The little hand clasped inside of mine trembled. The wriggling fingers expressed what his words will never be able to tell. His fear was my fear. His excitement was my absolute dread. So much had been left outside so many years ago. We turned our backs on that history, turned our backs on that way of life, and ran inside. Now, after years beneath the surface we were allowed to return. No. We had to return. We had to see what was beyond. We were being forced by some invisible hand to the threshold of our disdain and our ruin.
“It’s an adventure, right?” The little voice said to my hip. I had to concentrate hard to pull my eyes away from the hatch.
My brother, Michael, stood staring up at me with eyes that were my father’s and pouting with lips like my mother’s. His fingers gripped tighter, feeling now like a bird was landing in my palm. An adventure? To him the game was not over. We started this game before- when the sirens wailed like wolves through the alley ways. The only way to get Michael to budge from the house was to tell him that we had to run like the other people. We had to get away from the ghouls and the wolves to a safe place. Only he could lead us there.
That began the torturous game of running through the streets with Michael on my shoulders. He was guiding me left and right, urging me to follow his directions as my feet padded deafly to the bomb shelter. Some of us in the city had prepared for this, others were blind. They believed the government would save them and that this was simply a drill.
They were the first of many casualties that day. The first of many casualties of a war I knew so little about.
I finally have time to write again! These past few months have been the most difficult of my life. Trying to balance friendships, a wonderful boyfriend, family, internships, normal college courses, and various extra activities is a hard thing to do. In a way I am glad for it because it makes me appreciate good readings and the times I get to read, write, and do some photography.
I have done all three.
First off I would like everyone to take a few days out of their summer and read "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
Whether you like young adult or not, this book is sure you leave you satisfied and craving for more of Panem, a post-apocalyptic America. It has reached several generations, both genders, and many different interest ranges. I haven't met a person yet who has walked away from this series without satisfaction or an absolute love of the characters in it. Suzanne Collins is stunningly creative and high visual. What is on the page really comes alive! Do yourself a favor and pick this up at the local bookstore.
I have also had a chance to write a short story inspired by a certain song!
"Give Us a Little Love" by Fallulah
I will ago ahead and apologize for the typos and rough style. I have not had a chance to edit. As always I would LOVE to know what you think of it! Any help, editing, and critique is loved!
The story is:
The Desert
The little hand clasped inside of mine trembled. The wriggling fingers expressed what his words will never be able to tell. His fear was my fear. His excitement was my absolute dread. So much had been left outside so many years ago. We turned our backs on that history, turned our backs on that way of life, and ran inside. Now, after years beneath the surface we were allowed to return. No. We had to return. We had to see what was beyond. We were being forced by some invisible hand to the threshold of our disdain and our ruin.
“It’s an adventure, right?” The little voice said to my hip. I had to concentrate hard to pull my eyes away from the hatch.
My brother, Michael, stood staring up at me with eyes that were my father’s and pouting with lips like my mother’s. His fingers gripped tighter, feeling now like a bird was landing in my palm. An adventure? To him the game was not over. We started this game before- when the sirens wailed like wolves through the alley ways. The only way to get Michael to budge from the house was to tell him that we had to run like the other people. We had to get away from the ghouls and the wolves to a safe place. Only he could lead us there.
That began the torturous game of running through the streets with Michael on my shoulders. He was guiding me left and right, urging me to follow his directions as my feet padded deafly to the bomb shelter. Some of us in the city had prepared for this, others were blind. They believed the government would save them and that this was simply a drill.
They were the first of many casualties that day. The first of many casualties of a war I knew so little about.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Fibonacci
Fibonacci
Hello everyone! Long time no see. I finally have a time to breathe and a time to my work. I have had some inspiration, which is giving these next few pieces a lot of credit.
I'd like to think I created this formula myself... Odds are that someone on earth has already created more and made them famous. They were fun nonetheless.
The Fibonacci Sequence is a sequence of numbers. If you have see or read "The Da Vinci Code" you know of what I speak. 1,1,2,3,5,8,13. What do these numbers have in common? 1+1=2 1+2=3 2+3=5 etc. etc.
Well, take a look at the following poems.
Should
You
Gaze at
Clouds passing
By like thought bubbles
Floating and tumbling with such weight?
Living is so much more than these outdated ideals.
Pace,
Sharp,
Precise,
Describes words
And measures music.
Art is mathematical.
Survival is abstract as the damage dealt tonight.
Let me know what you think!
I always love feedback so please feel free to leave it whether anonymously or not!
Hello everyone! Long time no see. I finally have a time to breathe and a time to my work. I have had some inspiration, which is giving these next few pieces a lot of credit.
I'd like to think I created this formula myself... Odds are that someone on earth has already created more and made them famous. They were fun nonetheless.
The Fibonacci Sequence is a sequence of numbers. If you have see or read "The Da Vinci Code" you know of what I speak. 1,1,2,3,5,8,13. What do these numbers have in common? 1+1=2 1+2=3 2+3=5 etc. etc.
Well, take a look at the following poems.
Should
You
Gaze at
Clouds passing
By like thought bubbles
Floating and tumbling with such weight?
Living is so much more than these outdated ideals.
Pace,
Sharp,
Precise,
Describes words
And measures music.
Art is mathematical.
Survival is abstract as the damage dealt tonight.
Let me know what you think!
I always love feedback so please feel free to leave it whether anonymously or not!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Music as a Relief
Now that classes have slowed down and my life has returned to some sense of normalcy I am able to write again.
Although I have no new artwork or writings for you to gaze up, I have an idea.
I read a study about how music can cause severe reactions in the body. These reactions can be more intense than those caused by sexual interactions, drugs, and thrill seeking. I know that I get hyped up when my favorite song comes on, but I never thought of the intense reaction.
Another thought came to me as I tried to describe why I had not noticed this. When was the last time we sat down and just listened? When was the last time you stopped everything and appreciated a song or composure or what it is worth? So often we don't value the things in our life, the little things that go in one ear and out the other.
The most requested song was Samuel Barber's 'Adagio For Strings'. I went and listened to this song and the chills, the absolute chills that went down my spine were breath taking. Every instrument came together in a way that made me pause from my life and just listen. After hearing this song I seemed to understand and know so much more than I had before. I felt relaxed, ready for another round of the day.
The point is- take a moment and appreciate the things around you. Look at a piece of artwork and think what it meant to paint it, to design it, and to perfect it. Listen to a song and imagine the individual notes, the hours it took in a studio, and the voice talent it takes to create it.
Thanks.
Although I have no new artwork or writings for you to gaze up, I have an idea.
I read a study about how music can cause severe reactions in the body. These reactions can be more intense than those caused by sexual interactions, drugs, and thrill seeking. I know that I get hyped up when my favorite song comes on, but I never thought of the intense reaction.
Another thought came to me as I tried to describe why I had not noticed this. When was the last time we sat down and just listened? When was the last time you stopped everything and appreciated a song or composure or what it is worth? So often we don't value the things in our life, the little things that go in one ear and out the other.
The most requested song was Samuel Barber's 'Adagio For Strings'. I went and listened to this song and the chills, the absolute chills that went down my spine were breath taking. Every instrument came together in a way that made me pause from my life and just listen. After hearing this song I seemed to understand and know so much more than I had before. I felt relaxed, ready for another round of the day.
The point is- take a moment and appreciate the things around you. Look at a piece of artwork and think what it meant to paint it, to design it, and to perfect it. Listen to a song and imagine the individual notes, the hours it took in a studio, and the voice talent it takes to create it.
Thanks.
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