Inspiration, Thoughts

brown beans

Brown beans crackle and whirr beneath the plastic head of the coffee grinder.
It’s as if they’re lost in the waves of a dance, or the stinging staccato of an argument.

There’s something so seductive about that, y’know.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

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Art, Inspiration

Dare to dream…

In the last few weeks I’ve decided to give my blog more visual content such as videos and art. I love writing, although, it’s always handy to get a different source of inspiration for writers and artists alike.Β  πŸ˜‰

This morning after my morning thrust of coffee ignited my synapses, I flipped open my laptop and flicked through a swarm of tweets. An image caught my attention. Not just caught it, but engrossed me. My artistic brain started tripping…and time slowed down. I admit I’m a natural romantic and have a weakness for the fantasy world. A severe one. Mould those two together and…the inner artist starts to swoon.

We should all learn to dream a little. Put down the cellphone and let your creative mind slowly seduce you. Go have a look at these images below. If you want to learn more about this artist, go check out her Deviant Art account here: http://lanatustich.deviantart.com/Β  πŸ˜€

 

a_call_for_a_flight_48_x_36_s_by_yantotzkie-d8lm8vn

 

alone_in_the_sea_by_lanatustich-d9iys47

butterfly_garden_by_lanatustich-d9ev2vg

 

christmas_tree_or_something_strange_by_lanatustich-d9jfxa2

 

d_r_e_a_m_c_a_t_c_h_e_r_by_lanatustich-d9rlyo0

 

forgotten_toy_by_lanatustich-d9rw9kq

 

perfect_flower_by_lanatustich-d9h3cz1

 

personal_world_by_lanatustich-d9sukb6

 

psychology_by_lanatustich-d9rbwfz

 

rose_by_lanatustich-d9fatp3

 

stardust_by_lanatustich-d9tj9bh

 

sunset_by_lanatustich-d987zy4

 

the_chair_by_lanatustich-d9jfhbs

 

the_hours_by_lanatustich-d9s75vl

 

to_be_continued__by_lanatustich-d9rrctv

 

to_the_light_by_lanatustich-d9t5s35

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

teach me to whisper

for Maggie Wojtarowicz

 

teach me to whisper
and weave slow scents into
the dark

there are voices i have not heard yet
fragile echoes are scattered
in the folds of your smile

teach me to whisper
talking won’t carry
a sliver of mystery or
a simple pause before words
grow out of our mouths

there’s a voice that needs to be heard
in between
our silences
before our conscious clocks
amble and trickle out softer songs

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

two quarters

i think i’m growing up today
there are two quarters in my pocket
i rub them for good luck and
they smile back at me

i think i’m growing up today
ideas ignite inside my head
i’ve cleared away that teenage fog
she’s asleep and so are the voices

i think i’m growing up this way
when you bleed over the years
you leave behind whispers
your mother may have heard
but today I have
two quarters in my pocket
the silver men stare back
with a presence in their eyes

i know i’m growing up today
my laundry doesn’t argue with me
my bookshelf gleams like my parents
faces at the finish line
my mother wants me to win
my father hopes i grow
to see that soft sun
dance in the grass

i know i’m growing up today
there is a field out there
life is almost perfect
a woman walks with me
her hand skates above
the heads of archetypes
she listens to the music in the wind
and tells me it’s time

meet me there – she says
under the moist tree
it guards our food
our wine wafts in the goblets
holding the memories

i trundle down to that tree
two quarters lie in my pocket
i drink in the shade
she begins to sing a velvet song
with slow notes and few lyrics

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Art, Photography, poetry, Technology

what lies beneath (photo poetry)

Ever since my curious mind was thrust upon this world; ever since I discovered the ability to reason and not be satisfied with the answers given to me…This has always happened to me.

Say for example, I go to the doctor and he tells me, “you have osto-prosperous syndrome. Due to this specific condition I’ll gonna be putting you on ana-laxti-tri-syhp-phex-trazine to help you manage it.” Some people see he’s a doctor, realize he’s spent year doing this and just give the three-bags-full nod. Well, not me. (You might also realize I know very little about the medical world). I want to know what is beneath the common day veneer people throw over everything. I will question the doctor until I’m satisfied I understand the internal processes, or at the very least the words he’s using.

The other day I had a similar urge to do the same with a hard drive. Most of us, have held a hard drive before, understood it has two parallel spinning discs, whose data is read by a needle-like lever darting backwards and forth. If this description if lost on you, just think of the vinyl (or record) player that has an extended arm used to read the data from the disc. (A slightly more crude, yet simpler analogy).

The hard drive in question was a 2.5″ (laptop sized) and had given up the ghost months back. Holding this device in my hands, I became plagued by two thoughts:

  1. Why don’t I open it up, and see for myself what the innards of this object look like?
  2. Once I’ve dissembled the drive, I will make this mess look beautiful. Why not?

Below I’ve included the photos I’ve taken as well as a poem I wrote a while back about a computer. Free free to leave any comments, if you have any πŸ˜€

hard drive_01

the wires inside

i closed a coffin today,
it was black with
wires of time inside

it lay on the floor
the silver fan
(cooling its heart)
Stopped and sighed
It lay in the warmth
of my own curiosity

i was more technology than
this carcass, splayed before
me and the wooden desk
i could get off the floor
crawl away from the slow
undergrowth – over
our lives.

i wept more for the
numb life hiding in
the cage and its brain
my tears fell out

so did the battery

hard drive_02

hard drive_03

 

PhilosopherPoet

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What's really sexy?

Courtney E. Martin

Uncategorized

What’s really sexy?

Image
Rantings

There are mumbles beneath the bubbles

I spent today the way anyone should spend their lazy Saturday afternoon. I watched cartoons with my kid sister (while checking my twitter in between pieces of dialogue). I helped her out with her guinea pigs, and replaced their water. Finally the evening ended off with grilled chicken, not to mention my parents and I quaffed away at the ruby champagne in our goblets like suburban Romans. Sounds all very romantic. (I know I do have that effect.)

So dinner finishes, and I guiltily bolt to the kitchen sink (before my Dad’s domestic voice goads me on). Wiping away grime, stacking plates, sweeping dirt – I don’t think any decent person can agree it’s the best place to be in an evening.

There is something that hauls back the conscious reins, something that brings me to attention. While the cleansing commences, an artistic side of me peeks out. Very soon after my hand reaches the pearlescent neck if the champagne glass, and its gleaming rim. The way soap suds jostle together then plummet down the slopes. They squirm and slide off the tip of the circular base. They tell my artistic eyes to stop…pause…and listen to the beauty talking back.

Maybe it’s the whole process of cleansing, and wiping away everything that tells me I’m turning over a new leaf inwardly? Perhaps, giving my hands something to do, gives my brain space and time to breathe?

I’ve wrestled long enough with my own Muse not to question it.
Just sit down. Listen. See where it leads.

PhilosopherPoet

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