Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

November 14, 2019, 02:08:54 AM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
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1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: galaxy on: October 12, 2016, 02:23:23 PM
sorry so slooooooooooow but thank youuuuuuuuuuu
2  Metaphors & Similes / Metaphors & Similes / Metaphors & Similes exercise on: October 12, 2016, 02:22:35 PM
five minutes.. go!

this ray is like a cut of butter on a piece of dark rye

butter is cow syrup

syrup is like amber without the mosquito

she's trapped like a dinosaur footprint

bones hollow like a paper straw

straws and twigs of split ends being cut

poking like a woodpecker knock

leave me like a sneeze

lung bags are dying fish on land, wheezing in glue-y ripples
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Lamp Shade on: April 13, 2016, 04:06:53 PM
i can see the stubborn folds, speckled white by years of neglect, rising up like mountains over canyons of dust, high line ridges that dip into valleys where more settles, more is forgotten. everything in that room is forgotten to some degree, like shades on a color wheel -- still vibrant red are the photographs dad took of my sister and me in patterned summer frocks, dancing in the driveway; salmon pink are the throw pillows grown mealy and stiff, never massaged by enough spines or crushed under napping heads; dusty rose pink are the paperback mystery books that fill up the shelf slots like old pies; rose quartz pink, almost translucent, are the objects in the drawers of that balsa desk: ivory key chains from India, old bills, Citizens watch boxes, empty like a dinosaur footprint. i suppose we could use that lamp again - replace the 60 watt incandescent bulb, plug that UPS uniform brown wire in, twist that black plastic switch to the right and sit under it, amidst all the piles topped with vintage
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Galaxy on: February 09, 2016, 04:29:26 PM

seems sad too.

maybe there's a song there in your longing
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Galaxy on: February 09, 2016, 04:27:25 PM
i love pinpoint stars

and funny, i chose to be traveling through it as well!

we can all dream Smiley
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / galaxy on: February 09, 2016, 04:26:40 PM
where to go in this galaxy, of milky dust in settled rings where only crumbly particles are visible from the plexiglass screen, look like weeks-old cookie dough dipped in ikea kid's paint of rust orange but texture of the side of a building being demolished. thank god we passed that one by. the suits we're wearing feel like a mixture of pvc sailcloth, skin-tight latex and 30-below sleeping bags. waves of the future. the "fabric" bunches up against my skin like a parasite, like a puckered bathing suit in some places, high fashion crinolline in others. i can hear my breathing like ocean breath, back of throat wheezing like a vagina but the dull white noise of tiny waves is comforting. my nostrils may stick together on this ride, but i am focused on the mission. we reach the next galaxy in exactly 6 minutes and 12 seconds, which by earth time feels like enough for a few commercials and a quick return to quantico but in space time will feel like a doctor's waiting room filled with mediocre magazines. if only i could sleep. horizontally. i'm almost standing, strapped into this ejector seat pad, ready to ejaculate from this pod when we're close enough to the space station for me to somersault towards the landing pad. space is not at all what i thought it would be i must say -- except for the quiet. it alternates with dinosaur creaking yawps and fizzles and hums with no interruption or fluctuation for minutes on end, but the quiet itself ... feels like a cave. like a holy run of subtle vibrations, like the moment when the wind gets knocked out of you or the second before the impact of a crash. like a liquid no one can see but everyone wears. 
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / filet on: February 03, 2016, 11:58:56 AM
a white skein of lumpy bland fish laying on the counter, looks like the death of something wet and once strong with muscle fibers, coursing through a river or some grand ocean, quivering on the line when it was caught and shaken from its life of hunting, being hunted. where has the time gone, it wonders, as it waits for the next predator to claim it, someone who's not thinking at all about fierce game or life or death, just whistling at his cold fridge, leaving the door open too long and perusing the shelves for things to accompany this filet: olives w/chunky garlic and decaying lemon slices? probably not. the small pungent hairs of horseradish, bottle cap totally clean and unique in the side door shelves lined with brown korean bbq spot stains and sticky maple syrup jugs? possibly. how about the miso container, the white plastic one w/the wayward chip on the lid that sticks up like a cowlick, different from the others. too much effort. he shifts the weight in his legs, he slowly creaks the fridge door mostly closed, but his hesitant hand grips the pearled black handle for a moment longer, his head feels emptied of the memories he's searching for - what his mom used when he was young and guileless, walking into a kitchen that smelled rich with brown butter and fresh sage and rosemary, the kind of smell you could touch at the front door and feel pride through all your muscles and veins: that your mom was always there, combining and cutting and swearing and sniffing and pinching and swirling, creating savory meals that felt like baths of
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / wrench object writing on: December 29, 2015, 11:22:50 AM
somehow, this time, the cold black speckled wrench, bumpy with years of grit and bouncing in tool boxes and underneath noses that didn't measure its worth, was lying perpendicular to everything else that was lying in the pile - ready to be gripped and turned and torqued at any moment like a distant painful memory, a good pair of sharp slanted tweezers, some helpful silver tongs to turn sizzling meat: perfect for what it was meant to do. i never understood wrenches, but i remember where the tool box was in my parents basement. so incongruous amongst the feathery shoe boxes, old and marked in my mother's serious cursive, delineating the random use and organization it belied. stacks of dusty magazines, tote bags with that sheer sheen patina of the '80s, tiny ivory statuettes of monkey-say-monkey-do or a cigarette holder from india - nothing holding together with any order. and then the tool box - red, smooth, the hinges stubborn and awkward to pry open but reliable to snap and seal it tight, somehow it was filled with bits and nails and screws, all shades of bullet grey or handsome black, always cold in the hand, some in packages only barely opened. what was that toolbox for in my house, where my parents, not born in this country, would usually call someone to help? handyman, contractor.. maybe the small misgivings of a house would get fixed, but there were no big projects, no modular furniture to be assembled via lanky instruction booklet, as i remember. that was a cold judgment growing up as well, i was tense in the shoulders with desire to fit in and have a family that would leave sweat on such a tool box, earned through weekend self-reliance and harkening days
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Mask it is on: December 23, 2015, 11:45:06 AM
Closet and the mask comes out, porcelain and smooth and cracked like wildfire fissures in crystal rock, evident in tiny places, like oil on water, like dust on a window. This mask is what I want people to see, pretty and tame, no major dramatic shirks or winks or grimaces or gapes - this is calm and still and undisturbed, milk in a saucer, no cat. I don't even own white skin, mine is parched and sallow and sometimes bronzed and enlivened by sun, moister and iridescent with oil and I seem younger and happier for it. That's another mask - the image of calm from uncovered sky, breathing in sour salt, exfoliates by sandy bottoms I hit when tumbling and bumbling off a rented surfboard, submerging my pulsating dome and squid ink hair back in the water, it's so warm and innocuous. And yet at home on a neglected shelf, my old mask from grade school stares - composed of scratchy plaster of paris, a comforting relic of old casts my dad would make, a magazine cutout of a trout eye, engagingly round and dull and opaque glued into one socket.. A dangling earring leftover, Victorian sized minuscule pearls and weathered crystal form a fancy tear. How did I know then, so young and quietly anxious, always swallowing doubt and clenching my teeth so I wouldn't have to say what I really thought - that there would alway be 2 sides of me. One half of the mask, eyes closed with eyelashes buzzing like bee wings, trying to feign sleep, not seeing for protection; one eye too open, like an overexposed photograph
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