I wandered, browsing as I walked. I wasn’t really looking for anything. Just looking. I strolled down the stairs, and as I came around the corner, I saw it. The desk. Scratched and dusty, it looked like life had been hard on this beautiful black desk. It wobbled a little as I touched it. I ran my fingers across its surface, leaving streaks in its protective coating of dirt. Stickers dotted across it announced a price of $40.
Most people probably saw the scratches and walked away. Usually I see scratches and I think about a way to cover them up. But not this time. This time, I actually liked the scratches. Scratches and nicks are life. Heaven knows if I were a piece of furniture, I’d have plenty of scratches. (more…)
As an artistic person (albeit one who cannot draw), I am mesmerized by color. I always have been. As a kid with colored pencils (I hated crayons – too waxy), I was intrigued by what colors looked good together. My favorite combo was purple and teal. I was about 7.
As a writer, I find it amusing how we use color to express ideas. For example:
She was feeling blue/gray (sad).
He looked a little green (sick). She was green with envy.
He saw red (anger).
It’s funny, in writing it seems that colors, unless being used to describe a setting, clothing, etc., are never good. (more…)
They flutter and tremble in the breeze,
Ribbon shreds of possibility,
Slowly slipping through her fingers,
What should and would and ought to be.
They whisper sweetly of dreams and hopes,
Wonderful, grand, and boundless,
Begging her to dream of all that awaits,
A future of beauty and happiness.
Look at us, think of us, they cry.
But with a smile, she sets them free,
Releasing them to the capricious winds,
Liberating herself from what could be.
The whispers fade, carried far away.
In the silence, her soul emerges.
The ribbons that bound her life have vanished.
What remains, what is left—what is.
Everyone’s got one of those stories—ya know, the story of their first real car accident. Some of them are pretty intense. I’m pretty sure my story is the weirdest. (Okay, you’re not really surprised at that, are you?)
I was 19, on my way back to school after Spring Break. I was cruising along in my car, Helga (that image that you just got? Yeah, that’s pretty much what she looked like. A tank.), just an hour and a half into my 6 hour trip when IT happened. Somewhere in the row of cars in front of me, someone slammed on their brakes. I can only guess why. All I know is the car in front of me stopped suddenly. So I stopped suddenly. And the car behind me stopped not quite as suddenly.
It was one of those seconds that feels like an eternity. (more…)
If books have the power to challenge your worldview, what do your first books say about you? (I didn’t force that rhyme. It happened naturally. Promise.)
There’s something magical about learning to read. I was so desperate to read as a kid, I used to stare at books, hoping the scribbles would transform themselves into a message I could understand. It didn’t happen instantaneously like I wanted, but eventually letters ceased to be baffling scribbles.
I was thinking about this a few months ago, trying to recall some of the first books I ever read. There were four that came to mind. And I realized those books explain a lot about me. Like, a whole lot. (more…)
