Three Songs

Three Songs

One time two young college students were studying during the afternoon.  The young man, Nicholas, was studying for a mathematics class.  The young lady, Samantha, was reviewing her notes and reading for a social sciences class.  The two had inhabited a table outside of a Biology building.  They knew each other through other people; they found each other to be pleasant acquaintances.  Sam listened to her headphones and read for a while; Nick went over his math problems and began to solve them one by one.

Some time had gone by and Nick noticed Sam was daydreaming.  Half complete with his math work for the day, Nick decided to speak.  “What are you listening to?” he asked.  “It is a selection of mp3 files I put on a disk from the web,” said Sam, “The disk has three of my most favorite songs on it.”  “Oh?” said Nick, “What are your three most favorite songs?”  “I do not really have three most favorite songs,” said Sam, “I listen to different music depending on my mood or the time of the day.”  “Wow,” said Nick, “I suppose I do that, too.  I guess I do that, when I think about it.”

 

“So,” he asked again, “What are the three favorite songs on the disk?”  “She had been stalling, wanting to speak of phenomenal music that any person would agree on.  She only had twelve selections; she spoke.”  “I have a Mozart song, ‘Faith’, by George Michael, and some random song I liked by a rock and roll band, Black Diamond,” said Sam, trying to hide the idea that she was trying to impress Nick.  “I have heard of Black Diamond,” said Nick, “I do not know too much about them.”  She let him listen to the first part of their song and he liked it.

The two became close buddies and dated other people.  Once graduated, they worked in the same city for different companies, got married to other people, and their families stayed in close relations to each other for years and years.

stratovarious

moonlight sonata

faith

day 3 prompt

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Thoughts on Bottled Up Emotions

Thoughts on Bottled Up Emotions

Keeping your emotions in a container is not always a healthy practice.  Many of us know these things; psychology students can tell us why.  Negative stress can go from internal anguish to actual physical discomfort and even harm.  People can die from anxiety attacks, so there are reasons to pay attention to the leaders of consideration – that is my simple take on these topics.

I personally am emotional all day long.  I make the customer happy, try to teach when others can learn, and I constantly pursue wisdom as an avid learner.  People say, “Just let it go.  It should not matter so much to you; you will cheer up sometime.”  It is not always easy to rid ourselves of kept secrets/emotions.  One way I figure it out – no dwelling.  If you have to think about something, fine; do not continue to repeat thoughts that are going to upset you.  Think about something else; there are always new topics, always.

My two most popularly contained emotions are love and anger.  I am usually a dead giveaway with the first.  People know when I like them; I do not touch anyone, really.  Around public people all the time, I try to minimize physical contact; it is the best for now.  I love all people.  As far as anger goes; I let it go.  I just do.  I have every reason, from time to time, to be upset – I let it go.  Many times, in order for my anger to be a very real thing, I have to figure out, ultimately, why I am upset.  It takes a bit of thought.  So, if I do not think of anything, I will no longer be upset.  If I can justify anger, I can justify forgiveness, understanding, or new avenues of consideration.  If you read this, “like” it or comment, and I will visit your blog.  Thank you for you time.

↓daily post, unsafe containers

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A Place in the Sky

A Place in the Sky

As I was sitting on the bench, I checked my watch.  I had about thirty minutes, and my bus would pull up, then.  An old man with a newspaper walked up beside me and sat down on the bench.  “Where are you headed?” I asked; why would he care if I spoke?  He was about to talk anyway.  “My friends call me Mr. Herund,” said the man holding out his hand.  At the age of ten, I figured I could give the old man a firm handshake.

I shook the man’s hand with a nice grip and said, “My name is Mike, and I am on my way to Kentucky.”  “Me, too,” said Mr. Herund, grimly.  “You sound somewhat sad,” I said, “Why?”  “Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I am going to visit my deceased mother.”  “Oh,” I said, thinking, “My aunt’s place is going to be at least funner than that.”  I decided to try to bring joy to Mr. Herund.

“Where could you go, if you could go anywhere, and what would it look like?” I asked Mr. Herund.  “That is a dangerous question to ask me,” said Mr. Herund.  “Why?” I asked, and he said, “I am an avid reader and private independent editor and book critic.  I can blow a living man’s mind like a blond on 4th st, and I just finished reading Austin Tappan Wright’s “Islandia”.  The book contained a fictional continent in our real world named Karain.  “Wow,” I asked, “What is ‘Karain’ like?”

“Well,” said Mr. Herund, “I could tell you all about it, that I would visit it if I found it to be ‘accommodable’, however it would not be as fun as asking you what you think your dream continent would look like.”  “Mine?” I asked.  “I think mine would be a whole lot like Australia, with a tropical jungle and shaped like South America.  I would live high up in huge trees with tree-house communities and large hammocks for summertime napping.  The birds would be vivid in color, the trees bulging with the water of life, and its rivers full of meaty fish.  I would hunt game and fish; I would write with the inks of plants for the enjoyment of others.”

“You have a pretty nice place to go to, alter-ed world wise,” said the old man, “Have you ever considered writing a book to describe a story there?”  “I have now, Mr. Herund,” I said, and the bus pulled up right in front of us, coming to a noisy halt.  We both boarded the bus and exchanged addresses – he was sure to make for an intelligibly enjoyable pen pal.

writing 101 link

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My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

My Idea… the Saint of Wisdom

I awoke in the late morning hour.  It was nearing 4 AM; Ma and the children were sleeping.  I went for a stroll.  On I walked, the moonlight pale, I was sure to find some stress-free form of fatigue sometime soon.  It was then that I saw a path from the road.  It was an old lot; the lot led to land owned by neighbors.  “Interesting path,” I thought to myself.  I was sure to find something or someone.

I made my way down the dark pathway in the night and found a clearing.  It was a nice clearing – open wide enough for moonlight, yet still small enough to be rather hidden.  I took a deep breath and looked to the sky.  A spirit of the winds descended – it looked like a cloud of smoke forming above me.

“What have you?” it asked.  I happened to have a small painting in my pocket of a horizon.  It was cooked in a kiln; I thought it was precious.  “I have this small painting,” I said to the cloud, not knowing much about why it had asked me the question.  “What if I could turn you into a saint?” asked the cloud, “Would you let me have your painting?”  “Sure,” I said.  I would gladly give a cloud a painting – any moonlit night would qualify for such an idea.

“What kind of saint?” I asked.  “Any kind of saint you can ask to be,” said the cloud, “May I see the painting?”  I took out the small porcelain paperweight from my left pocket and held it up in the air.  It floated up about two feet.  “Nice dawn,” said the cloud.  “Thank you,” I said, trying to figure out what kind of saint I could ask for before the phenomenon vanished.  “I would like to become a saint of wisdom,” I said to the cloud, “For that, you can keep the small painting.”

“You will now forever be the actual Saint of Wisdom,” said the cloud, “Even after you perish.”  “Wow and thank you,” I said.  “No problem,” said the cloud, and it slowly faded away with the painting.  There was nothing left but the crisp moonlit night; I returned home for slumber.  I slept well.

A True Saint

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On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide, Writing 101, 6-14, link-post 1

On the Streams of Consciousness – The Death of a Guide

Once upon a time, there were four people on a boat. The boat was floating down an overgrown jungle canal. There was the captain, a native of the area, two grandparents, and a young girl – Malody. Interestingly enough, the boat was floating down a stream, a branch of the Amazon River. The boat was more or less like a large canoe. The captain used a huge pole to help guide the vessel’s floating path.

Malody’s grandparents were on a vacation. They took two or three trips every summer, and Malody actually got to come along this time. “How many books have you written, grand-ma?” asked Malody. “Over seventeen, now,” said her grandmother. Her grandmother wrote books about old ladies, their lives, and what they chose to do for fun. Many of her novels included natural tragedies, death from terminal illness, and handsome men.

“So, what was your motivation behind writing?” asked Malody. “Him,” said her grandmother, playing around. Malody’s grandfather was looking through his binoculars at the “jungle to come” from the front of the boat – there was really nothing to see other than large old trees with mosses and vines. He himself was in the spirit, nonetheless. The occasional wild bird could be seen, and the passengers saw what they thought to be an orange Macaw, at one point. The native was in the back, steering.

Malody’s grandfather, Baron was working on his first novel. A retired salesman who used to work for an oil company, Baron did his own reading and writing all of the time. His wife and Malody’s grandmother, Maurine, was an actual novelist. She wrote and sold three books upon retirement; found a nice young male agent; and even began writing her novels for a major publisher. Baron wrote a few articles for a hunting magazine; he decided that he, too wanted to write a book. He brought an empty notepad to journal with during this trip. “I will not stop writing my daily thoughts until I have 100,000 words to revise for additional commentary,” said Baron, one time.

The boat turned and held good speed as its motion was guided by the native captain, Julio. The three tourists asked Julio questions from time to time about things like the rain and his home village. Malody was happy to be enjoying the ride. She was a huge fan of her grandmother and thought it to be an impressive rarity that she knew a famous published author. Malody wanted to know more and appreciated her grandmother’s commentary.

“You wrote one or two books a year there for a while,” said Malody, “Why have you not written anything for over a year, now?” “Well, Malody,” said her grandmother, “I love to write, we both know that, I just have not been inspired, lately. I have written a bunch of long stories people must have enjoyed, however I have not endured any reason for writing in some time. I will again, just not too soon.” “Have you seen any good movies lately?” asked Malody, “Are those not some form of inspiration?” “Well,” said Maurine, “Some movies have inspired me, like ‘Gone with the Wind’ and ‘Fried Green Tomatoes’, however the last movie I saw was ‘Austin Powers’.”

Baron, at that time, decided to jot some prose in his journal. There was an amount of violent activity beneath the surface of the stream. Julio saw it. The others saw it, too. “What is that all about?” asked Malody. “Those are piranhas,” said Julio, “They swarmed up on something in a school – possibly a long snake.” The swarming school would be the most exciting thing Baron could describe so far.

Julio looked over to Baron. Malody saw Julio; he was “pitching a tent”. Julio said to Baron, “With all of your writing about the trees and your words on wildlife, I have something you can describe right here.” This infuriated Maurine. Malody took one look at her grandmother, who had blushed red in hatred. There was a docking rope behind Julio; Malody saw that Julio and Baron were about to fight.

Malody ran over to Julio; tied him up with the rope; and submerged his head underwater. He shook violently as Malody manhandled his bound body. The swarming piranhas devoured the natives’ wet flesh. Julio’s neck and jaw where showing, and by the time Baron could figure out what Malody was doing to the guide, the small carnivorous fish had eaten the brain of the native, entirely. Malody pulled the brainless body back up, and her grandparents were astonished. “Well,” said Malody, “That was at least on occurrence you guys can write about.”

link to writing 101

a piranha picture

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Pictures of You; a Link to the Daily Prompt

Pictures of You

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Ron. He met a beautiful young woman named Lindsay. They shared a few classes together in college; they were study partners in English Literature II. They discussed weekly topics on the literature assigned to them by their professor’s curriculum, and re-hashed the main occurrences of their readings to make sure they got great grades every weekly quiz.

From time to time, as they met for a scheduled hour, two to three times a week, the two tedious students made their way to the “food court” on their college campus. Ron thought the world of Lindsay, did not really know too much about her. He always wanted to cover the important sides of their readings. Never did he pry into the pretty young lady’s personal life. He cared for her.

One time, in the “food court”, the football mascot of their college was dancing around to get students to go to the game. Lindsay wanted to take pictures with the mascot, so Ron offered to with his phone. They came out fine. He e-mailed them to her. She was impressed.

Finals were on the way, and the two continued to study together. Finals were soon to over; the two were confident that they would make an “A”. The day of the big test came. Ron had done his reading, he knew he would do fine on the test. Once the test was over, the scores were to be posted outside of the office of the professor in one hour. Lindsay was sure to go there then, and Ron would most certainly see her. He decided to get her a dozen red roses and profess his love to her; he knew no one he could love more.

The test came. They both filled out their answers and left. Ron hurried to the flower store in town, and made it back with a dozen roses in precisely one hour. He walked to the professor’s office and saw the scores, but no Lindsay. Both students made an “A”. He continued his path with the flowers behind his back, figuring he would see her any moment. Other students were around. The hall led to another stairway, as well as the closest one to the professor’s office.

Ron made his way back, only to see Lindsay kissing with a football player. The two did not see him; Ron went down the hall and out via the other stairway. He through out the roses and let it go. He should have known, he thought – what was he thinking, anyway? He looked at his pictures of her on his phone one last time and went back to his dormitory.

pictures of you – the cure

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Whether Our Moods Depend on Weather, link to Daily Post

Whether Our Moods Depend on Weather

“Pa?” asked a young man named Dane, “Do you think our personality and decisions are affected by the weather? “Of course they are, son. Go ask that to your mother,” said the young man’s father, Harold. Dane went inside to speak with his mother. Her name was May.

“Mom,” said Dane; May was chopping up some green onions. “Yes, son,” said May. “What is it with the weather? Do you think it changes our mood and how we think?” “Yes, of course, son,” said May,

“For more than one reason… physiologically, when a human’s body is exposed to temperatures other than 70 ° f, it functions differently. We make our decisions, many times, based on exterior circumstances and/or interior reasons. Weather is an external influence, still an influence. Your body temperature is supposed to stay at about 96° – which is somewhat warmer than our preferred environment. People need their space more in the heat. When fall comes, we enjoy a whole new way of spending time together. These natural forms of physical surroundings are not the only reason that the weather affects us. We also act upon circumstances in which we “think” we should act on. The temperature and cool breezes, alone, are not the only things about fall that encourage us to become closer; we “think” our moods change without thinking too much about it. Therefore, we have an attitude from the combination of both internal and external influences.”

“That was an amazing answer, mom; thank you. I am going to go tell that to Pa,” said Dane. Dane went out and told these things to his father, who said his mother was right. They all shared lemon-steamed and peppered chicken with spices, broccoli, and potatoes for dinner before turning in.

Climate Control –
The idea that the weather and people’s moods are connected is quite old. Do you agree? If yes, how does the weather affect your mood?

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My Dream, the Toy-Maker; link to daily post

My Dream, the Toy-Maker

Once upon a time there was a young boy named Mathew.  Matt was nine years old.  Spending time with his grandfather was an often occurrence of his on the weekends.  It gave his parents a break.  As a growing boy, Matt usually ate more at his grandparents.  One weekend, it was late on Saturday afternoon.

“Grand ma, what are we having for dinner tonight?  May I help out?” asked Matt.  Matt loved helping his grandmother, however he usually was not allowed.  “Your grandfather is outside changing the oil in that big iron box he calls a car.  Go help him, and I will fix us three up something splendid,” said his grandmother.  Matt went outside to see his grandfather.

“What can I do for you, grand pa?” asked Matt.  “Hold this light,” said his grandfather.  Matt held the light, and his grandfather loosened the oil filter from the bottom of a large engine.  The old oil drained into a pan, and his grandfather was happy that it was not too difficult to get the filter off.  Matt’s grandfather wanted to talk, did not know what to say.  “So,” he asked, “What would you become if you could do anything you wanted to with your life?”  “I am not sure,” said Matt, “I will probably try to do well in school and become a doctor.  If I do not make it, I can always find an easier route.”

“What would you do for a job while in school?” asked his grandfather.  “Anything that might make people happy, I guess,” said Matt, “I could cook for people.”  At that time Mathew looked up to the shelf in the old dusty garage of his grandfathers.  The shadows there never caught much light, not even during times close to noon.  “What are those stringed dolls up there?” asked Matt.  “Those are mine,” said his grandfather, “I made them with my dad when I was very young.  They are carved out of wood and painted.  I wanted a new radio for Christmas one year; Pa was out of work.  We made those dolls, and I got a radio for my birthday.”

“Wow,” said Matt.  “There are a lot of expensive toys out there, these days,” he said aloud.  “There sure are,” said his grandfather, “Most toys come from large manufacturers by the thousands, now.”  “I do not guess there is not anyway to make good toys, is there?” asked Matt.  “Oh sure there is,” said his grandfather, “You could start a small hobby store including small remote electronic devices and stay busy all day long.”  “I think that is what I am going to do,” said Mathew.  His grandfather had the car put back together and was pouring in the last pint of new oil.  “What do you have in mind, Matt?” asked his grandfather.  “When I grow up,” said Matt,” I am going to become a toy-maker.”

Futures Past Daily Prompt

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Once a Day…

Once a Day

Once a day, this site posts a new picture; it is amazing to see how realistic oils are these days.  Professional artists have become competitive.  Their skills are none the lacking.  Check out a new painting with a description everyday here:

Artist a Day

This is one of my favorite websites.  I enjoy reading the mini-biographies about the artists, their training, and how their pieces of artwork were selected.  I welcome any commentary on art – I appreciate it as I can.