Tag Archives: creative

Sunday Morning

“I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organized drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive
or awake
however, you choose to see it
and I live in my own flames
sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
run run run
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please”

― Charlotte Eriksson

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Agile

It’s in in the business world today_ to be agile. Especially in IT. They have agile consultants functioning as coaches, managers, facilitators, and everything you can think of. I should know, I am married to one. Mind you I have yet to see his agile side and managing capacity at home. His facilitating techniques and coaching methods think it is still early days. He must be good. They will not pay him a lot of money if he isn’t, will they? Maybe it’s me. I can’t follow conform or be govern. Unless I see that the methods are working and the leader is worth following. So far, I’m still waiting for some signs. I wonder how much more time must I wait. My time and patience are running out… 

Risky-Business

Random Thoughts

Getting to that point again where it doesn’t feel like the tiles on the floor are cold anymore and the boiling water is missing its bubbles and the boy looks right through you and doesn’t see your eyes. The silent screaming of a girl so unaware of the fact she will rise again and will not be left behind. The notations of quotations that cannot drown but try to swim to middle earth anyways.

Walking home alone is not as bad as being with none around you with no one surrounding you and when you go to say hello they fly back and warn you that they are dangerously in love with you and it’s better to stay right there.

Your career is chosen along with your haircut and the voice in the back of your head is saying something along the lines of today will be cloudy with a chance of depression. The sunny, sunny moon is up and he is so cold, he cannot talk, and when you whisper I miss you all he hears is his own voice the only thing that matters.

9:30 is going time and I don’t see it happening and the dress is waiting and so is my heart for the three words to see if they will ever return. Today be the last day for me to consume and seven will be empty but the results will tell a better story than the change rooms did.

The man with the name that does not please me will try to tease me but realizes I own this game and the time is stopping and my mineral water bottle is empty again. The food shall last a whole weeks’ time or I might have to run away for good and not look back at all that has failed me and not focus on the fact I am exactly what I hate and try to erase the past that prevails me and run, run, run!

(found among old documents)

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Create

That’s my personal fix_ creating something. I am addicted to it – better even- I was born with it in my blood. If you ask me where did I get or inherit the fix, I would say I don’t know. I don’t remember my parents creating something aside from us. They were not even able to provide a proper home for us or a proper upbringing. What the heck they didn’t even managed to have a decent relationship with each other. It could be also that my memories are clouded with emotional and physical traumas brought by regimented fostering I cannot remember things correctly. 

Not that they don’t have the talents for it. My mother could draw anything beautifully and her aquarelles were legendary, or could be if she has dared to do something with it but as far as I can recall, I only saw her once doing it. She kept a sketchbook in her chest of clothes though full of inspiring images she I suspected created from imagination because they didn’t look like anything I’ve seen around or perhaps she might have seen them before there were us. Anyway, aside from that one occasion when she had drawn me a cow for a school project, I never witness her doing it again.  Maybe real life was difficult to combine with her art (that I can understand) maybe she had enough work with the six of us. Maybe that’s why she hated us (except one) Maybe I am exaggerating again. I don’t know. My father… my father could build a shack, on his own, using whatever available materials he could find. And he once turned a bog into a proper garden. Yes, the two of them had talents to create, if only they set their minds to it instead of… too many and too painful to mention.

Back to me.

A day without creating something beautiful and preferably tangible is a day wasted for me. I love to see things materialize before my eyes by the power of creation. I enjoy the process of designing anything that will produce beautiful results. That’s why I love gardening and why I got into design business. Mind you, I can draw and paint as well. Even better than my mother. She could not draw portraits, I can. All of us can draw but only me can do portraits. Why I didn’t do something with it? Nerves. Nerves and self-confidence. Don’t ask me. It is a long and complicated story and I hate long and complicated stories that’s why I dislike myself. I think.

Anyway, creating sits deep in my soul and has me on its grip from the cradle on. I remember finding a broken truck front light when I was young and bringing it home turning the glass upside down and made the thing into an aquarium complete with fish and water plants. My father scolded me for it saying the fish belonged in the pan not in my far-fetched vision. It didn’t stop there. I created playhouses wherever possible and decorated them with the things I could find lying around. I filled big shells with water and floated colorful flowers on the surface, collected bottles of shampoos, powder, lotions, anything I fancy that have washed up on shore and I could use to beautify my private place. I made handbags from scraps of fabrics nobody wanted and filled them with paper money I fashioned from old newspaper and pretended I was shopping or going to the bank. The pink piggy bank I bought from my Christmas money was doubled as a vase for the wild flowers I gathered from the side of the road. I see beauty in everything and believe in endless possibilities of re purposing materials. Nothing is impossible. If I can think it, then it must be doable or otherwise how can I come up with the thoughts in the first place? 

Once I was so despaired about our crumbling little shack I tried to elevate the place by planting colorful wild plants in empty milk cans I gathered from the neighborhood and put them on the front of our house at eye level so they were more pleasing to the eye. I also planted creeping ground cover in shades of purple and green placing them just under the eaves so I didn’t have to water them much for water where we lived that time was a precious commodity. Even then without proper training, I instinctively know what goes together. When it comes to design I have only one motto: If it looks good, then it’s good. I don’t care much about the process, what’s important for me is the result. Rules can go to hell, as long as the end product achieve what it needs to achieve then breaking design rules means nothing to me.   

I would like to say more about the topic but duty calls. First thing first. I will come back and edit this piece if necessary and perhaps add a sentence (or a paragraph) or two to complete the thoughts. But for now I have to go. I really, really have to. At least even with this incomplete monologue you got ideas already what create (or creating) means to me.

BRB

(first time I wrote this abbreviation and it sounds like the things those pretty girls who are working on cam will write on a piece of paper and prop against the back of a chair to let their viewers know they don’t disappear forever only indefinitely. Maybe I will tell you sometime how I come to know this. Signing off for now)  

EarthDay

Neat and Tidy

It’s always nice to see things arranged in a proper order. Easy on the eye. Inviting. Inspiring. Shot worthy. Last Christmas I saw in the Supermarket rows of rows of gift wrapped chocolates. I am not fond of sweets but I can’t help but admire the colourful display. They are so tempting, neatly and appropriately dressed up for the holiday.  

 

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I AM

I‘m a songwriter with no voice.

I’m pro-life but I want choice.

My black and white pictures are mostly grey.

And in a dichotomized world I lose my way.

 

I am a paradox.

 

I’m a musician in my own mind.

And I’m evolving in my own time.

One eye on yesterday, one on today, and ears for tomorrow.

One vein of happiness, one of indifference, and one of sorrow.

 

I am a duality.

 

Consciously self-conscious and subconsciously confident.

Dependent upon people, yet deeply independent.

Eternally searching, ever finding, and always aware.

Sensory input, sensory output, sensory is everywhere.

 

I am complex.

 

Definitions, restrictions, limitations, perturbations.

Confusing, abusing, misusing, and losing.

 

I cannot be defined.

 

Innovative, creative, motivate, contemplative.

Fleeing, freeing, seeing, and being.

 

I will not be confined…

 

~ found poetry

 

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(Extra)ordinary

A thing of beauty is a joy forever…

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.
The more often we see the things around us – even the beautiful and wonderful things – the more they become invisible to us. That is why we often take for granted the beauty of this world: the flowers, the trees, the birds, the clouds – even those we love. Because we see things so often, we see them less and less.

Take for example this little leaf I picked up outside my kitchen windowsill, it had been blown away by the wind and accidentally landed there. I was eating my breakfast and I could not take my eyes off it. The way the lights bounce on its surface, the intensity of colors, the complexity of the veins running through it, the playing of highlights and shadows… simply amazing.

I even took it outside and let it swim… It looked like a turtle paddling to the shore. Awesome!

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall…

Think of your blog as a mirror: what does it reveal? Consider your blog name, theme choice, design, bio, posts… what does every element tell you about yourself?

Here are the links to all the answers to the questions above. I have chosen to do it this way because to write a  single post about a vast diverse topic such as this will take long and we all know that not so many people have the time nor the interest to tackle a lengthy read, besides I already have the said article(s) at hand. So, enjoy…

“There’s not another road anywhere that looks like this road—I mean, exactly like this road. It’s one kind of place. One of a kind, like someone’s face. Like a fucked-up face.”

~ River Phoenix, My Own Private Idaho

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Escape

“Writing let me escape. It let me escape the insistent tug of my family, its ongoing misery and the reality of the world outside. Writing is like slipping into the ocean, where I could move easily, where I could be nobody and anybody, visible and invisible all at once. Sitting in front of the computer, with the screen blank and the cursor blinking, is the best escape I know.”

~ good in bed

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Writers

…fascinate me. They have over active vivid imagination. Look at the Brontë sisters… they could even write about things they never personally experience. But what I’m really curious about are those writers who work for television series, per episode. For example: Mr. Nygma of Gotham. He was just an ordinary dude in the beginning. Okay, granted, perhaps a bit odd but nevertheless one dimension-ally boring and harmless enough.

Then from one day to another they decided to make him more interesting by upgrading the ordinary dude into a full-blown schizophrenic psychopath (or it is sociopath… or maybe both) with multiple personalities, just like that. He is changed beyond belief and oh, so sudden. No prelude. What those writers say to each other during lunch/coffee break : ” Let’s fuck-up Mr. Nygma for fun. What do you think, guys?” Or it was their boss who gave the order (of course it’s the bosses who give orders) but not the ideas, or otherwise they will be writers themselves.

No wonder Lost (the series) gotten lost in transition. It started as promising as a new born love affair. But somehow/somewhere along the way, it lost its potentials. At the end, it was just one hell of a confusion. It goes like that I think if too many people with too many (great/sick) ideas who all trying their best (they think) to wow the audience lost touch of reality and just let go. They literally lost the way. Too much of anything is never good.

I know some actors write scenarios of the series they are involved with. Matthew Gray Gubler of Criminal Minds does it occasionally (but then again, he is really multi-talented and real life genius he even directed 8 episodes of the show so far. Do check him out) Randall Einhorn and Paul Feig are another examples.   So, what that says about them? It takes one to know one? To conjured up pretty sick scenarios take up a lot of imagination. And if one can imagine such things…

That’s why I believe that in any other circumstances, writers are a dangerous bunch. Imagine actions supporting the theories. My, we will have a situation in our hands. But so far…

 

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