Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

April 20, 2019, 12:38:55 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti

Saturday-Homesick



Word of the Day
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1  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Galaxy on: December 29, 2018, 01:44:31 PM
I look up to the sky, but my memory goes back to my childhood: the first galaxy I ever saw was on screen, I was seven years old and I was riding Princess Leia cargo ship, and after that an imperial destroyer; then the Millenium Falcon (and all the stars passed the cockpit at an impossible faster-than-light speed!) and then and X-Wing in the trenches of the Death Star. The sense of speed was so real, so goosebumping, that I swear the seat was moving and bumping at the same rate as Luke Skywalker X-Wing was, avoiding the defense turrets. But now, I look at the sky, and the same sensations come again: the deepness, the vastness of the universe above me, around me. The sense of infiniteness and awe makes me somehow feel relaxed, as if I could grab the universal truth that sneaks below the conscience level, we all so worried about our everyday problems, as if we, consciously or unconsciously, bury it because it may disturb us in our way. What are we afraid of, of the stars, really? Nothing more beautiful, more anchored in the deep black ocean of the skies. Stars would lead our way if we only looked up, just a bit, just a few inches upwards, instead or focusing down below, down on ourselves. I breathe the cold air, the brush of the grass below, tiny green reminders that life always grow up, seldom down, but even abissal fishes look up from time to time, or they wear their own stars in their glowing eyes. I may as well drown in this billions years-light of space and time, but I remember this here and now, this very moment, the skies, the grass, the soft earth below, are the result of all that surrounds our little corner of the Universe. It's amazing, and I close my eyes.
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Dragonfly on: December 26, 2018, 06:55:49 PM
Buzzes as a light fan, a tiny breeze near my cheeks. It looks so fragile yet its colors are shinny as only a burst of energy could even obtain. It's like a wooden and silk toy, a kite, a paper plane exquisitely crafted by skilled, tiny hands. I open my palm and offer it to the dragonfly as a landing site. It descends and touch it with its hair-sized legs. They tickle slightly, as if a kiss that does not really touches the skin. Electricity sparks go back and forth from the nerves all along the hand and the arm to the brain, and I feel goosebumps all around the head, as if my hair was rising slowly, spreading its own set of wings, as if it recognized the dragonfly as one of its own. It keeps buzzing, slower now, and I wonder if it recognizes any features: do it knows that is my face, my hand, that I'm friendly, that I'm offering it a place to rest a bit? Me, I understand it belongs to this surroundings, its buzz belongs also to the river rumor, to the singing of the birds, to the chattering of the leaves when the wind blows and connects all the beings in one single air dome. I feel it in my bare skin, but I can also smell damp earth.
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sidewalk on: December 25, 2018, 01:05:33 PM
When I listen to Simple Minds' "Waterfront" I remember two things: the hot and moving energy in the stalls in my two first Minds' shows and, at the same time, walking on Málaga's waterfront when I was on holidays with my parents in my aunt's apartment. As unrelated as they seem, the word links both memories together, and they have accompanied me since then, almost forever. And it wasn't the most beautiful of the waterfronts, in fact: first, a somewhat urban stressful stroll besides Málaga's port, where once I stepped into a Russian cargo ship. It was absolutely thrilling for a boy, feeling the deck (the floor!) cradling side by side slightly, only slightly, just enough to feel you are in another world, that ground is not sure anymore. And the smell of varnished wood, strong, like something's old but always new, like eternal youth but also endurance. The brass-polished instruments caught my eye on the bridge, and I can vividly remember the huge, blonde and smiling sailor that helped me up to look through the visor to catch a gridded vision of the port in the dusk, all the ships docked, the cargo, the workers lifting up and down huge container. It was all so clean all around. But then we walked again onto the concrete sidewalk that draw a straight line eastbound to the cliffs and beaches.
4  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Chimney on: December 24, 2018, 01:06:49 AM
The pipe was blocked out, but what's the use of a chimney near the Mediterranean? My brother-in-law laid the dog mattress in the hearth, so there was another kind of warmth coming from the fireplace. She was a crazy dog, always jumping and looking for anyone to stroke her and play with her. It was crazy trying to avoid her when I stepped into my sister's courtyard, she run and jumped with no sense of kinetics whatsoever. But she was so crazily happy! I loved her nervous barking, her moving tail going crazy as a fan, her smily eyes and her kisses that struck your face unexpectedly when you kneel for any reason, like grabbing the shopping bags or cleaning the spilled coffee from the ground.
But then, after we had lunch, she sneaked into her place in the hearth, curled herself and slept the afternoon. She only opened her eyes if we shout too loud when playing cards, or whenever a plastic bag was opened: its crispy sound make her ears rise like two twin mountains, like Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul, one in front of the other, and we tried to avoid eye contact with her because she would understand that she was going to have a treat. Because she knew we loved her enough as not to stand her plightful stare. She knew better than anyone that we, humans, are so weak.
5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Poster on: December 17, 2018, 11:20:20 PM
He looks at me from the wall. He was attached below a scheme of the Solar System, besides a landscape full of detachable dinosaurs. His eyes were fixed on me, no matter where in my room I look him from. The very same static smile, but his eyes followed me, although they were printed on the same paper with the same colors. I was upset when the light was on, but when my parents and my brother went to sleep I was truly scared. I always shouted my brother, whose bed was closer to the switch and the posters, not to switch the light off until I was sleep. But he didn't care, it was only night terror, but I was sure those eyes were alive and very evil. I couldn't understand; the character the actor played on TV was a true hero, why, why those brown eyes were so liquid, so terrifying at night? I didn't care less in the morning, but at night, oh they were alive, always on the same place with the same colors but always different. I shivered under the blankets, I rolled against the opposite wall, grasping the mattress, as I was sure that some forces, loosely connected with him on the poster, would grab me down under the bed and take me to that frightening space that opens up in this world from under all around the world children's bed. Interdimensional worldwide hellish gateways. My brother laughed at me, not much trying to calm me down but to terrify me even more. Was his or the man in the poster laugh I was listening?
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Sunglasses on: December 16, 2018, 07:32:54 PM
Light salutes me, but I frown. I need to put on my sunglasses and the world swifts in color. It's not that it darkens, but it seems more rounded, contrasted, duller if you want, but in some ways nicer. I can walk beneath the sun, feeling its warmth on my face and on my arms, the gently embrace of its rays and the singing tones of the breeze beneath the beach. I can hide my eyes from the rest of the world and still look at them, not the least embarrassed, but I have nothing to hide behind the shades. So I walk forward, somewhat more aware of myself, as if the eyes but also the ears and the skin has turned outside in and notice with more attention the heartbeats, the rhythm of my feet walking on the concrete of the waterfront. I smile, quietness and confidence gathered at the doors of my feelings headquarters. It feels good, it feels safe, but it's also summer on the other side and I taste the lazyness, the quietness of the season. Children playing in the sand on the beach at my left as I'm heading south, men and women sitting on the terraces, chatting, drinking soda and vermouth, laughing carelessly. Do I see... All of them are wearing sunglasses? Are all of them also looking inwards? Is the summer the season of greeting our own ourselves? I imagine a brotherhood/sisterhood of the sunglasses wearers, connected together as if the world was a Matrix and the sun, some kind of endlessly battery for our lives to go on. Nevertheless, it feels good, it feels like time stands still, as if whatever after our childhood has been a lie, a deception, and only summer is true, only those days when life was easier and friendship lasted forever - until we grow up.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Desk on: December 15, 2018, 05:03:55 PM
(Sorry, I've been out for a while. Hope to retake the daily habit of object writing again and never let it go!  Grin )

Just place it besides the window. Saturday morning joyful sunlight falls in its light brown mildly rough surface. It's my first working desk, and I feel the future of my writing jobs just by stroking it with the bare palm of my hand. It smells of brand new desk, recently burnished and painted, the sharp scent of carved wood, and the light works as a magic link between the dead wood, the life of the trees, the ground and the imagination, just eager to sit down in front of it, placing books and manuals and portfolios and pen and start writing again. It's been so long since I last had a place on my own, all alone, and let words flow from the dead brown lake on the inside. The desk is the key, the password to let the river flow again, and could not happen in any other way but with a new desk and the spring light pouring all over the place. It feels so good, so right. I'm on the place I've always longed to be. But no time also to spent staring at the desk. It's time to fly over the boxes and unpack, to shelve the books. In a while, the place will be warmer with the soft sound of the echoes muffled by the books, and the bittersweet smell of the paper and the ink. And after that, the ozone sparkling from the plug, the bright colors of the screen and the flow turning white into black into words into meaning, and let the water pour and wash myself anew on the inside. I feel my pulse beating slower, like dancing a slow waltz in the countryside, candles and trees all alike all around. It's time to write. Breathe and keep going.
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Fire on: October 10, 2018, 10:05:31 AM
Hot, hot in there, air coming in rushes and gushes and whoooooof! Hair goes back and the skin goes dry, face dry, but the warmth is nice, welcoming, come close to me, it says, and you will be no cold anymore. Do you feel the difference between the warmth in the front and the coldness in your back? Hey, that's called a temperature gradient! Fire is joking, it knows I studied thermodynamics and that's OK, but it is also cracking, and the sound evokes those times, back in my childhood, in the open fields in front of a bonfire like this, and everything was calmer and easier and more natural than now. Less people everywhere, less rush, you could sit on your own like this, feel the damp grass below you and the breeze over your head as the bonfire pins you in the ground, like a Google Maps mark in your timespace frame. Now, people use to talk about dragons when you point the fire to them and that's beyond space and time, fantasy is out of reach and you can't grab it as you can grab a fresh branch and let the fire kiss its brown and harsh surface, lap onto it and let you bring the fire's son or daughter with you and lit the way, lit the path, let it be your compass through the misty night, far away from the cities and the clock and the rush, over the hills and far, far away, where the world still keeps its virginal shape of forests and wildlife, crawling below your feet and around you unnoticed by these blind eyes, blind of anything that's not projected onto a screen, mapped in bits and algorithms, cold algorithms, lifeless beings that crawls also unnoticed around the gyrus of the brain. Life and memes won't even hit if they cross their paths; yours is the task to lit the candle with your own fire and follow the path unrestlessly.
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Chair on: October 07, 2018, 11:23:03 AM
Nothing so boring as a chair when you look at it. Have you ever seen how bizarre some designs may be? You cannot avoid the fact that it's always the same, a place where you put you buttock on it, isn't it? How much imaginative can a chair be? Four legs, or maybe three, five at most if you don't want to sit on a spider. But... But it supports you while you are writing. While you are eating. While you are studying. While you live (unless you live in the country). It is always there. It is always there, even now, can you notice it? No, because you are so used to it that you don't feel its touch. A ghost touch, an always guaranteed touch. You may notice the lack of it, when it's no there, when you feel discomfort and disoriented and you wonder, then you really wonder where the chair is, why it isn't there. It's part of you, it belongs to your fantasies, even this one, this very one, and you ask me oh how does it feel. It feels right, it is the place of focus and attention and effort. It's where the words come from, they flow from the stillness and the serenity to the brain and to the fingertips. It flows. Stillness converted to a flow. Electromagnetic in a way, chair is the field and the words, the electricity, fueled by the blood that is pumped although I'm not running, I'm not moving, I'm only dreaming. There's a quality of fondness in the lack of noise, when you sit on it you are aware of the surroundings, the neighborhood all around, all them seated in their own chairs and sofas and in front of epileptic tv sets, and you know what? It feels good to be alive in this place. But sometimes is not good to not feel the chair; sometimes it's useful to feel uncomfortable, then you have to move and discover things, switch chairs, switch moods, switch words.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Swelter on: September 24, 2018, 09:49:01 PM
First or second day of autumn but heat kind of refuses to pack and leave. I'm writing this exercise with the doors closed because I don't want to be jumping, clapping and hunting mosquitoes, with the laptop on top of the lap. I'm not moving that violent, you know, sitting on the coach, but damp and this lingering heat makes me feel how little drops of sweat pop through my skin. Somehow, breathing becomes a heavy duty, one you should put a lot of effort in order to fill your lungs with some air that you wished it would be cool but it's so full of humidity you think you're sucking into a fishbowl. Shall I get up, cross the room and let the almost unnoticeable breeze get into my apartment  (and a lot of bugs surfing above the current)? Maybe I should tie my mind tight and close and focus on the feelings inside and the word flow outside. But won't it feel better the breeze in the skin that the typing in the tip of my fingers? It's somehow tricky how the fingers connect with the mind and with this boasting nonsense I'm in. It will feel better if I take away the (now sticky) headphones and match the soft/hard feeling of the keyboard with the tickling humming of the keys? I feel like hearing music because I hope that's the future, the way, the path, the... my mind has unleashed again and I feel it has gone far, far away from the text and the meaning and here I am, puzzled and fighting to hold the tiny drops back into the skin so I can convince my mind and myself: come back hear, don't fly away, don't mess around with the unlikely readers, I swear it is cool, I swear this means something nice to be
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Hurdle on: September 23, 2018, 03:34:47 PM
Up and down, jump if you don't want to feel the cold iron, plastic and steel hitting mercylessly the skin. Life could be easier without hurdles in its way, but hey, then it would be as strangely smooth as the cool touch of a mannequin. You can go backwards, that's true, but only to go down the slope, rolling down, oblivious of everything around, and the mouth will be as sour as an overripe lemon. Must be going on, jumping all and down, the lungs stretch and widen and cool air makes the inner machine, the whole thorax, go warm and alive. Sometimes you'll also feel the chill of the tears rolling down the cheeks, but hey, another hurdle will be down the way and you are getting along, making headway towards the... the end? Oh, don't think that way, multiple paths always extend besides you. Plenty of choices, as many as you may think if you just turn your head slightly to the side, don't even think about looking all around. Sometimes is good to stop, take a deep breath, stretch your whole body and turn all around, get touched by the amazing looks of the world. Hear it say so many things in so many languages that you may have forgotten because nobody told you to sit and bury your fingers on the ground and feel the earth pulse and feed life all around. Maybe chirping like a bird sounds nonsense, but try to imagine what it would be to jump above a hurdle and not landing, spread your wings and fly and sing along. Is not this what we all are trying to do? Singing our words to the world, let them fly like giant albatross across the ocean where the land looks over the windowsill of the continents, ropes like bridges over us.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Balloon on: September 22, 2018, 09:33:21 AM
And there you go! You lose contact with the ground, your feet feel pretty insecure. The material of the basket is like a watery earth, trembling smoothly, tickling your feet in a way that you feel it in your ears, in the snails that tells you where you stand and where are you facing and those inner snails are just freaking out. And then you breathe and you find it's the most fresh air you have ever tasted, the air of freedom, up there in the skies, the world beneath your feet, like a seglar angel caring for the mankind below. No, you just think you better run away from that mankind. Nevertheless, peace fills your lungs and you see that blue skies are still up and far away, and this is a full void, if that can be said: there's a fabric, a kind of nature in this space, something that you can't grab but you are totally, completely into it, and then you understand that nothing ever goes alone in this universe, bound by gravity, by nuclear forces and electromagnetism and we flow and go and try to turn around but it's completely useless. So why fighting, why arguing, why not only let us go down the stream and enjoy the ride?
You still feel the push up of the balloon. The engine spits fire and you fear it may burn the balloon's fabric, but it only heathens the air inside, and you feel the warmth in your head and your back agains the chill air that surrounds you. Even in the air, in that huge emptiness, you notice both side for every story: the heat and the cold, and how they make things move, an engine for the whole nature to go on for ages and ages. And you see it, below your feet but also up your head and all around. It's huge.
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Convict on: September 17, 2018, 09:35:08 PM
Wanted to know him for he was apart from the world so long, too much long. What did he do that people around him pointed at him and throw him to the pit? What it is to be kept apart, not to see beyond brown walls, surrounded by boring, rough, pointless stones, what it is to look up and see the sky only through dirty windows and barbed wire? Was it worth it? Wouldn't you be hysterical just to open a door to wherever that leads just outside, no matter what direction, just outside. I can't imagine a greater sorrow than to be left out just of everything, a thirsty shipwreck survivor in a tiny island surrounded by salty sea. Wouldn't you swim upstream, like a salmon facing his or her future, his or her offspring and also his or her death, if you could only feel the freshness of freedom just for a tiny fraction of a second before drowning? Oh, what a relieve! No walls surrounding you anymore, no guilty, no more stern faces all around, sour faces, sour feelings, dry mouth, bloody eyes, just leave all of it behind, far, far behind, and be stranded in a wide, lonely plateau, an infinite landscape, an infinite horizon, you can run and there is always something farer, farer away, and you can feel your feet aching and your heart a-bumping over and over and you feel alive, sweaty skin and salt in your mouth, but you are free at last again and you never have to be locked in what your pairs (oh, your pairs, that bunch of sleepyheads) have to say, they are locked into their fears, black chains against freedom.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Shockwave on: September 16, 2018, 02:57:58 PM
You read about it but you don't know what it is until you feel it hitting endlessly over your whole skin and over the time. It hits you but you can't grab it, handle it, it overcomes you, leaves you powerless, drifting over the waves, into the waves, with no sense of direction. Or, more precisely, going backwards, backwards and downward, the currents of time and economy and major forces buzzing in your ears with the chit chat of breaking news and awful bank excerpts. Disoriented, the body may hurt but not as much as desperation and lack of faith in a future that disappear upstream. We fall altogether but you feel alone forever, each one deep in sorrow and despair, this is how the powers disengage the people, overwhelming us with fear of poverty, letting our hopes turn into ashes in our mouths, we cough and we cry but our voices are muffled by those ashes, our hands tied tight to the bank accounts and the fear, the fear is more powerful that anything else they may throw to us, and still how you can swim back, overcome the shockwave, how do you scrub your skin clean and lift you from the pit of sorrow. We can, we should, look upward to the sky and remember how it felt when, as children, we felt the grass on our backs and the sun and the blue sky over our heads, and then we let us roll down the slope, feeling dizzy but laughing out loud. We didn't fear anything, our future was down the hill, up the clock, forward to the future, and it seems so thrilling, so authentic we felt that butterflies in the stomach and our imagination running wild with aircrafts and spaceships and science fiction and the brightness of what had to come. Was that all lies, or maybe we lied to ourselves, or our parents wanted us to be raised
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Fibreglass on: September 15, 2018, 02:52:21 PM
The sound arrives dull, drown in the yellow, cloth-like, asparagus-long fibreglass threads that fill the spaces between the walls. So I can play my music out loud, I can sing and go out of tune without bothering my mates on the cabins on my right and on my left. But doesn't it sad when the music dies? How would I feel if my tissues and my organs and my whole body caught up and strangled the notes from the air? It's like crashing poetry, like killing universal words, cutting the links that bound all of us in the very same ground and planet and air. If you think about it, it must be terrible to even breath fibreglass, you try to breath and you get breathless, all that tiny fibres travelling and filling any and all the spaces, blocking the air, the breath, the very same way they kill notes and words and meanings and wills. But they are confined between walls, like naughty leprechauns behind a yellow field force, and they will be kept only if we still play, if we feed the field force with the sound, with the shear strength of our voices and our hands, that's why I keep practicing, breathing in and singing out, that's the only way to feel alive, to let them know we are all alive. We won't surrender our lungs and our arms to the mean army of voice-killers threaded in dump factories beyond our reach, on the silent land of the Blue Meanies far away beyond the Sea of Holes and the reach.
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