Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Word Paintings. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Word Paintings. Sort by date Show all posts
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Word Paintings - What they Mean to Me
I came up with the term "Word Paintings" to describe the vivid recollection of memories or descriptive writing that I sometimes like to do. I haven't created a "Word Painting" in some time now. I will pick the habit back up soon...
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Word Painting
Hi Everyone!!
I feel like trying out an experiment. I want to create a mental image of some things that I have seen, smelt, and may be some things I have heard.
First of all, the mountains near my house. I looked up at them the other day when it was a clear bright morning. The peaks stood out in stark contrast to each other and you could see back to the furthest reaches of the mountains. Two stood together like sentinals or like gates and one stood behind like a majestic giant. They were all covered in a verdant green yet you could still see places were the granite rock outcroppings were poking through.
Yesterday I glanced up, after a light rain, and saw lush clouds hugging the tops of the mountian. They looked like fluffy cotten strung out accross the peaks. The sky was a steel gray with even darker overtones, yet there seemed to be a lightness to the air like the dawning of a new day.
Hmm, smells
I love the smell of fall, musty, fresh, like a sigh of relief over the summer finally being over. The air has a crisp light feel to it. You can breathe deeper and more fully. You can appreciate ther contrast between the dark green grass and the reds and golds and still even greens of the leaves. The dark earth, loamy and fresh smelling is attractive to me. I took a walk down to the park and found a secluded spot were I put my feet up on the bench, an eagle project completed when I was about five, and I rested there. I was listening to the small stream that runs behind it and hoping that the dog who was running around in his lopping, happy manner would leave me to my solitude. I can still smell the fresh earth and grass beneath me, and the clean quality of the air.
Emotion - Surprise!!
I was peeking around in my garden, looking to see what had grown, when a sudden movement and the indication of brown fur made me jump back in surprise. Furitively I peeked back under the squash leaves and saw a little mole sniffing around and blinking, blind in the open air. So I ran and got a plastic jar that had contained bubble wands and was suitably sized for such a little guy and then I scooped him up in it and observed him. His little soft looking claws, his squat little body. His eyes were goopy, from disease, I know not. I showed him to all of the kids around, who cried out with delight over the little creature. However I didn't know what to do with him, so I had the kids set him somewhere until I could figure it out. Unhappily however he died an ignominous death and the kids gave him a suitable funeral in the back yard.
I will write some more word paintings later, right now I have to get going.
~Strawberry Girl
I feel like trying out an experiment. I want to create a mental image of some things that I have seen, smelt, and may be some things I have heard.
First of all, the mountains near my house. I looked up at them the other day when it was a clear bright morning. The peaks stood out in stark contrast to each other and you could see back to the furthest reaches of the mountains. Two stood together like sentinals or like gates and one stood behind like a majestic giant. They were all covered in a verdant green yet you could still see places were the granite rock outcroppings were poking through.
Yesterday I glanced up, after a light rain, and saw lush clouds hugging the tops of the mountian. They looked like fluffy cotten strung out accross the peaks. The sky was a steel gray with even darker overtones, yet there seemed to be a lightness to the air like the dawning of a new day.
Hmm, smells
I love the smell of fall, musty, fresh, like a sigh of relief over the summer finally being over. The air has a crisp light feel to it. You can breathe deeper and more fully. You can appreciate ther contrast between the dark green grass and the reds and golds and still even greens of the leaves. The dark earth, loamy and fresh smelling is attractive to me. I took a walk down to the park and found a secluded spot were I put my feet up on the bench, an eagle project completed when I was about five, and I rested there. I was listening to the small stream that runs behind it and hoping that the dog who was running around in his lopping, happy manner would leave me to my solitude. I can still smell the fresh earth and grass beneath me, and the clean quality of the air.
Emotion - Surprise!!
I was peeking around in my garden, looking to see what had grown, when a sudden movement and the indication of brown fur made me jump back in surprise. Furitively I peeked back under the squash leaves and saw a little mole sniffing around and blinking, blind in the open air. So I ran and got a plastic jar that had contained bubble wands and was suitably sized for such a little guy and then I scooped him up in it and observed him. His little soft looking claws, his squat little body. His eyes were goopy, from disease, I know not. I showed him to all of the kids around, who cried out with delight over the little creature. However I didn't know what to do with him, so I had the kids set him somewhere until I could figure it out. Unhappily however he died an ignominous death and the kids gave him a suitable funeral in the back yard.
I will write some more word paintings later, right now I have to get going.
~Strawberry Girl
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Camping Word Painting
I am up early listening to the dawn chorus outside my window and the long haunting call of a passing train. So I decided I wanted to post something and this is what the slightly chilly air from my open window reminded me of.
Camping Word Paintings...
Awakening from a restless sleep, the cool crisp mountain air filled her head as she stumbled out of bed, thirsty. The smell of the polyester tent and stale campfire smoke on their clothing was her next awareness as she fumbled in the dark for her shoes and jacket, she could feel the cool bite in the air.
She unzipped the tent, the sound odd in the stillness of the morning, when no other foreign sound disturbed the primordial song of the morning chorus. A yawning awareness of the faint faded tones of the morning came over her as she walked toward the motor home to grab a cup.
The smell of the grasses and the water from the stream was as mana to her city sensibilities. She was still sleepy, thought she though longingly of sitting by the embers of the bonfire to listen to the birds and the last efforts of the crickets to communicate in the early dawn.
She reached the water spigot and lifted the handle and a sucking sound, followed by an ever increasing gurgling came up from the pipe. Water finally reached the apex and spilled over and she lowered the handle a bit to stem the tide of rushing water, then got herself a drink.
The freezing cold water hit her stomach with a sting and it growled at her in hunger. She finished off the cup then got some more water draining that cup as well.
The hunger pains subsided a bit, and she decided that sitting by the mostly cold fire pit would be uncomfortable and lonely, like the longing for bright flames and warmth from a friend.
So she unzipped the tent again and made her way back to her sleeping bag and pillow. The upper part of the bag had grown cold and it made her shiver to feel it and the freezing pillow against her cheek. Her legs found some remnants of warmth though and she rubbed her feet together and against the blanket to create some warmth from the friction.
Everyone else in the tent was sleeping soundly, a few even snoring, which was slightly annoying and slightly amusing.
She rubbed her arms with her long sleeves pulled down over her hands trying to get the chill off her skin, then turned over to warm the other side of her face. After a lot of rubbing and clenching together of the blankets and sleeping bag, she finally felt warmed up and she listened to the song of the birds, now distant, as she drifted off to sleep again.
Camping Word Paintings...
Awakening from a restless sleep, the cool crisp mountain air filled her head as she stumbled out of bed, thirsty. The smell of the polyester tent and stale campfire smoke on their clothing was her next awareness as she fumbled in the dark for her shoes and jacket, she could feel the cool bite in the air.
She unzipped the tent, the sound odd in the stillness of the morning, when no other foreign sound disturbed the primordial song of the morning chorus. A yawning awareness of the faint faded tones of the morning came over her as she walked toward the motor home to grab a cup.
The smell of the grasses and the water from the stream was as mana to her city sensibilities. She was still sleepy, thought she though longingly of sitting by the embers of the bonfire to listen to the birds and the last efforts of the crickets to communicate in the early dawn.
She reached the water spigot and lifted the handle and a sucking sound, followed by an ever increasing gurgling came up from the pipe. Water finally reached the apex and spilled over and she lowered the handle a bit to stem the tide of rushing water, then got herself a drink.
The freezing cold water hit her stomach with a sting and it growled at her in hunger. She finished off the cup then got some more water draining that cup as well.
The hunger pains subsided a bit, and she decided that sitting by the mostly cold fire pit would be uncomfortable and lonely, like the longing for bright flames and warmth from a friend.
So she unzipped the tent again and made her way back to her sleeping bag and pillow. The upper part of the bag had grown cold and it made her shiver to feel it and the freezing pillow against her cheek. Her legs found some remnants of warmth though and she rubbed her feet together and against the blanket to create some warmth from the friction.
Everyone else in the tent was sleeping soundly, a few even snoring, which was slightly annoying and slightly amusing.
She rubbed her arms with her long sleeves pulled down over her hands trying to get the chill off her skin, then turned over to warm the other side of her face. After a lot of rubbing and clenching together of the blankets and sleeping bag, she finally felt warmed up and she listened to the song of the birds, now distant, as she drifted off to sleep again.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Fun Writing Stuff...
Well guy's I guess you have noticed... I like to write. ;p
I think that sometimes it's hard to know what to say about stuff, like my piece on my Grandpa and Little Sis. Those pieces are enjoyable to write because I can bring to mind my love for them and share them with others. It's a sort of history for my family. I also did a piece on my brother Jonathan who can be hard to explain and hard to understand. He is a piece of pure beautiful soul. He can get annoying sometimes, he asks the strangest questions. Like "Do you think Satan can repent?" Um, I don't think so Jonathan... Plus Jonathan doesn't understand what a sin really is so he is always repenting for... forgeting to bring his water bottle with him... or slamming the door too loudly, normal human stuff, poor guy.
I will try to write a little more newsy stuff, cause it's easier to relate to sometimes. But I do like writing little word paintings and memories as well. Thank you all for your thoughts and comments.
I think that sometimes it's hard to know what to say about stuff, like my piece on my Grandpa and Little Sis. Those pieces are enjoyable to write because I can bring to mind my love for them and share them with others. It's a sort of history for my family. I also did a piece on my brother Jonathan who can be hard to explain and hard to understand. He is a piece of pure beautiful soul. He can get annoying sometimes, he asks the strangest questions. Like "Do you think Satan can repent?" Um, I don't think so Jonathan... Plus Jonathan doesn't understand what a sin really is so he is always repenting for... forgeting to bring his water bottle with him... or slamming the door too loudly, normal human stuff, poor guy.
I will try to write a little more newsy stuff, cause it's easier to relate to sometimes. But I do like writing little word paintings and memories as well. Thank you all for your thoughts and comments.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
New Direction or is it the old one?
Alright, I have a plan. I am going up to the Good Earth store that I love tomorrow and I am going to fill out an application for a wellness councilor which is someone who works in the herbal section of the store. I have a general knowledge of herbs and I think I can pass there wellness quiz. Even if I am not paid that much at least it would be experience in the right direction for me. Plus I would get a 20% discount at the store, which would be great, I think they even offer some benefits. But it all depends, they are not advertising for anything, but... I talked to one of the managers and this is what she told me to do. Plus there are not a ton of people out there who are as motivated as I am about health and wellness, and the use of herbs. So that's my plan... Like I said before, working at Good Earth would be fun for me. Geneology is great but health and wellness are my interests.
Now I have gotten out of the habit of writing word paintings, so I think I will make an attempt since I am in a good mood.
Lay in a hamock, sway with the breeze.
Back and forth I lazily kick the tree as I swing and listen as the breeze rustles the leaves on the thousands of trees that cover the mountains. A nearby stream flows and there is the sound of the general conversation of my extended family at the reunion.
Kids run back and forth some screaming and laughing, some crying because they fell down. Their little faces are dirty, but they are joyful, giddy even at the general freedom to run in the dirt.
The Browns are starting up their 4-wheelers again, don't they ever stop? I hate those things. Someone starts up their chainsaw to cut up wood, geeze don't they know the meaning of relaxation.
The hamock, still rythemic, but not able to drown out the rousing camp loses it's appeal. So I rise to find my brother.
We run up and down the rock pile, back and forth on the bridge. Then decide to walk down the stream in our "Water Shoes," that mom has bought us, to find the ghost houses.
We ford the stream and step carefully on the rocks, moving branches and stepping around the watermelons that someone has brought up to cool. There will be a contest later, I can already taste the melon.
We head deeper into the woods, sloshing along happily in the man made stream that was diverted from the natural one up higher.
Then we see one, a ghost house. Carefully we make our way up the bank, the anticipation building with each step. The house is so fascinating to look at, the front step is littered with debris and as you peek over the threshold you can see the peeling wallpaper and the other rooms behind the wall because part of the wall is missing.
The stairs are dilapited, but undaunted by the danger we step into the house on top of part of the ceiling that has fallen. You can see where there had been a fire at one point, the smoke had discolored some parts of the wall giving the whole place a sad and earie feeling.
We walk carefully up the stairs to explore and find several rather small rooms. I imagine that babies had slept up there once, and a mother had kept house. We walk down the hallway and down the back into what must have been the kitchen, I imagined the mother again and the father bringing in piles of wood to heat the old pot belly stove.
We make our way off the back porch and find behind the house the foundation of a log cabin, even more fodder for the imagination. We walk around it in the thick vegetation and find the square nails which they had used to hold things together.
Satisfied by our day's findings we decide to get back before we are missed and head back up the stream, it is a bit harder than when going down.
Sometime I will write about going down into the crystal mine, riding up in the back of a pickup on the hard and bumpy floor.
Now I have gotten out of the habit of writing word paintings, so I think I will make an attempt since I am in a good mood.
Lay in a hamock, sway with the breeze.
Back and forth I lazily kick the tree as I swing and listen as the breeze rustles the leaves on the thousands of trees that cover the mountains. A nearby stream flows and there is the sound of the general conversation of my extended family at the reunion.
Kids run back and forth some screaming and laughing, some crying because they fell down. Their little faces are dirty, but they are joyful, giddy even at the general freedom to run in the dirt.
The Browns are starting up their 4-wheelers again, don't they ever stop? I hate those things. Someone starts up their chainsaw to cut up wood, geeze don't they know the meaning of relaxation.
The hamock, still rythemic, but not able to drown out the rousing camp loses it's appeal. So I rise to find my brother.
We run up and down the rock pile, back and forth on the bridge. Then decide to walk down the stream in our "Water Shoes," that mom has bought us, to find the ghost houses.
We ford the stream and step carefully on the rocks, moving branches and stepping around the watermelons that someone has brought up to cool. There will be a contest later, I can already taste the melon.
We head deeper into the woods, sloshing along happily in the man made stream that was diverted from the natural one up higher.
Then we see one, a ghost house. Carefully we make our way up the bank, the anticipation building with each step. The house is so fascinating to look at, the front step is littered with debris and as you peek over the threshold you can see the peeling wallpaper and the other rooms behind the wall because part of the wall is missing.
The stairs are dilapited, but undaunted by the danger we step into the house on top of part of the ceiling that has fallen. You can see where there had been a fire at one point, the smoke had discolored some parts of the wall giving the whole place a sad and earie feeling.
We walk carefully up the stairs to explore and find several rather small rooms. I imagine that babies had slept up there once, and a mother had kept house. We walk down the hallway and down the back into what must have been the kitchen, I imagined the mother again and the father bringing in piles of wood to heat the old pot belly stove.
We make our way off the back porch and find behind the house the foundation of a log cabin, even more fodder for the imagination. We walk around it in the thick vegetation and find the square nails which they had used to hold things together.
Satisfied by our day's findings we decide to get back before we are missed and head back up the stream, it is a bit harder than when going down.
Sometime I will write about going down into the crystal mine, riding up in the back of a pickup on the hard and bumpy floor.
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