Monday, September 3, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Scattered Leaves
Creativity is like looking at the world through a kaleidoscope, ever changing, never resting, sometimes rhythmically, sometimes spontaneously adapting to the world surrounding one’s self. Creativity is an energy that flows through the pores of mankind, into the bloodstream and striking the brain like lightening bolts in a thunderstorm. It echoes into the soul and is released through art and music, literature and dance, science and imagination. The creative mind is a monster of play, insight, opinion, voice, feeling, mood, ambition, and genius. Everybody that has ever contributed to the oracle of art has been part of the eclectic human condition of creating. All the great minds throughout history have helped to better illustrate the adaptations of man in an ever-changing society.
A child’s play is perhaps the most creative, inventive spirit that exists. Fearless and bold, a child’s creativity moves their body, shapes their character, and develops their personality. When children are playing they allow their minds to wander in awe in the possibilities of their imagination. It is in this nature of play that exists the entelechial condition of creativity. Through this wandering children are changing, growing, and exploring their mind’s potential.
Where does the creative spark come from? How does it happen? Inspiration, motivation, initiative, and experience all play a crucial role in the development of creative energy. The energy comes and goes as freely as a breeze. An open mind will let it in, let it out, and experience the creative moment for what it is worth.
Creativity is a process much like everything else, but who is to say how long a creative moment lasts? The creative breeze is always blowing. Sometimes the mind gets cold or tired of the wind or stops noticing it. Then the wind will pick up again, blowing fiercely and the winds of change have a deeper effect on the creative process. Other times, the breeze does stop completely and all that is left are memories of what once was a brilliant moment without an idea to bring it back into motion. Then the breeze is felt again and the turbine starts turning again and brilliant moments happen again and the cycle continues: to every beginning there is an end and to every end there is a beginning.
Nothing goes unrecorded in nature, not in the mind or in the trunk of a tree. Everything is stored in the recesses of the brain, waiting to be found like some lost treasure buried deep in the sea. Sometimes an idea seems to find the brain all on the “ideas” own accord, while other times an idea may take years of searching. But sometimes like on a breeze the idea just wanders into the mind grabbing hold of the conscious to realize a more physical form.
The creative process starts with interests, passions, desires, devotions, muses, anticipation, and a longing for learning. When the moment comes where something is made, either in a gesture drawing, a free-writing, or an improvisation, each form captures the moment like a photograph with feelings and emotions. Of course, these examples of creativity ultimately take practice, dedication, and patience – like fishing for fresh ideas in a river of knowledge – because it takes time to manifest something of importance. How something is created relies on what an individual has experienced, learned, and lived for throughout his or her entire life. Everything leading up to that moment when one creates something has been a deciding factor in how that person got there, what the person is going to do and why; whether he or she knows it or not.
It is in the creative process that lays the true nature of creativity. Though it is nearly impossible to put a beginning to the process, for particular creations there is a start. For instance, a finished drawing may start with thumbnail sketches of rough ideas as to what the artist wants to convey through an image. These thumbnails may be gestural interpretations of a feeling or detailed objects of importance. No matter what the thumbnails are they serve as a building block to the fundamental ideas behind the meaning of a finished work of art. Essentially, the artist must think first about what it is that he or she wants to portray and then divorce themselves from the rigidness of the thought process and commit to creating the work of art with all of these influences working in the subconscious. So that in the creative process, thoughts form actions that produce results which in turn give credence to the original concept.
The antithetical nature of creativity is to simply be afraid to try, to be heard, to speak out, or to express oneself. Fear stifles and subdues creativity, causing the creative moment to hide itself behind the depths of societal pressures and expectations. One should never be afraid to express oneself in the simplest of forms such as drawing a line on a page or taking a picture. Allowing creativity to exist makes for a more interesting world, one in which everyone involved can gain something more from it. Without the essence of creativity the world would be a much different place full of bleak meanderings of worthless intent, a dull and lifeless existence, where pain and pleasure have no difference in society.
To be creatively instinctive may be better than to be instinctively creative, but that is another topic for another discussion. Creativity lies in every facet of life, behind every door that can open, and inside of every person’s most inner nature. Whether it is seen in a beautiful symphony or a child’s crayon drawing, creativity sparks the imagination to follow its course on the open seas of adventure, daring the mind and soul to dig deep into an ocean of thoughts for a glimpse into the kaleidoscope that is changing the world.
A child’s play is perhaps the most creative, inventive spirit that exists. Fearless and bold, a child’s creativity moves their body, shapes their character, and develops their personality. When children are playing they allow their minds to wander in awe in the possibilities of their imagination. It is in this nature of play that exists the entelechial condition of creativity. Through this wandering children are changing, growing, and exploring their mind’s potential.
Where does the creative spark come from? How does it happen? Inspiration, motivation, initiative, and experience all play a crucial role in the development of creative energy. The energy comes and goes as freely as a breeze. An open mind will let it in, let it out, and experience the creative moment for what it is worth.
Creativity is a process much like everything else, but who is to say how long a creative moment lasts? The creative breeze is always blowing. Sometimes the mind gets cold or tired of the wind or stops noticing it. Then the wind will pick up again, blowing fiercely and the winds of change have a deeper effect on the creative process. Other times, the breeze does stop completely and all that is left are memories of what once was a brilliant moment without an idea to bring it back into motion. Then the breeze is felt again and the turbine starts turning again and brilliant moments happen again and the cycle continues: to every beginning there is an end and to every end there is a beginning.
Nothing goes unrecorded in nature, not in the mind or in the trunk of a tree. Everything is stored in the recesses of the brain, waiting to be found like some lost treasure buried deep in the sea. Sometimes an idea seems to find the brain all on the “ideas” own accord, while other times an idea may take years of searching. But sometimes like on a breeze the idea just wanders into the mind grabbing hold of the conscious to realize a more physical form.
The creative process starts with interests, passions, desires, devotions, muses, anticipation, and a longing for learning. When the moment comes where something is made, either in a gesture drawing, a free-writing, or an improvisation, each form captures the moment like a photograph with feelings and emotions. Of course, these examples of creativity ultimately take practice, dedication, and patience – like fishing for fresh ideas in a river of knowledge – because it takes time to manifest something of importance. How something is created relies on what an individual has experienced, learned, and lived for throughout his or her entire life. Everything leading up to that moment when one creates something has been a deciding factor in how that person got there, what the person is going to do and why; whether he or she knows it or not.
It is in the creative process that lays the true nature of creativity. Though it is nearly impossible to put a beginning to the process, for particular creations there is a start. For instance, a finished drawing may start with thumbnail sketches of rough ideas as to what the artist wants to convey through an image. These thumbnails may be gestural interpretations of a feeling or detailed objects of importance. No matter what the thumbnails are they serve as a building block to the fundamental ideas behind the meaning of a finished work of art. Essentially, the artist must think first about what it is that he or she wants to portray and then divorce themselves from the rigidness of the thought process and commit to creating the work of art with all of these influences working in the subconscious. So that in the creative process, thoughts form actions that produce results which in turn give credence to the original concept.
The antithetical nature of creativity is to simply be afraid to try, to be heard, to speak out, or to express oneself. Fear stifles and subdues creativity, causing the creative moment to hide itself behind the depths of societal pressures and expectations. One should never be afraid to express oneself in the simplest of forms such as drawing a line on a page or taking a picture. Allowing creativity to exist makes for a more interesting world, one in which everyone involved can gain something more from it. Without the essence of creativity the world would be a much different place full of bleak meanderings of worthless intent, a dull and lifeless existence, where pain and pleasure have no difference in society.
To be creatively instinctive may be better than to be instinctively creative, but that is another topic for another discussion. Creativity lies in every facet of life, behind every door that can open, and inside of every person’s most inner nature. Whether it is seen in a beautiful symphony or a child’s crayon drawing, creativity sparks the imagination to follow its course on the open seas of adventure, daring the mind and soul to dig deep into an ocean of thoughts for a glimpse into the kaleidoscope that is changing the world.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Fragile Breaths
I wrote this narrative for my English class. We had to write about a personal experience that helped us grow as a person and further develop our character. This event really happened to me on May 3, 2009. There are some grammatical errors, but I think that sometimes mistakes can be turned into gold. In my pre-writing I had a lot of good ideas, but ultimately had to cut some things out in order to fit the parameters of the assignment (i.e.: word count, no cursing or slang, etc., etc., ...), but I think it came out fairly close to what I envisioned for an academic setting. I have adjusted the format to post it online. Saving a few details, it is as close as I could get to the truth of what happened. It was hard to write, but therapeutic in the sense that it felt really good to get the story out from inside of me as I had never tried writing about it before. Let me know what you think, thanks for reading.
February 14, 2012
Fragile Breaths
Death was no longer a subtle reality with a gun firmly pressed against my temple. I sat on the cold, hard ground and waited for my life to end. Was the end of life really this simple? Time slowed down to a crawl but my mind kept racing. Was I going to die? Would I feel anything? I had just celebrated my nineteenth birthday two nights ago; dying this young did not feel fair. I tried to quiet my mind.
It was dark outside, a-five-in-the-morning-on-Sunday darkness that crept in unconcerned about the events unfolding before my eyes. The city was deathly quiet, no cars, no people walking or dogs barking. It was me and this stranger with a gun pointed at my skull. Richmond had never felt so desolate, so estranged. How did I manage to get myself into this situation?
I had purchased a freshly cooked sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and one Boston cream filled donut from the local convenience store close to the university’s dormitories. Walking back home, my footsteps sounded like miniature cannons exploding as they echoed off the brick walls of the buildings. I had crossed the street when I heard someone else walking.
A young black man with dreadlocks was approaching me. He had a friendly air about him. He looked like a fellow college student just out for a walk or maybe he was getting something to eat, too. He spoke to me as we passed each other.
“Hey man, you got any spare change?” he asked.
I studied him for a moment. I had seen him on campus before. He was a young homeless man that frequented the area. He looked awfully hungry. I had not given much to the homeless in the past but I felt rather generous in that instant.
“Yeah, I’ve got about ten dollars.” I replied. I took the bag of breakfast food into my left hand and reached for my wallet with my right. As I was bringing my right hand forward so was he, but only he had something less appealing in his hand.
A shiny silver barrel was quickly pressed against my chest. I had no time to react. Every nerve in my body went numb. Time seemed to stop. I just stood there staring at the end of the barrel of his gun above my heart. His index finger steadily hovered over the trigger.
“What do you want?” I asked keeping my head down, eyes on the peacemaker.
“Gimme yo’ wallet!” he growled, “You better have more than ten dollars or I’m gonna shoot you! What else you got? Empty yo’ pockets!”
Without hesitation I handed over my cell phone and wallet. My hands shook with fear. I could not remember how much money I had. He instructed me to sit next to some trashcans in the shadows of an adjacent alley. As I sat down he kept the gun against my back until I was sitting still with my legs crossed. He then pressed the gun against my head and started fumbling through my wallet.
I was at the end of my life. I was going to die and accepted that. I had tried to do right most of my life. I knew I had made some mistakes, some bad decisions, but I felt like I had done well with the nineteen years I had lived through. There were so many things left to do, so many unspoken words. Struck with emptiness, my mind wandered. What would happen next? Who would find me in this alley? Would I be missed?
It was only until I started thinking about my family mourning their loss that I started to cry. Silent tears streamed down my face. Tasting the salt in my tears I felt hopeless, sourly alone in my deepening desolation. Images of my mother and father, brother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles weeping rushed into my imagination. I could see all of their faces. I could feel the anguish, the bitterness, and the sorrow that filled their hearts.
“It’s not worth it, man. It’s not worth it,” I sobbed.
He said nothing. Through watery eyes I could barely see him take out the money. Eleven dollars. I had eleven dollars. My soul purged with hope, I felt the blood in my body start to warm. There was a chance he might not kill me.
He took my driver’s license. “Now I know where you live,” he claimed.
He told me to stay in that spot, that he was coming back in a minute and if I were not there he would find me and kill me. As I sat there, my tears drying out, I remembered my biscuit and donut. I reached into the bag and grabbed the donut. It was the best donut I had ever tasted. The chocolate melted in my mouth. I savored every flavor, every bite. The sweetness lingered on my taste buds; it seemed to wash away my cares.
Within a minute he was back, as promised. He looked at me and then walked back around the corner. My ordeal was over. I had survived. I sat there for a couple of minutes, waiting to see if the man was going to come back for me. I stood up. My adrenaline was raging, pumping through every vein and artery in my body. Instinctively, I started to run. My legs carried me swiftly out of the alley and down the street with each step asserting my reason to live.
I arrived at my dormitory in a full sprint. My eyes were burning from the cold wind as I entered the building. I was alive. Nothing in that moment was taken for granted. I breathed in the warm, gentle air of life and gave a sigh of relief. I could feel the security of home again; its welcoming presence was otherworldly. Everything seemed new, fresh, and yet it was strangely familiar. Nothing had changed, except me.
Nearly fifteen minutes ago I had come face to face with the cold clutches of death and had accepted its hollow embrace. I had felt the spirit of death, the shallow emptiness that dwells inside of mankind, a raw and unforgiving power. Now I had a second chance, a new life. There were no limits, no last words to be said. I was free, full of love and wonder; determined and ready to live every moment of life with vigor and courage.
...thanks for reading, peace & good health...
February 14, 2012
Death was no longer a subtle reality with a gun firmly pressed against my temple. I sat on the cold, hard ground and waited for my life to end. Was the end of life really this simple? Time slowed down to a crawl but my mind kept racing. Was I going to die? Would I feel anything? I had just celebrated my nineteenth birthday two nights ago; dying this young did not feel fair. I tried to quiet my mind.
It was dark outside, a-five-in-the-morning-on-Sunday darkness that crept in unconcerned about the events unfolding before my eyes. The city was deathly quiet, no cars, no people walking or dogs barking. It was me and this stranger with a gun pointed at my skull. Richmond had never felt so desolate, so estranged. How did I manage to get myself into this situation?
I had purchased a freshly cooked sausage, egg and cheese biscuit and one Boston cream filled donut from the local convenience store close to the university’s dormitories. Walking back home, my footsteps sounded like miniature cannons exploding as they echoed off the brick walls of the buildings. I had crossed the street when I heard someone else walking.
A young black man with dreadlocks was approaching me. He had a friendly air about him. He looked like a fellow college student just out for a walk or maybe he was getting something to eat, too. He spoke to me as we passed each other.
“Hey man, you got any spare change?” he asked.
I studied him for a moment. I had seen him on campus before. He was a young homeless man that frequented the area. He looked awfully hungry. I had not given much to the homeless in the past but I felt rather generous in that instant.
“Yeah, I’ve got about ten dollars.” I replied. I took the bag of breakfast food into my left hand and reached for my wallet with my right. As I was bringing my right hand forward so was he, but only he had something less appealing in his hand.
A shiny silver barrel was quickly pressed against my chest. I had no time to react. Every nerve in my body went numb. Time seemed to stop. I just stood there staring at the end of the barrel of his gun above my heart. His index finger steadily hovered over the trigger.
“What do you want?” I asked keeping my head down, eyes on the peacemaker.
“Gimme yo’ wallet!” he growled, “You better have more than ten dollars or I’m gonna shoot you! What else you got? Empty yo’ pockets!”
Without hesitation I handed over my cell phone and wallet. My hands shook with fear. I could not remember how much money I had. He instructed me to sit next to some trashcans in the shadows of an adjacent alley. As I sat down he kept the gun against my back until I was sitting still with my legs crossed. He then pressed the gun against my head and started fumbling through my wallet.
I was at the end of my life. I was going to die and accepted that. I had tried to do right most of my life. I knew I had made some mistakes, some bad decisions, but I felt like I had done well with the nineteen years I had lived through. There were so many things left to do, so many unspoken words. Struck with emptiness, my mind wandered. What would happen next? Who would find me in this alley? Would I be missed?
It was only until I started thinking about my family mourning their loss that I started to cry. Silent tears streamed down my face. Tasting the salt in my tears I felt hopeless, sourly alone in my deepening desolation. Images of my mother and father, brother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles weeping rushed into my imagination. I could see all of their faces. I could feel the anguish, the bitterness, and the sorrow that filled their hearts.
“It’s not worth it, man. It’s not worth it,” I sobbed.
He said nothing. Through watery eyes I could barely see him take out the money. Eleven dollars. I had eleven dollars. My soul purged with hope, I felt the blood in my body start to warm. There was a chance he might not kill me.
He took my driver’s license. “Now I know where you live,” he claimed.
He told me to stay in that spot, that he was coming back in a minute and if I were not there he would find me and kill me. As I sat there, my tears drying out, I remembered my biscuit and donut. I reached into the bag and grabbed the donut. It was the best donut I had ever tasted. The chocolate melted in my mouth. I savored every flavor, every bite. The sweetness lingered on my taste buds; it seemed to wash away my cares.
Within a minute he was back, as promised. He looked at me and then walked back around the corner. My ordeal was over. I had survived. I sat there for a couple of minutes, waiting to see if the man was going to come back for me. I stood up. My adrenaline was raging, pumping through every vein and artery in my body. Instinctively, I started to run. My legs carried me swiftly out of the alley and down the street with each step asserting my reason to live.
I arrived at my dormitory in a full sprint. My eyes were burning from the cold wind as I entered the building. I was alive. Nothing in that moment was taken for granted. I breathed in the warm, gentle air of life and gave a sigh of relief. I could feel the security of home again; its welcoming presence was otherworldly. Everything seemed new, fresh, and yet it was strangely familiar. Nothing had changed, except me.
Nearly fifteen minutes ago I had come face to face with the cold clutches of death and had accepted its hollow embrace. I had felt the spirit of death, the shallow emptiness that dwells inside of mankind, a raw and unforgiving power. Now I had a second chance, a new life. There were no limits, no last words to be said. I was free, full of love and wonder; determined and ready to live every moment of life with vigor and courage.
...thanks for reading, peace & good health...
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Home Again
I am living in Johnson City, Tennessee attending East Tennessee State University now. I'm in their Bluegrass, Old-Time & Country Music degree program. It's really awesome and I've only been here three weeks to the day. There is a cool place here called the Down Home, an eclectic listening room for musicians. Last Saturday, Ed Snodderly, one of the owners, played there with his band The Brother Boys. I saw the SteelDrivers play on Friday night. I really liked hearing Richard Bailey play his banjo. He and Tammy Rogers would play banjo and fiddle lines note for note with each other, so cool. Her fiddle playing had chills crawling over me most of the night. Both shows were really great. I can feel the potential for myself here, it feels so good to find where you're supposed to be, and I have found a strong sense of place here.
Be true to yourself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
