Tag: art
Do You Think Contrast Is Needed Again?
Notice the lack of additional contrast?
I wonder what this lack of contrast says about the minds of woman in America. Do you?
Please Catagorise US Presidents by Race and Gender
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42 Math Wonders
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Where do terrorists come from?
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42% Clarity
Warm sweet flash of insight that changed everything: Hmmh…, huh…I am the asshole… Oh. No wonder!
I mean, wonder.
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42 Freedoms of Speech Create Terrorists
Freedom
Freedom to Speak
Taunt
Bully
Mock
Discriminate…
Wondering in the dark
About respect
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42 Brick in the Wall
I bet
Being human
Takes practice
Trail and
Holocaust error
Am I
Recycled
Passed
On re-take from
A process
A human
Story-Souling
To make
To tell
To live
To fail
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Ways to 42
About what the meaning of life the universe and everything else, I wonder if it’s particular to each person.
Then maybe each particular individual variation is a twist in a good story. Since every good story is about conflict of interests and growth from making growing choices then conflict of interests it’s totally a basic high quality story ingredient. So we would story- starve without our differences.
Just for the record. No diversity no story, no Saturday cartoons.
Then there is this other wonder. To just call the other interest, not my own, the guys who want some really no-way things evil could be really dumb or maybe just developmentally at a certain level. Like the ewww girls level. The boys have cooties level. Quite age appropriate even. Maybe part of the meaning of life is that as a cultural being we are age appropriate.
Then, if so, what developmental level in me and my species comes next? What are some of the possible new ingredients for tasty satisfying story foid? Are they an acquired taste like caviar? What do I pay to get them? Where? How? Where do I find a Why and learn to cook it?
Wait, that’s the seed of every new story vegetable. Maybe, it’s for planting.
Would you, if you could, plant and grow a story vegetable garden?
What do healthy home-cooked stories taste like?
Do “my” stories create and add up to my “me”?
Other wonders:
Are there GMO stories?
Organic stories?
Mass stories?
Hydroponic stories?
Poison stories?
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Forty-Two Way Satisfying Story Hunger
Wondering: Is storytelling is a game an art a meal? Perhaps the recipie requires some fine story ingredients. You may want a fabulous chef. Mostly does story proceed from the hunger. Formed from desire, from hungry eyes and ears and hearts and wanting to play and taste and feel and be becoming. Or something like that.
Like Runescape, or a sport team you want to be a part and play in it or just to be tied in, for it to matter what happens. People play to lose. People gamble to lose. How I found that out is it’s own story. The life of a story where it goes, how it trips and falls and what it falls into, how that into splashes, oozes smells. What it taste like mixed with blood in it’s mouth. Why it went there in the first place and won’t or can’t turn back. Or why it does or is or is not. What twisted it’s arm into doing That? Here it got cornered. There is the mess from when it totally failed. This is what other stories are telling about it.
Then you mix the two and get a person and their story it is even yummier. When you drop that story and the person into a group it gets even thicker and creamier, more satisfying comfort zero calorie food. Then you spread it out over a culture that bakes it and adds topping information density takes it gourmet.
Stories pop you right into the middle of them to sink or swim and swallow or take on water, or rush crash float spin. Like a player in a game you come out having won or lost. Can’t beat the five-beer feeling of a narrow escaping win. The feeling of your sports team getting creamed lingers the angry mob rousing bitter taste of tragedy in your mouth. Makes desire for sweet dessert of revenge rematch. Persistant hungry wondering of how and who and when that will set the world right and fill Thanksgiving appetite.
Story-Life invisible imagined game character life, might be effecting the actual evolution of life. Nothing is fascinating and delicious like the story of a person. People and stories fascinate. We hunger for this story like for food. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if its stalk story or fast story.
That’s must be why we have outrageously popular thriving Fast-Story chains.
Super-size me!
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Onward to 42- Day !
Wondering is a defense mechanism.
Last time I thought I know what I believed and thought and it’s scale of “rightness” I was on a different metric system. The whole thing crashed and blew up. People died. Lives were ruined. You know the king was naked and all that.
Wondering assumes I don’t know yet and could use some alternate awareness than what I have now.
Wondering is a bet that someone else sees what I don’t see and I can catch the truth in the glimmer in their eye or in their posted word.
Because wondering implies that I have what it takes to sort it out eventually then measure design cut sew it into a fitting world view to wear in the World.
When I feel the shouts “the king is naked! ” I wonder if I’m the one shouting or if I’m the king.
I wont always be right. I will grow out of the clothes even if they worked. I do prefer not to wear clothes sometimes. So, when I figure someone is totally off you know say like our pet scapegoats the 1%, if I really had an answer or a solution or something to say to one of these the best thing would be to start by seeing a person. A person, sometimes naked like me. Then move on from there to what each of us knows and feels. Then to wondering about that. Freedom of speech all it means is it’s safe to wonder. I wonder If the fancy 1% really even get to enjoy the first amendment. To many mobs bitching to even have a second to wonder.
This is what I would have written in my private Morning Pages. Not sure it’s too naked to be walking the streets of the City of Light. But onward to Forty-Two.
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The Ultimate Comunication Method
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That Afternoon
What did You wonder?
What happened to you?
Wherever you where
That Afternoon
Then
What did you Do?
On September Eleventh
In the evening
What were you up to?
Tell us about Your Afternoon Action.
Post a link to your AfternoonAction on your blog in comments.
Or just comment here.
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That Afternoon
What did You wonder?
What happened to you?
Wherever you where
That Afternoon
Then
What did you Do?
On September Eleventh
In the evening
What were you doing?
Tell me your Afternoon Action.
You may post a link to your moment on your blog in comments or just comment here.
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That Afternoon
What did You do that afternoon?
Feel
Act
Wonder
Wander
Remember
Did your figure something?
About you and your life.
About what you love.
About who you are.
How did You respond wherever you where in the world?
What did You do September Eleventh Afternoon?
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Is Choice the Magic Ingredient?
Let the will of the Lord be done unto me…
Don’t bother sweetheart, you don’t have a choice.
This Annunciation transforms Pietà into His Mama Cries in one simple step.
***
Which hat? Choice can go a long way–Raptitude.com
Leonardo Da Vinci Annunciation
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Where You Are Your Face – Mind the Gap
Just our faces
It is only what it is
A chance
To lose
To gain in all-encompassing
Game on a disk inserted
Into a system,
Games end
Discarded in a pile
Scrap-booked old board game
Even Multiplayer Online Adventures
Being strengthens and fades
Connection delighted breach unfriended
Wins defeat perfect moments memories
Communion play lost found
Tulips beauty
Not everything
Touched
Not nothing
Facegifts-flowers
***
Weekly Writing Challenge: Mind the Gap
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No Longer A Mere Mortal? – You’re Dead
natura morta (Photo credit: Circolo d’Arti)Become immortal
Drink it
Tried that last time
Oops I died
Game over
Re-group
Re-design
My Earth-Game-Plan
Gather more supplies
Wait for the team
Return
Start over
Damn
My character falls
For it
Hoping like hell
I won’t have fell
This time
Messing up my glorious
Virtual-reality-
Multi-player-adventure-game
Again
Still mortal?
Yes!
Onward!
Fun
To
Quest Complete!
“You’ve imbibed a special potion that makes you immortal.
Now that you’ve got forever, what changes will you make in your life?
How will you live life differently, knowing you’ll always be around to be accountable for your actions?”
Daily Prompt: No Longer A Mere Mortal
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Weekly Photo Challenge- Imaginary Friends
Trees
My friends
Fairies inspiration
Living pets
Hugging company
Inner
Mind
Playing tennis
With a
Holy ghost
A heart
A pet
In here
Somewhere
Fun
Wonder
Companionship
***
Weekly Photo Challenge: Companionable
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Your Filibuster Life- The Artist’s Eye
“I can’t believe I still have to stand here and hold this sign!” Woman supporting filibuster outside Texas Capital.
So I can take a pill to take back my period.
“Being gay is not a choice, but being a bigot is.” I instantly re-tweeted from God@thetweetofgod. It’s funny, not true.
Took me a while to figure out how it’s not true, but like art which is not true, it points to truth. Like the Pietà, Michelangelo’s sculpture that shows Mary the mother of Jesus strong and tall while her crucified son is like a child in her arms. Not necessarily true proportions, just true about a mother’s heart.
I don’t believe being a bigot is a choice. It’s not a permanent state of being, either. Gay is permanent, judging from my straight perspective, though I might be off. But bigot is like pregnant. It’s a state. It may or may not be a choice. It can and will, usually, end. It’s story and outcome are what epic is made of. Plenty of bigotry ends in abortion. Other bigotry ends with new life. Bigotry, yes, is human. Mine and yours. It’s a place on a journey, a grade in school, an incomplete quest. What we do with it may become art.
High school kid calls fifth-grader stupid.
Well, she don’t know The Grapes of Wrath isn’t fruit!
Art doesn’t make sense, it helps me make sense-of people.
This “Yes-we-are-allowed-to-end-a-relationship-before-it-bigins-filibuster is pregnant.
Art is being made here. Bigotry is a shiny material.
Inspired history feels like community committed art. HIstory is being made here.
Could making history be making art?
The Daily Post: The Artist’s Eye
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- The best tweets from Wendy Davis’s filibuster (storify.com)
- No longer will I sit quietly: How a filibuster strengthed my resolve (anunconventionalme.wordpress.com)
- Texas filibuster rules (feministphilosophers.wordpress.com)
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Stepping In Spell
Realms touch
Powers mingle
Magic born
Of fairies
In people
Impossible charmed
Wind alive
Unimagined desire
Dot a dot
Life on fire
Dream physics
Demand require
Honey-dipped moon
Mother heart
Solid revere
Human art
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The Garden
Come to me trolls!
Line up
Line up for kisses
A world needs some more
Lots more handsome princes
Wonder up
Sweet over something
Trip and break one mind
Frolic through answers
Feasting inside
Twist into existence
Leave this window ajar
Re-introduce
Magical spicies into our wild
Daily Post Prompt: Your Inner Dickinson
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Pictures? None Taken
Ah, looking up
The sky’s in my eye
I’m not quite as lost as a star
Me and the leaves
Turning brown, drifting down
We’ll live again blown on a breeze
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Playing With Space-And Stuff That Is Not There
- Painted Honey
Terrified
Swatting at 1986 killer bees
Today
Agreed upon sanity
Scarce Sweetness
Called sane
Madness’ taste of fairy honey
Holding on breath
The way of our bodies
Whimsically true
Parallel planes entwined
***
Weekly Writing Challenge:
Playing With Space
Interesting:
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Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!
I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex. The tits-bated weaker sex. The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex. I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake. Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder. What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?
I’m wondering. Wondering and asking for four years now. I always get answers. So what then? What?
Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure. At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits. Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits. Tits in lift up lace or leather? Hell yeah. It’s the leather. Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits. Not mine, not anyone’s. But really, much less my own. Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure. That’s it for me.
Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them. I never want to touch them. Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in. When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me! I am this beautiful. Same reason I love romances. It’s how it makes me feel about me. It’s about me. It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored. Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful. That I am all this beautiful.
Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.
Yeah, I don’t trust men.
There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.
Not only chaste wifely woman think so.
Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for ten?
Oh, I so hate that!
It’s so insulting.
I know. It’s belittling.
I just turn around and walk away. I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.
I know, it just brings you down. It devalues us as dancers.
Yeah, it makes me so mad. How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work? When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.
Yep, ruins your whole night. They keep insulting us with stupid offers.
Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!
I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?
A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.
Just like that. You can’t trust it.
I want to. But.
Oh, god, I know!
I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever, did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong. Wrong. A mistake. But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?
I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant. There is actually only one man in the world. This wonderful utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men. Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear. Or something. I don’t get it.
This question had a lot of chances to be asked.
Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!
Wait, he is. Who or what do you think I am? Pause. I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter. I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see. I defiantly do not see it!. I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs. I need help.
No thanks for your kind offer. I dance. That’s all. I only dance and the laws apply.
The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.
My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men. But I don’t know what the truth is. I really don’t. It’s super annoying.
No, you can’t touch.
Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…
But that day, that one day, everything changed.
It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good. I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.
I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.
I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.
Those. Yes!
Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy. Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.
The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss! I must have. I must touch, now. Reaching where no does not exist. Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me. For me!
Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here! Take it! I must touch! It’s all I have! Take it, please!
If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…
Then. My reflection is a reflection. I am myself again.
The earthshaking pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.
I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.
No words suffice for the world men live.
Goddam God! No mistake made! Question answered. Got it. Okay.
The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!
Never felt anything even remotely like it. There are no words. Nothing comes close. My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud. Indescribable heaven of physical desire.
I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well. I, I couldn’t handle it. I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more! What a wonderful world! Wow God. You knew what you were doing. What a sexy world!
I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food. It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course! What starved person wouldn’t. It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.” I might even have just taken it in that moment. No handle on restraint, no practice, no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.
Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.
Porque yo no respondo!
Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!
…Men are intensely vulnerable, sweet and lucky.
Creation is fucking awesome.
Response to: WordPress
The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Trading Places
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Without Conscience
It’s hard to tell if my conscience is more like a tar baby, or more like a hand rail.
Maybe it’s a tar covered hand rail. A handrail along the straight and narrow that get’s me all sticky, and glued to it. I’m wondering if my conscience is meant to keep me on my path, or meant to keep me stuck.
Or, it may be meant for something totally different, perhaps outdated, or just very basic.
Conscience must be one of those special use tools. It’s like a hammer. It works real good for nails, but not for scraping ice off a windshield. Or a tool like the weather station, which may predict hurricanes, and tornadoes, but isn’t any help with earthquakes or volcanos.
If I count only on this conscience of mine to guide me, I still get into trouble, and karma. I stay stuck. Or even dig myself in deeper trying to defend it.
It seems my conscience plays by the rules I already know. It does not cover what my consciousness doesn’t cover. Whatever my consciousness is, so is my conscience. If my consciousness is narrow, so is my conscience.
By narrow, I mean it has a small umbrella, doesn’t cover much. I can do everything wicked outside my umbrella without a pang. It’s how, when I’m a soldier, under orders, committing murder somehow doesn’t equal murder. That’s conscience for you. It plays.
Or maybe it’s following some life purpose or blueprint like what I came to learn or perhaps what I learned in a past life didn’t work. I don’t think it covers what I haven’t, at some time, already learned.
As I grow, so does my conscience. I have to believe something is wrong for my conscience to work me. It doesn’t function with what anyone else believes. It only works with what I feel, and believe is right or wrong. When my beliefs change, so does my conscience. I don’t have a conscience, without something to base it on. No one has the same conscience, I guess.
So, now, I’m only counting on it for what I already know, or have known, sometime.
The unexplored worlds beyond my present experience, for these, I figure, my heart knows, and will know what is right for me. My feet know their path, too. They can keep me on my straight and narrow: straight, because it is always the step straight ahead. It’s narrow, because only I fit on it. My path is only mine. My heart figures stuff out, then tells my conscience. That’s how I must have come to have some conscience so far.
I learn by experience, vicarious or otherwise. My personal conscience also seems to be made up of what I’m taught, when I actually believe it. If I don’t believe it or feel it, no conscience for that one. If I believe a lie, then my conscience may bug me for something like walking barefoot, or telling the truth.
Until my conscience grows up, I’m dangerous.
A wild-eyed, grinning toddler.
waywardspirit 
