On a good day, I have twelve average ideas and maybe one really good one. I sigh, try to focus on developing the one good idea, count my blessings.
On a bad day, I have one average idea and maybe twelve really good ones. I sigh, give up hope of developing any of them because they come too fast and too many to focus on, curse my damn fecundity.
I have recently become aware of something I should have noticed decades ago. Looking at a friend’s face is emotionally uplifting.
I can hear your “D’uh’s”, dear readers! Honestly, I am clueless why or how I have managed to reach the age of 62 before consciously observing what I now believe must have been happening all my life. It is almost as if decade after decade of heavy drug and alcohol abuse has actually taken a toll on me! But how can that be possible? Do not such things enrich and intensify our experiences of life?
Whatever the real cause, I only within the past few weeks have noticed the effect takes place — not just when I gaze upon the face of a woman I love — but when I look upon nearly any face belonging to a friend, male or female. They only need to look happy. Or at least, content. The effect is far from being very pronounced or dramatic, but it is still noticeable. At least now it is.
Best of all, it seems the faces of friends serve as very mild anti-depressants. They might be said to “adjust my attitude” or “put me in good sorts for awhile”.
I just hope I remember this pleasant discovery the next time I feel life has gotten too predictable, and that nothing of any real importance remains to be discovered on a personal level.
(About a 2 minute read)
I think I figured out awhile back why women readers of my blog sometimes send me unsolicited nude pics and videos of themselves — occasionally in their very first emails to me. I suspect now it’s because they don’t want to risk being thought of by me as just another commodity, just another human who is interchangeable with all other humans — just another grain of polished rice.
They want to stand out instead, be seen as individuals, as persons in their own right. And who wouldn’t?
Sending nudes in a day of internet porn might not be the best way to stand out, but if the goal is to be noticed as an individual, then that’s a pretty good goal, I think. But what does it say about our world that so many of us these days seem to feel we’ve gotten lost in the crowds?
I don’t think it’s just that there are more people now. I don’t think it’s that simple. I think our cultures have been changing — and not always in good ways. I think we are becoming peoples who do not value authenticity — being true to yourself — highly enough to look for the individual in other people these days.
By the way, no one has ever sent me a poem, an essay, a drawing, an audio of them singing, etc. as the first thing they send me. Nudes yes. But not art they have created with their own hands.
Doesn’t that say something?
If you’re a woman who is thinking about introducing herself to me with a nude to reveal her beauty to me, go ahead. Feel welcomed. I’m not judgemental and it’s an adventurous way to introduce yourself to someone. But please, please keep your nudes tasteful. “Beauty, not porn!” And please also include some art that you yourself created. A drawing. A poem. A recording of you singing.
I guarantee your art will mean more to me than your nude.
There are nights of the soul when we humans can feel ourselves so lost, so lost and unsure, uncertain of anything, that only witnessing one of our fellow apes — for the one millionth time — do something absolutely stupid, only witnessing that is enough to reassure us somethings are certain in our world.
Marysa Storm, author of “The Four Stages of Poetry” is celebrating having reached 500 followers with a writing contest! THE PRIZES ARE AWESOME! Check them out!
Hello, hello, hello!
If you’ve just joined, welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay. If you’ve been around, trust me, I recognize you with every like or comment, and I’m glad you’ve decided to stick around.
I’m happy to say, I’ve reached 500 of you (insanity)
Upon reaching such a goal I never saw myself reaching, I’ve decided to hold a writing contest. Submit your poem, prose, or short story to be featured on this blog, an author copy of my book, The Four Stages of Poetry and a chance to co-write with me, if you desire to do so.
In order to be eligible for this contest, you must like this post, and comment to let me know you have decided to participate (This allows me to check and make sure your submission is not lost in spam, etc). Everyone is welcome, and encouraged to participate.
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(About a 2 minute read)
How fast can small town gossip travel? Pick out which, if any, of these three stories is pure fiction.
(1) “Headed Our Way”
One sunny summer morning when I was nine or ten years old, I spent about an hour playing in my favorite creek. Around eleven o’clock, I decided to bike over to Mom’s office for some reason I’ve forgotten now. The trip took me about 20 minutes. As I walked in the door, Phyllis, Mom’s secretary, greeted me, “Oh hi, Paul! We’ve been expecting you. We heard you were headed our way. How was the creek today?”
(2) Cherry Pie
I called Mom on Thursday to let her know I’d be home from university for the weekend. Friday afternoon I got into town and headed straight for the bank to get a few dollars for the tavern later on in the evening. “Welcome back for the weekend!” The teller said. She was new, I only knew her by face from having seen her around town, and not by name. “Have you been home yet, Paul? Your mom has set out a cherry pie for you on the counter next to your kitchen sink. It’s all yours, but it would be sweet if you saved a slice for your mother, don’t you think?”
(3) Coasting Through a Stop Sign
My friend, Mark, was returning home at five in the morning from a party in the city. In a small town five miles down the road from ours, he decided to roll through a stop sign because he couldn’t see any traffic on the road.
The town’s only police officer on duty was bored as usual, so he decided to use the excuse of violating a stop sign to pull Mark over and ask him how he was doing in university. Mark got home about thirty minutes later and managed to sneak into bed without waking his parents.
Almost at eight sharp his mother shook him awake. “Mark! How dare you sneak in without waking me to say you’re home and safe! And what on earth possessed you to coast through a stop sign this morning? You could have easily run into some farmer on his way to breakfast at the Bobcat Diner!”
(All three stories are true.)