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Posts Tagged ‘storytelling’

check out the Spring 2013 issue of Talking Writing Magazine.  There’s just some darn fine writing and imagery appearing in that publication.  Start with Editor Martha Nichol’s reflections on Why I Love and Hate Nature Writing. And in Green Among the Bones, Marc Schiffman presents a moving recount of his travels in Cambodia in an essay illustrated with photography by Mary Dineen.  More of her work can been seen in her Image Essay.  I’ll be honest I almost titled this post “my butt hurts,” a line taken from Patricia Dubrava’s Me, Writing.  I’ll stop there.  Hmmm, okay, two more words:  treat yourself. 😉

 

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… inspired in part by reading Tattoos on the Heart The Power of Boundless Compassion by Gregory Boyle.  An excellent read that highlights the power of compassion, the strength found in families (however family is defined) and the impact of telling someone “you matter in this world.”  The book is composed of nonfiction stories.  I suppose that’s why stories keep bubbling up in my mind.

My brother remembers it as the “rumble in the jungle.” I remember it as the school bus ride from Hades.  The short of it is that I was in the 8th grade and he was in the 6th grade.  I don’t remember how the message was communicated but somehow during the school day I was told that he was going to get jumped on the bus ride home that afternoon.  And he was.  And then he remembers me saying, “Get your hands off my brother.” Luckily our older brother had taught us how to make fists ’cause there were plenty of them flying.  Eventually the school bus made it back to school, the older boys were suspended, and my brother remembers that no one ever tried touching him again.  I remember the principal saying to me, “Cynthia, what were you thinking? How could you get yourself into a fight?”  I didn’t reply but the answer was easy.  I wasn’t thinking.  There was no thought at all involved.  No one was messing with my brother but me.  Family ties, right?

But what tied my aunt to the girls who wanted to mess with her granddaughter?  There was an incident where my aunt had to sit on her brownstone stoop to bar entry to this  gang of girls.  As I wrote in an earlier post, she said to them,  “I do not know why you did what you did to my grandchild.  I do not care what you say now, that you want to play and not fight.  You shall not enter this house without removing me first.”  The girls looked at her, how frail she was.  My aunt returned the look and shook her head. “I love my grandchild, do you hear?  I love that child and,” she added without hesitation and with great sincerity,  “I love you too.”  The girls, all of them, walked away without further word.  My aunt did not know those girls and yet she did and does still love them.  Why?

Other random thoughts flutter through my head like butterflies (in shades of gold and gray and a bit of blue).  But I must stop and get up from this computer and head out into a sunny day.  Where ever you are in the world, I hope you are having a good Monday.

 

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That is if you view the following video on one of those contraptions that slips in your pocket. 😉  Leading up to National Poetry in Your Pocket Day, I wanted to share with you this short stop-animation poem by hand cut paper artist Angie Pickman. I had the great pleasure of sharing the words and images of Angie last year. Check out her interview: Angie Pickman Interview 2012.  Meanwhile you can view her 2013 poem below.

 

 

Learn more about this amazing artist’s work via the following links:

http://ruralpearl.com/blog/

http://www.etsy.com/shop/ruralpearl

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Pens, Paper, Postcards

Pens, Paper, Postcards

The camera is not going away, but if I have one goal in 2013, it is to do more creative writing.  Without doubt motivation has come from my involvement with Talking Writing, a nonprofit online literary magazine featuring the work of writers and visual artists.  I know firsthand the commitment and dedication of the editors in helping writers dig deep. See for yourself by checking out the Winter 2013 Issue.  And meet the editors this week at the 2013 Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference in Boston.

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Those are the magical words that collage artist Zoe Langosy will sometimes say after viewing my nature-themed photographs.  Most recently they were uttered after showing her the following image from an impromptu hike through the Blue Hills, of deep golden light falling upon a stand of birch trees.

It is my continuing pleasure to view such images through Zoe’s eyes, to learn how to see textures and patterns, and then to imagine how such textures and patterns can become part of a larger work with its own story.  The story of this woman on a boat and a coyote, you will have to wait for Zoe to share as she continues with this work in progress.  Stay tuned! Meanwhile, you can read this post about how we’ve collaborated in the past. And you can see more of her art on this Etsy shop: http://www.etsy.com/shop/LangosyArts

 

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a child did wander through the stars …

how he traveled I don’t know …

all I know is the beauty he saw …

dazzling lights and colors true, representing every hue …

then one day he saw a world, big and blue with oceans dark …

down he went unto the land to wander lost upon the sands …

until he came upon a man

to whom he shared his many sights

one day that man would write a book

that is how I know that

in a galaxy far away

a child did wander among the stars

and maybe he still does

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Editorial note:  These words came to me a a song as I was trying to figure out a way to share the above images (which are of ice on windows).  Since I can’t read or write music, I can’t really tell you how the song goes but maybe you can come up with your own tune. It wasn’t until the last few lines that I realized I was referencing the story of The Little Prince. 

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I believe in magic especially this winter as I’ve watched frost form upon the windows.  Read more at Creativity Portal about the Winter Window Magic I’ve seen.  Enjoy!

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A story inspired by a 5-year old in love with “Once upon a time a little girl …” 😉

Once upon a time a little girl picked a bouquet of flowers.  She put them in a vase of water and placed the vase next to a window.  Each flower upon its  sturdy stem was beautiful in the sunlight.  But then time passed and the flowers changed no matter how many times she added water.  One morning she brushed her hand across the dying blooms and a whole flower fell to the table.

It broke revealing all its many parts that had made a single whole.

The girl gently touched the fragile pieces.  While she admired their different shapes and colors and textures, she wanted her flower back as a single beautiful thing.

And so she picked up the stigma and stamen and petals and leaves and she tried to put the puzzle back together again.  It was, of course, an impossible task.  As she stood there at the window trying to decide if she should be very angry or very sad or just a little crabby, a ray of light touched a petal and the withering stems.   “It’s still beautiful,” the girl realized with a smile, “Just in a different way.”

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and by this river of light

the petal sipped its fill of bright water

until it too glowed with the ferocity of the sun

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What do forks have to do with a long walk? Well, just click the picture or on this link to find out.    Find a tale inspired by my interactions with a five-year old who has grown adept at asking “can you make up a story about [fill in the blank],” and my interactions with a 50-plus year old  who has the spirit of a five-year old who tells me quite often what he will do with a fork in the road.

With such muses in my life, how could I not write this tale?  Please enjoy and let me know what you think.

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