Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

September 24, 2018, 07:57:07 AM
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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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Pages: [1] 2
1  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.
2  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.
3  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.
4  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
5  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.
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Mutation on: September 13, 2018, 05:48:23 AM
The strange, weird feeling of fearing something that looks that different but it was a part of yourself. Scary monsters were people like us that radically mutated and now they give us goosebumps because we may end that way. Who knows, maybe we are the ones to be feared and rejected and thrown away. Which is the worst, paralyzing fear of both, the ugliness we see out there or the ugliness inside ourselves? Have you ever tried to turn your eyes inside, look what it really is inside? Scanning inside, deep diving in an ocean of rotten flesh and rotten ideas. What those ideas really look like, a giant, dark albatross, or maybe a swarm of flies? I try everyday to get into the flow, try not to fear the wandering currents that puzzles me that much. Everything changes, some things almost instantly (and you get dizzy), sometimes they take years to grab to the ground and avoid the fall to the deeps of depression and fear. Fear is the worst of them all, a black, sluggish worm that eats whatever shit it finds on its way to the very core of the thoughts and feelings, and carves a bottomless pit where you fall endlessly. And we fear about mutation when there's no place to grab and stand up inside. Don't give up, they say, fear can smell fear inside and outside, an acre scent that is mouth-watering to the worms of fear. Stapling them is our goal.
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Ashes on: September 12, 2018, 09:21:56 PM
Ashes to ashes, funk to funky, the funny percussions still rings in my ears. Not that I had such talent nor I've played with drugs like David Bowie, but I still remember the first time I saw the lysergic videoclip on the TV. I was barely a teenager with a crush for new wave, techno bands, but I instantly felt the grandeur, the wit of the song. That strange beat like walking up and down the dunes, rhythmically unrhythmy, a stingy guitar like drops or tears hitting the window glass. Was he talking about burial? Funny how he could take such a ominous concept as ashes and turn it into the bright side of life. Light, ashes that glow while it whirrs in the air, living ashes. I never liked ashes, it remember me the stinky smell of cigarettes, a smell I can't stand, that pushes me over the edge, strangles me to death and ashes but I can't sing. Life without singing, no music life is no life but a living hell, mouth shut down, breathing ashes, tasting spilled milk and mould. Then I remember I can write a song and ashes turn again into little sparkly dancing fireflies, bemused by the words as they draw themselves onto the white wide paper sheet.
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Horsepower on: September 11, 2018, 10:20:49 AM
I feel the sound in my chest, booming, growing, expelling all my breath through the mouth and the nostrils and as if I was going to explode. Then another motorbike follows the first one, and it's not only the air I breathe but the whole summer night that whirls around them, two black, fast, furious, angry, black as night motorbikes with such roary engines. Quickly, they turn the bend and disappear, but I still smell the remains of the burnt oil and the warm rubber of their tyres. I love to drive, but I prefer to ride a bike, the power coming from my own engines, my heart and my legs. I'm not that fast but I can't feel, really feel the breeze on the face, messing with my hair, and taste the scent of each tree and bush I cross paths with. This is my power, and not the power I buy to fill a tank of some blood shed oil that helps polluting the air and the seas only to get me faster in an overpowered engine. Maybe I'm not born to be sooo wild, as the song says, but I prefer to enjoy the quietness of the city when you only depend on your very own horsepower (more powerful, more real than you think) to move around, because there are a plenty of unnoticed paths when you dare to move your sight around from the paths maps chart.
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Eel on: September 10, 2018, 10:12:50 AM
(Oh, one of my favorite bands is called Eels. Guess that's not what I have to write about...)

Trying to get hold of a slick eel is much like grabbing a memory, a memory of the stony beach of my childhood, when only four of five families gathered in the eastern side of the Costa del Sol. The salty smell of the sea, of the damp stones, rounded, acre, stingy. I had to carry sleepers as to avoid getting my soles hurt and sore, but try to swim with them on! Yes, it was all about dampness, summer crawls between the clothes and the skin and makes sweet to well over the skin. But then... what were those friends faces like? The owner of the chiringuito, the other families? The most persisting memories are from the stones and the waves, those killer waves two meters high; today nobody is allowed to swim under such a red flag, but me and my brother had so much fun diving under the waves, rolling over them or over the shore (stones, stones everywhere, so damm hard!). But then, as I say, everything is gone, blurry on my mind's eye, only the feelings linger on, the taste of the paella on the terrace of the restaurant, the gentle rumor of the waves, crashing endlessly, the faint smell of fisher's boats gasoline, and the fish. I have never seen an eel close enough, but its touch should not differ too much from other fishes scaled skins, so cold it makes me shiver and wonder "were you alive there, under the sea"? But it must be a lot of fun to roll over the waves as you live your life without worries.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Hoax on: September 08, 2018, 10:13:43 AM
It starts smoothly, but it grows harder as the taste of alcohol burns hotter in our mouths. Words that the talker thinks they are funny linger in our ears as stern miniRambos looking for revenge. Teeth scratch sideways and you hold the glass tighter, trying to let the burning rage get discharged from the limbs to the ground, as if you were a overcharged electric appliance trying to balance the electrical charge and avoid a short-circuit. You feel into an invisible cage, you know it will raise the tension even more if you stand up and walk away, you wonder why the words can generate that drowning invisible force field, or maybe it comes from our own minds, maybe a hoax is nothing more (and nothing less!) that a mind switch-changer, and our minds, nothing more than a dumb control panel so easy to manipulate. But the heat still lingers down, over the stomach, and there is no connection to the ground, and the lights go redder and you breathe strong, each breath as tight as a pair of stalactites coming in and out from the nostrils. Reply stands on the tip of the tongue, bitter as the blood when you bite your own tongue, and you know they can't be thrown because they will bounce back faster from the invisible force field strings and you finally mind-shout please let me go out of here. Where this is supposed to go, when it will finally end?
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Bumper on: September 07, 2018, 10:35:02 AM
You don't know what to expect, will you bounce back gently or you are going to me torn down into pieces, blown away in a sudden, exploding hit? You see, the only car I bought had very beautiful, rounded, pure white bumpers that got scratched only two week after I first drove my car. They seem so fragile. I touched around the scars and found it was smooth around, but peaky and harsh were the paint was gone. Fisrt I went mad, why didn't they left a note for the insurance? But then I relaxed, I was overworried about my new car getting any scratch, but after that it was ok, I didn't care anymore. Someone has bumped me and took away my worries unnoticed. I was relieved, but could I trust the bumpers if I ever get into a crash? Wasn't them too soft? Well, I knew it is better that the bumpers and the whole car absorbs the impact than to be too heavy, because kinetic energy would all be transferred to the passengers. But even so, that was logic thought; my senses were shouting the other way around. Well, as if we were beings with bumpers for softening love crashes. They impact softly but they leave deeper and soarer scratches that the ones I could touch with the tips of my fingers. You can't hold those bumpers, you don't find them around you, you just have to trust that life are going to set them in the right places as to soften the impact and leave you unbruised. Don't they? I wasn't sure if those tears are precisely the life-saving mechanisms of my heart bumpers.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Birthplace on: September 06, 2018, 10:09:50 AM
It's a weird feeling when I come close to the Hospital complex. Five buildings that were formerly separated, with cheap old houses in between, and now they are connected and surrounded by some gardens; the houses were tore down like thirty years ago. Still, feels weird. It's no more the very same place I was born. I was born in the oldest of the Hospital complex buildings, a low, two stories, blue and ugly block that smells, like most hospitals do, of disinfectant and old bricks and dump plaster, faintly illuminated by florescent lamps and a continuous buzzing. But that may be my memories from where I came to visit my sister when she gave birth to my first nephew. I remember her laying in bed, with her beautiful, long black hair all spread on the pillow, connected to a bag of serum and tired, and my nephew all round and red and making funny noises and I thought this place should be prettier and funnier than it looked, with that revolving smell of carelessness and illness. Can it be the same place when people all around me were born in that time, long ago? I still feel that weirdness of a haze time, memories blurred, smaller than when I was young (and smaller, of course; things seem to have shrank for me). But then I walk by the gardens and see that glowing looks of hope from relatives that shake nervously because a new member has just joined this otherwise doomed world and then I feel a light inside of me saying oh maybe these new born kids may get things right!
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Powerful on: September 05, 2018, 08:50:07 AM
I read it on a cheap, yellowish, dust-smelling science fiction book. They were smart, they were kind, they will never hurt any human or let them be hurt by inaction. But how does a robot feel? They feel the same way through their sensors? Are we fleshy robots, maybe? Anyway, even the dumbest, tiniest robot can do harm, but they don't. Their embrace is cold, but there's warmness in a different sense. A true warmness? Why do we question their programmed kindness and don't question our own? They must feel threat, because we are not tied to the Three Laws of Robotics, and we do harm, and we do hit and shout and do all kind of mean things to them because we build them from sand and iron, we grab those hard, rough elements from deep in the ground and we melt and give form and put them together and give them live as Viktor Frankenstein or Susan Calvin but then we don't treat them right. Is that hardness in the skin that makes us wild, the logical thought that we sense as we have been fools all the time? We should maybe embrace them, even kiss them, feel the metallic touch in our own lips, that will do not harm in us, for sure.
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Muscular on: September 04, 2018, 09:07:09 AM
Repetition gets boring. Up and down, up and down, and then flip from one machine to the other. Musculation room seems a damp bowlfish that smells of sweat, energy drinks and cheap cologne. I signed up to so many gyms but I can't get along with them. People gathers in twos, threes or larger groups, but I don't, I don't understand talking about machines that dumb that you can only move them up and down or sideways and make your whole body ache so much, so long for some kind of health's sake. I wander through the crowded, stuffed room with my painful legs. I feel like if they were two pure white, marble Greek columns just dug out from the very same Olympus mountain. Yes, it feels like there's an unreachable peak up there, a place I will never reach because I have to move, push and pull so many weights, so many treachery machines. My vision blurs, but the worst comes from my head: I'll never do this. But then, hey, the next day I feel powerful, as if my muscles have stretched out, grew overnight and took whatever electricity may float in the room and make me feel like a real superhero. Maybe being a superhero means feel a lot of pain before realizing the strength of the own body, no matter how lean, how puffy it looks to the eye. Because the eye lies, but your inner feelings may be warning to get up, take the bag, cross the street and do something, move, run, pull and push and swim and let all those sensations enter your body and tell him hey you can, you are your body and your movement.
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Old Fashioned on: September 03, 2018, 10:13:45 AM
The faint smell of plastic, ink and paper. Before I turned to CDs, vinyls were my first love. My first record was Fleetwood's Mac Tango in the Night that I bought in a cram-full, tiny electronics shop in my hometown. The scent was mixed with that of wires and leather and a lot of dust, piled over turntables and loudspeakers, but the records shelves were just in the middle, and it was fantastic to skip through them, the soft touch, the whizzing sound that they made when a cover hit the previous record back as I flipped them. Shinny breathtaking designs that heralded whatever music were folded inside the paper case. Now I have a turntable of my own. I wasn't very fond of them, as the crispy sparkling sound of the nail over the vinyl used to drive me crazy, but now I long for that time, that smell in the back of the bus when I held a plastic bag with four or five records, I took them slowly, I peeled off the plastic seal and let the vinyl smell fill the air. I wanted so bad to be back at home and play the record over and over again, to record it in a tape so it doesn't get worn out. Is it that bad to go back to the past, vinyl wings that lift me up from these grounded times and take me off from the currents of time to that happy time.
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