About a week and a half ago I turned off my computer, picked up my guitar, and wrote an entire song in under an hour. From scratch. A whole song. A decent song. Maybe a first draft, but still, a song. I then proceeded to write melodies and chords for some lyrics that I’d been sitting on for a…
What Do You Value? Cultural Creatives is a term coined by sociologist Paul H. Ray and psychologist Sherry Ruth Anderson to describe a large segment in Western society that has developed beyond the standard paradigm of Modernists versus Conservatives. The concept was presented in their book The Cultural Creatives: How 50 Million People Are Changing the World (2000), & Read More
A very interesting article on Creativity and Culture. Diving in deeper on the basis of intellectual change.
Two PM. Stumble into the living room holding the blanket, while the jazz quartet on the radio sways your steps. There is no place like the living room couch. Close to the window, enough to let in the faint light from the waning day. There is a subtle sadness, mostly a deep regret. A chorus heard far away in your head. The piano swoons each note tossing you from here to… well wherever your mind wonders off. Such a quaint reality, dowsed in sudden sadness. Although, not so much as despair. A more thoughtful feeling of failure and mishap, all overshadowed by the trumpet blazing; tooting how the world is a fickle thing. Your eyes suddenly roll back and there is sleep to be had. But not just yet. You hold your breathe. The guitar swoops up the scale. Flashing before your eyes is all the insecurities of love. The cherished moments so desired yet so feared. Like all say, love is a mystery and mysteries mostly turned to thrillers - At least we can hope for the good kinds. For now, we peruse the very moments that take up our day and drift us into dreamland, that can take us all away.
Something about the sun
When it hits your hands and illuminates the ground
A cleansing force taking away your past and only giving you a glimpse of the future
Where the planets moved when you walked
and your heart loved when you talked
Where every heart was a soul
And every piece was made whole
Even mornings rose in dew
Even evenings faded in the light
Drawn aback we feel the heat
a sting of present succumbs the future
A strike of pain let’s out it’s fury
No we can’t escape our now
But only dream in a hurry
I slow down, let the tide creep over my feet. Some sense of relief. It feels so far that I’ve been lost for many seasons. Yea, i think I’ve done some things right and mostly wrong but after a while you realize that your footsteps are all that follow you. All along you wondered and fought only to find it was yourself you were fighting. The very foundations of your development. Now you’ve found your buttons and decide every time if you should push them or not. Life just all of a sudden becomes real. Death and failure is always creeping up to your doorstep. Your bigger now, you tell yourself. Your only fear is losing ground. Forward and nowhere else. The past doesn’t change but you have totally remodeled. Yea those people can say what they want but your not interested. Your plans don’t include those who whisper fear. Strength grows gently in your soul. Your a bigger man you already know. So you let down your walls and claim your success where defeat laid barren the land of promise.
Water glistened on the pavement. April never lied about its love for rain. But today seemed unusually humid and the fog rolled in, as the clock struck five passed six. Peter cursed as the vines from the roses dug deeper into his skin. He was in the alleyway between 1st and Main, caught in the vines of a venomous patch of roses. Fatigue settled over as Peter drifted into a daze.
He suddenly heard himself talking to himself. As he opened his eyes the area had changed into a cold medieval hallway with a table covered with delicious sweets. Chained to the wall he began to think.
It feels like its been weeks since I ate and my stomach grumbles like a hungry bear. Tempted by the sweet frosting and chocolate under a rich red strawberry, Peter figured he would take a chance. He starred, anxious, as if time had slowed down to torment his growing desires.
As Peter wrestled with his thoughts, the wood panels from underneath him began to creek with slow thuds from across the hall.
There is no way out, Peter worried.
The shadow grew bigger as a slim figure creeped through the darkness. Her voice shook every muscle in his body.
“Do you remember my name,” she whispered.
Why did I put myself up to this! She’s too strong and my will is so weak. I just want a bite. Oh but the consequences. I can do this! I have to!
Peter’s heart raced from fear. He could not want no more or care no less. He never wanted his life to end like this.
In the blink of an eye, she was pressed up against his trembling body as she whispered in his ear, “I am Desire.”
"To hell with this strife, my nickers of a bell doth toil with the literary vision of you! Clean up and wash your trousers!"
Shouts coming from the kitchen were brutal but my mother, or the thought of her being my mother, was a burden I had to bear for the time being. So many different sequences of events I have broken, only I do know that this world was just as crucial as the other.
Breaking free from the bunker I headed down the stairs to face the giant… The so called Red Pirate.