“This is not art, this is shameless exhibitionism,” he had ranted.
How does one define art?
Does he not understand that to define art is to limit it!
Art is not what you see, it is what you feel. It speaks to your soul, is heard in the very depths of your body where it resonates with meaning. What that meaning is, is up to you. Art is everywhere and in everything. Art requires no canvas and everything is art’s canvas.
It is in the music of the winds, in the dance of the meadow, in the shimmering canvas painted by sunshine bouncing off the grass, in the swirl of the crimson flowing through her veins and the rhythm of the heart thumping in her chest.
Does he not see that art is wholly and completely selfless, and because of this, it is beautifully shamelessly and unconstrained!
In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 18 challenge
Image credited to Felix Russell-Saw
Let no person think lightly of good,
saying in his or her heart,
“it will not benefit me.”
As by the falling of raindrops a jar of water is filled,
so the wise person becomes full of good,
even though he or she collects it little by little.
Little by little a person becomes good,
as a water pot is filled by drops of water…
Little by little a person becomes evil,
as a water pot is filled by drops of water…
– Gautama Buddha
Prompted by Frank’s Tuesday Photo Challenge – Falling Water
The aim was to respond to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge based on a photo prompt by A Mixed Bag 2012.
It turned out to be one of those days when the words kept eluding me. What eventually came together was a children’s poem.
I am cheating a little bit here with a 200 word preamble and a 320 words poem, but its a genre that I have never tried, so I am going ahead and including the poem as a link.
A house fly on a keypad – I’m tempted to reach for the duster. Who sees a fly and picks up a camera rather than a squatter? A creative eye, that’s who, I tell myself. There is much beauty in the mundane.
I need to write a 200 words story.
I put different hats on my protagonist – a bug, a spy, a shape shifter, a fly in a dirty room. Beyond a few lines, nothing takes shape. I make him the antagonist. Think Jeff Goldblum. Why did he have to die? If vampires and werewolves can make sexy boyfriends, why not a fly? They could have ended with him wrapping his wings around his girl as they have their moment. But we associate flies with dirt and disease. No one wants a filthy boyfriend. Then I wonder… We humans occupy all the best places and chase God’s other creatures away, forcing them to seek refuge in squalor. We deprive them of options yet they get the disrepute.
OK. I was getting nowhere with this prompt. I decide to sleep on it.
It was when I was almost dozing off, that Inzy the Fly suddenly came to life.
Please read Inzy Saves the Day here.
“Are we there yet?” asked Rosie, panting.
In the half hour since we had left home, this was the third time that she had asked the exact same question. True, it was a rather warm day, but surely even an 8 year old should be able to walk 2 kilometers without so much grumbling!
“Mum said we should take the bus,” she added.
True, I had twenty bucks in my pocket. But I figured if I was stuck taking my baby sister to the beach, I should gain something from it at least.
“Are we there yet?” asked Rosie again, puffing.
I looked back. The sand pail that had been joyously swinging to and fro now hung limply off her arm. I felt a tad guilty and took it from her.
“Almost there,” I reassure her as we take the bend.
Before us a seemingly infinite flat sea stretches out, the afternoon sun scattering diamonds across its surface, broken only by the white foam that laced the tips of each wave. The gentle slaps of waves sing a siren’s song as salty air whip Rosie’s ruddy cheeks.
“Are we there yet?” asks Rosie, now smiling widely at me.
In response to Flash Fiction For The Purposeful Practitioner -2017 Week 17
Awake my little ones
Stretch your wings
Shimmer with the thrill of raging adrenaline
Today is the day you accomplish many things
Greet the sun
Challenge his blazing
The world is your playground
Yours for the taking
In response to Frank’s Tuesday Photo Challenge – Morning
Shackles of words so often spoken shred my skin as I tear apart the thickets.
Act like a girl. Talk like a girl. You can’t do this. You shouldn’t do that. For years I have been defined by others, conformed to standards set by the patriarchs. I have been loved, but that love has always come with terms and conditions. Be strong but needy, brave but within constraints, be smart but don’t have opinions.
I don’t know what’s out there for me. I may not make it, but I’ll fail on my own terms. I may never find that perfect soul-mate, but at least I’ll find me.
Written for Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Weekly Challenge for photo by Toa Heftiba
Teachers are not supposed to have favourites, but with Roy, it was hard not to.
“What are you looking at sweetie?”
“Do you know what I think clouds are teacher? God’s paintings.
Look. Right now it’s that nice painting that hangs in art class. That’s God reaching out to Adam.
Pastor Samuel said God created man in his image, so that God’s light shining out from behind Adam. The little clouds are the angels singing praise. Isn’t it a wondrous painting?
Don’t worry. I know what clouds really are. Mr. Geoffrey taught us in science. But I still like to think of them as God’s art. It’s a much prettier thought.”
Written for Friday Fictioneers with photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
She welcomed artists, writers, thinkers, observers, people who needed a warm cup of coffee or free wifi, people who just wanted to stop and stare.
It did not matter who you were, how old you were, where you came from or where you were going to, as long as you believed in the magic of possibilities.
After all, it’s not important if unicorns do exist, it’s important that you believe that they might exist.
Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales with photo by Fleur Treurniet via Unsplash
The blank page glowers at me from the screen. I revel in its vast emptiness. Here before me is the vessel that will hold my invaluable thoughts and words and preserve them, perhaps for posterity. But an awkward silence hangs in my head, stifled like a hot summer noon, twiddling its thumbs.
I jiggle the cursor around, making imaginary doodles on the page, trying to churn the vacuum, searching for the words that live on the edge of the precipice, but nothing comes to fruition.
The extraordinary, someone once said, was rarely found in the obvious, but in the hidden recess of what remained unconsciously observed and consciously unremarked.
I start typing, one word after another, filling the void with random thoughts, emotions spilling over from my imagination.
I pause to commune with my vessel and can almost feel the page’s disappointment at my feeble attempt. It had poised itself for loftier accomplishments, philosophical introspections, a classic novel or great poetry perhaps; instead all it had achieved in its short inglorious life was to have its virgin surface sacrificed to a novice’s ramblings, like untidy clothes strewn on a pristine floor. Its despondency is almost palpable.
I teeter in this fugue state until a sudden effervescence in the stream of time snaps me out of my cogitation.
I am the brightest star in my mind’s galaxy and I am OK with that.
The Tuesday Photo Challenge posted the question – What colour represents love?
Love has no colour.
No colour, no shape, no form. For to define it in such terms is to limit it.
Perhaps, the colour of love is the colour of my son’s eyes, hair, skin, even his teeth, and even on the days when he has played truant with brushing.
Certainly, the colour of love will be the colour of My Maker when I finally get to meet Him.
I am no prophet. I have neither seen the burning bush not ascended the heavens. There are some who say He will appear as a powerful warm all consuming light. Then I could define that as the colour of love.
I am conflicted here – should I post no picture or should I just post a picture of light?