- Talain Rayne
- The Civil Wars
- Beth Gibbons and the Rustin Man
- Glen Hansard and Margaret Irglova
- Fleet Foxes
- Band of Horses
Anyone else noticing a pattern here?
Super chill music is chill. And GREAT for the piece I’m working on.
If only I could write
the thoughts that live inside my head.
I don’t feel them
I don’t see them
I can’t hear them
or smell them
or taste them.
They just live there.
And they won’t move out.
They like the inside of my head
maze though it may be
better than the stark loneliness
of the blank page
and the threatening “come hither”
of the flashing cursor.
If only they would relocate
or at least buy a summer home
on the beaches of a white page
or even the open skies of conversation
instead of the secluded forests and hidden glades
where my thoughts coalesce.
they choose to stay home
and refuse to venture out
and meet the others beyond their borders.
I found this on a bathroom stall and I wanted to shape something around it. So I did…
She was hunched on the floor of the bathroom stall, tongue between her teeth and a pen flowing between her fingers. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and a small smile snuck past her lips as the letters formed in purple ink on the stale blue metal divider.
You are beautiful. (Never forget!)
She formed the letters carefully, painstakingly making each curve and dip perfect. She was leaving the message for anyone who came in here. It was something she liked to do from time to time…she’d seen it on another wall a long time ago, and she had adopted the idea and wanted to spread it. It had made her smile, and she wanted to share that with others.
When she was finished with her letter to no one, she ventured out the doors and into the bright, clear day. The sunlight caught the glass door on her way through and turned in to gold fire. She let it slip through her hand, slid her hands into her pockets and set off down the street. The sky above her was the clearest blue she had ever seen in the city; it was the color of a bluebird and had the glow of a spring morning even though it was still the middle of winter. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and she smiled into the peace emanating from the sky above her despite the everyday chaos of the city around her.
She had been hunched on the floor, her head on her knees with tears flowing down her cheeks into her curtain of hair. She could taste the salt of them, and the tang merged with the sting in her eyes to send another river flowing.
She hurt. Everything inside of her ached. There was pain coursing through her from the inside out, and it wasn’t anything another ibuprofen would fix. She cried until she couldn’t feel anymore; she was a hollow, numb shell. Once she could bear to move her head, she pushed her hair out of her face and grabbed some toilet paper to wipe the tear tracks off her face. As she reached across the stall, something caught her eye.
There seemed to be writing on the other side of the stall. She traced the purple lettering with her fingers:
You are beautiful. (Never forget!)
She blinked, and stared at the words on the wall. Someone had left them there. It was evident that care had been poured into them, she could tell. She had the strangest feeling that they were there for her.
She sat there for a little while longer, staring at the message. She wrapped herself in the purple words like a cape—like a shield from the negativity that so often attacked her. She stood up, feeling stronger than she had in ages. She left the bathroom and headed outside.
She passed through the doors to the outside, pausing to thank the person that held the door ahead of her. The sun was just setting, and she watched the warm colors wash through the sky and turn cool, like someone had just taken a vast swath of watercolors and swept a god-sized brush through the sky.
The streets around her were emptying out, and she felt almost alone for the first time on the city streets. It was almost quiet, and she felt an inner peace blossoming inside, like the first peek of a tulip after the first spring rain; all it needs is a little time.
I found this on the bathroom wall of the library. It brought a smile to my face and -dare I say- a lovely writing inspiration that I shall have to revisit later.
holy dicks, that’s useful
This makes me jubilant, and not at all vindictive.
I’m going to need this for that story I came up with today
I need this until SOMEONE decides to stop making me come up with ONE WORD to describe everything :P
Me 2 weeks ago: “GODFUCKINGDAMMIT JUST MAKE IT WORDS ALREADY”
Parental units: “teh fuck are you doing Marianne.”
Me: “IDK JUST IGNORE ME WHILE I SLAM THINGS AROUND AND FURIOUSLY KNEAD MY FOREHEAD UNTIL WORDS DRIP OUT GAHHHHH”
Parental units: “…what did we do?”
Sweet Summer Songs
by Marianne Gorsky (geemarebear)
I got out of the car and looked around me, marveling at how much time had changed the place that was such a keystone in my childhood. The scene seemed so different than it used to when Nana and I would sit on her ancient swing. It’s a wonder it didn’t collapse while we were there. But that swing has been gone for a long time now. It’s been ten years since we sat there together, watching the world go by while we were wrapped up in our own. I stood alone where we used to sit together, gazing out across the landscape that used to hold so much magic. Without her there with me, everything seemed dimmer, less sharp and sparkling.
As I stood in the shadow of the large tree that used to shade the three of us—Nana and I, and the swing—I closed my eyes and remembered. I absorbed the remnants of the familiar around me: the sounds of the rustling trees, the smell of the train tracks. I imagined the swing swaying back and forth, back and forth, lulling me into a happy stupor. I was transported back to a time when Nana was still in her house, alive and well and sassy as ever, and when I was still young and carefree.
Well, just 1 for tonight. I’ve got too bad a migraine on top of my lingering cold to finish re-editing another old piece tonight so here’s one left over from my spree last night.
The assignment started with us drawing a picture of a very vivid scene from our memory with a lot of sensory details that drew on everything, so I chose my Nana’s house. We then had to write something that painted that picture with words.
And I, with my love of creative framing, put it in as a flashback/revisited memory scene.
I just really like this piece because I just love description. It was the one piece where my teacher didn’t tell me to cut stuff out, because she usually got on my case about including too much detail (apparently that exists).
I loves me some descriptive words :3
So once again, I absolutely adore criticism, everything is a work in progress, etc.
is there someone famous/ someone you look up to you would ever really want to meet? if so what would you say/ talk about?
Oh dear, there are so many…
I guess if there was one person that I would really want to meet and have a legitimate conversation with, it would have to be Barbara Walters. I’d love to say JK Rowling, but anything I’d ask her could be found online somewhere…
But Barbara Walters? She’s always the one doing the interviewing. She is such an incredibly successful woman and I feel like I could learn a lot from her. I would love to ask her just anything about her life and her job. What the most important thing she’s learned throughout her many travels and conversations with people from all walks of life. She has literally seen everything.
I want to talk about how she has been able to become so successful and still stay so real and classy. Because it is undeniable that she is one of the classiest ladies alive. And still beautiful to boot at her age.
Even if all we did was sit down for coffee and she told stories about all of the things she’s been able to do with her tremendous opportunities I would still be thrilled even if I didn’t get to say a word.
Barring that, I’d love to talk to Tina Fey for very similar reasons. However, I feel a conversation with her would be a lot funnier…She is absolutely brilliant as well and such a wonderful person.
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