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Cassea

Cassea's Journey

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I wanted to add, you shouldn't see how you express yourself in words now as "deficient". The expression of ideas in words is a form of art, and all artistic expressions are equally valid. While you now might use a different form to your expression than you did previously, that does not make the artistry of that expression any less.

The exprssion of art is a talent, and that has not been affected by your injury. The form, or technique, of that expression is merely mechanical and is largely irrelevant to the art.

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Posted (edited)

Whisper

If you would please.

Edited by Aus Der Box Skeptisch

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Posted (edited)

BTW cassea this is exactly the method I use to free write. A single detail will write itself in length. You are gifted.

I would like to return the gesture ... if you write for me at the end leave a detail and I will write a short story in return.

Edited by Aus Der Box Skeptisch

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Hey Leonardo. Thank you. Some days I can retrieve words with lightening speed and then other days I get repetitive. Part of this exercise is to show me how I tend to repeat things even though I think I'm writing in a completely different space. My creativity seems to be boxed separately from my logic these days. This is frustrating. When I write it, I'll not have thought of it before. So even though I see whisper, I am not sitting there thinking of ideas. When I sit down to do it, it will be an effort at word retrieval. Poetry seems to work better for me now than prose.

But in honor of Aus and Unexplained Mysteries my word for the story is "Fossil."

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Ooh fossil. This is a curious word. There are a few ways my mind has taken this word. My brain has branched into three stories each taken off in seperate directions. I'm not sure which one will start writing when my fingers start dancing across the letters of my keyboard . I'm excited to se how the story comes out. Ill have it for you in a little while. It shouldn't take long to write.

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Posted (edited)

Well here it is. I must admit it isn't at all what I thought it was going to be when I started writing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

Fossil

Many days come and go, each a new day, most similar to the last. I've seen births and deaths, peace and war. I've seen abundance and starvation. I had my share of good days and bad days, yet I blink and it becomes a memory. Life is funny that way. It seems we forget at times that we are in a moment. When we are young we reach for the future. When we are old we reminisce the past. We tend to always grasp what will be or has been but rarely realize the moment we are in.

We dig into the earth layer by layer to retrieve those moments lost to us. When the world blinks we are left with scattered remnants lost beneath the sands. The world blinked and there was life. The world blinked again and that life was reduce to mere fossils. Minerals washed into cavities to store the memory of creatures we will never meet.

I exist in a blink filled with moments. Everytime I blink I'm older. Some days I find myself standing in front of the mirror in a house I have lived in for over 50 years. In those years I have stood in this same spot looking at the same person each day slightly changing. Never noticing the subtle changes from day to day. I don't feel any different inside. I'm still the young man who first stood in this spot half a century ago. But I have changed.

The world will continue to blink when I'm gone. I am a moment. I am not sad to be a moment. Moments become past without which there could be no future. I am simply a mechanism with which the cycle may continue.

Today though, today is special. Today is always special because today is the day I create moments in my life. Yesterday is the past, tomorrow the future, but today is a gift that's why they call it the present. Today a bird sung its song just for me. No one else can hear this particular song on this particular day from this particular bird. No one but myself was here to witness its melody.

This day like each new day is the most important day of my moment here in this endless cycle. Tomorrow will continue to come , but tomorrows will not always come for me. So I am grateful.

This is what I leave to my family ,words of an old man. Words that may allow you to take another look around and enjoy the gift today brings. I love you all, and may your own blink be as full and enjoyable as mine was.

Signed

Oliver James Worth

Mother who wrote that? My great grand father Rebecca. Your great great grandfather. This letter has been passed down in our family since his passing. I'd like to give this letter to you to hold on

to. So his moment may last a little longer and your moment may become a bit bigger.

I can really have it mommy?

Yes little one it is for you.

I will take such good care of it mommy I promise.

I know you will dear.

Edited by Aus Der Box Skeptisch

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Hey Leonardo. Thank you. Some days I can retrieve words with lightening speed and then other days I get repetitive. Part of this exercise is to show me how I tend to repeat things even though I think I'm writing in a completely different space. My creativity seems to be boxed separately from my logic these days. This is frustrating. When I write it, I'll not have thought of it before. So even though I see whisper, I am not sitting there thinking of ideas. When I sit down to do it, it will be an effort at word retrieval. Poetry seems to work better for me now than prose.

But in honor of Aus and Unexplained Mysteries my word for the story is "Fossil."

I understand it's frustrating, but is that simply because you expect things "to be as before"?

If so, then you shouldn't put that pressure on yourself. Art flows from the now, not the past. As I said previously, you still have the talent. It doesn't matter if it takes one minute or one year for the art to express through that talent - that is just another pressure you should dispense with.

Here's another word, if you would grace me with a poem from it, please?

Triumph.

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Well here it is. I must admit it isn't at all what I thought it was going to be when I started writing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

Fossil

Many days come and go, each a new day, most similar to the last. I've seen births and deaths, peace and war. I've seen abundance and starvation. I had my share of good days and bad days, yet I blink and it becomes a memory. Life is funny that way. It seems we forget at times that we are in a moment. When we are young we reach for the future. When we are old we reminisce the past. We tend to always grasp what will be or has been but rarely realize the moment we are in.

We dig into the earth layer by layer to retrieve those moments lost to us. When the world blinks we are left with scattered remnants lost beneath the sands. The world blinked and there was life. The world blinked again and that life was reduce to mere fossils. Minerals washed into cavities to store the memory of creatures we will never meet.

I exist in a blink filled with moments. Everytime I blink I'm older. Some days I find myself standing in front of the mirror in a house I have lived in for over 50 years. In those years I have stood in this same spot looking at the same person each day slightly changing. Never noticing the subtle changes from day to day. I don't feel any different inside. I'm still the young man who first stood in this spot half a century ago. But I have changed.

The world will continue to blink when I'm gone. I am a moment. I am not sad to be a moment. Moments become past without which there could be no future. I am simply a mechanism with which the cycle may continue.

Today though, today is special. Today is always special because today is the day I create moments in my life. Yesterday is the past, tomorrow the future, but today is a gift that's why they call it the present. Today a bird sung its song just for me. No one else can hear this particular song on this particular day from this particular bird. No one but myself was here to witness its melody.

This day like each new day is the most important day of my moment here in this endless cycle. Tomorrow will continue to come , but tomorrows will not always come for me. So I am grateful.

This is what I leave to my family ,words of an old man. Words that may allow you to take another look around and enjoy the gift today brings. I love you all, and may your own blink be as full and enjoyable as mine was.

Signed

Oliver James Worth

Mother who wrote that? My great grand father Rebecca. Your great great grandfather. This letter has been passed down in our family since his passing. I'd like to give this letter to you to hold on

to. So his moment may last a little longer and your moment may become a bit bigger.

I can really have it mommy?

Yes little one it is for you.

I will take such good care of it mommy I promise.

I know you will dear.

You're probably gonna b**** slap me upside to sideways. But you are demonstrating something with which I used to not struggle, but do now.

Even though this is very insightful, it's the telling of the thing, not the showing. There is something that causes me to "sag" halfway through the first two lines. It's someone's "ponderings" I struggle as well for the universal. That thing that causes use to "latch on" to the writing.

This doesn't sound like an old man talking to me. It sounds like a young man trying to sound old. That means to me that you must find the echo in your own soul of what you are trying to say and allow it "out." Because there is much wisdom here but a voice is lacking. Trust yourself. Trust your voice. Speak.

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The last poem I wrote just came right out, automatically. This one intimidates me because I have a hard time with "poetic phrasing" like the other one I skipped. I think. I get too intimidated? I think you expect something with the phrasing.

So I tend to try to shake that off. By writing something. Completely unrelated.

So Inner Fire. Hmmm I try to make it abstract or unrelated. I'm going to think a bit. On this one.

Reading back I see I use eyes and skies a lot. So I will try for something completely different this time.

Inner Fire

The yelping dog

breaks through the noisy afternoon

with its bouncing tires

ricocheting trains

be bop

sound drop

of the afternoon

lickity splitting

bus stops

hissing hydraulics

and children's histrionics

like the boom boom boom

of an 80's juke box

blasting out of the storefront

of the local pub

The pedestrians roam

like displaced equestrians

their horses agallop

off their reins

riding hard up Fifth Avenue

knocking

left and right

the fancy paper shopping bags

of daily shopping hags

as they ignore you as you

wander through

lean to the right

lean to the left

side step spin away

like dancers in

The Thanksgiving Day Parade

and keep on moving downtown

maybe there you can trade

your fare

Another dreamer

with solid soles of shoes

to wander up and down

the pavement

try to pound into the granite

your deliberate provocation

Let them know that you were here

Remember that

as you fade beside

the blue light

flicker through your memory

try to find your answer

we never forgot you dear

You were always here

Actually that fits my inner life at times, the inner fire can be disruptive at times.

Well done my friend. Sorry for the late response.

peace

mark

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You're probably gonna b**** slap me upside to sideways. But you are demonstrating something with which I used to not struggle, but do now.

Even though this is very insightful, it's the telling of the thing, not the showing. There is something that causes me to "sag" halfway through the first two lines. It's someone's "ponderings" I struggle as well for the universal. That thing that causes use to "latch on" to the writing.

This doesn't sound like an old man talking to me. It sounds like a young man trying to sound old. That means to me that you must find the echo in your own soul of what you are trying to say and allow it "out." Because there is much wisdom here but a voice is lacking. Trust yourself. Trust your voice. Speak.

I trusted myself to write without editing. I enjoyed writing and I thought it to be an exchange of art. I was hoping to see some writing using whisper... not too concerned though.

Thank you for reading what I wrote non the less. I really enjoyed allowing the words to fall onto the page. If it was not up to par that is quite all right as I said above I simply enjoyed writing it. Have a good day cassea ill see you around. And keep up the good work getting back into writing. And hey don't be so hard on yourself what ever you write it comes from you making it worth while.

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You are very gifted in your poetics Cassea! i like your style and imagery! Keep up the good work!

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I'd like to practice again if someone wants to give it a try. Wow I'm reading my writing from months ago. Very herky jerky. I've gotten better. :)

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I'd like to practice again if someone wants to give it a try.

Silence. Love. Grievance. Hope.

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I'd like to practice again if someone wants to give it a try.

Learning to live with the pain because if I got my way by acting out or manipulatuon then someone else I care for deeply would hurt more than I do. One day I will grow beyond this, or hope that I can. I don't want to hurt either but I don't want to hurt someone else at all anymore.

Cassea: Let me thank you now for your empathy and if this is too painful I understand, you don't have to write it because I myself who loves to write cannont even write it for myself.

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May i ask a poem about 'Love'??? :blush:

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Silence. Love. Grievance. Hope.

My words are failing today. I'm pushing myself.

So

Silence Love Grievence Hope

When she turned to me

she had nothing left in her eyes

my hand stood like an

open winged hummingbird

caught int the thrumming of life

it hesitated

wiating for a reply

some breath from her mouth

to lift it's wings

it hesitated and hesitated

until it had found

the wings had fallen from its body

scaled and dessicated in the cool air

a delicate

hollow boned corpse

that tumbled into the abyss

following her down

its voice rising to

the cries of a heron

return return

wide awake

face down in the willows and marsh land

the prodding of three pronged claws

digging

under

reaching between each crevice

of your mind

those hollow bones

launching upwards

like a crawfish snapping at a piece of flesh

the way you grasp for life

the way hope crawls out

of the back of your throat

like a lumbering beetle

uprooted from a turned stone

held in your hand

as the beetle crawls upward

no shudder

no fear

recognition of the symbiotic

destiny of life

place down that stone again

and walk away

pulling yourself in

against the call of the distant heron

the tidewaters lapping at the corners of your mind

the wind pulling across the sky

like a sad man playing his viola

and yest

the warm is there to cradle even the dismal soul.

Edited by Cassea
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May i ask a poem about 'Love'??? :blush:

I do not do well today.

You stood on the edge of the rock

after the water had pulled away

you hid your feet in the cracks

the space between the rocks

the cracks formed at the edge

of our own existence

the sound of this mystery

cries out from

the fine worn and calloused hands of

the lace and silver makers

high in the mountains

among the cobbled streets

the cedar doors and the white washed walls

We walk along the empty streets

the air is dusted with pine and jasmine

we hear the song of the plucking guitar

melodic voices of the old women

filling their jugs with water

hanging their sheets

dancing around their own feet

in the dance of their younger days

We continue down to the sea

with its colored boats

with leather skinned fishermen

untwining their nets

as we twine our hands

our souls

closer together

further apart in the sea

This one is not right. I have to do it again. There is another story about the smooth stones on the bottom of the sea. I can't do it now.

Edited by Cassea
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and yest

the warm is there to cradle even the dismal soul.

Thank you so very much, Cassea. I knew you wouldn't disappoint.

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LOL went back to edit it. But couldn't remember if I meant 'YES'

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LOL went back to edit it. But couldn't remember if I meant 'YES'

I actually thought I knew what "yest" meant, so it made sense to me. Upon looking up "yest" though I'm now thinking maybe you meant "yet" lol.

It's all good though. It came across like it was meant to and made sense to me. :)

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I do not do well today.

If that was directed towards your writing, I for one, disagree. Many will probably agree, with me, that you write very well.

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Thank you. I used to be good. I still have a little minx. But not the skill set. Some days are better.

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I do not do well today.

You stood on the edge of the rock

after the water had pulled away

you hid your feet in the cracks

the space between the rocks

the cracks formed at the edge

of our own existence

the sound of this mystery

cries out from

the fine worn and calloused hands of

the lace and silver makers

high in the mountains

among the cobbled streets

the cedar doors and the white washed walls

We walk along the empty streets

the air is dusted with pine and jasmine

we hear the song of the plucking guitar

melodic voices of the old women

filling their jugs with water

hanging their sheets

dancing around their own feet

in the dance of their younger days

We continue down to the sea

with its colored boats

with leather skinned fishermen

untwining their nets

as we twine our hands

our souls

closer together

further apart in the sea

This one is not right. I have to do it again. There is another story about the smooth stones on the bottom of the sea. I can't do it now.

I liked it very much. It is amazing. You don't have to write another one, because that one was pretty good. But, if you want to, it's fine with me of course! Thank you!!

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Cassea, would you write a poem for me? The word I have in mind right now is "pain".

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Pain

Tyranny sweeps down in her decorated misery

pulling us jarring

from the din of our distractions

with the sudden shattering

like a tray of dishes dropped

in a diner kitchen

as we

sit at the counter turning our coffees

holding spoons

lightly between draped fingers

that no longer care to grasp

We sit on uncomfortable stools

and remove our thoughts

from our minds

one by one by one

to drop into the abyss

to be ignored

Sorrow sings our song

calls back to us like the distant owls

we wear this second skin of loneliness

too comfortably

Pain winds through our tendons and bones

like ivy among a tangled garden

so imbedded

we cannot attempt to even prune it

but merely continue

living with its twinging tendrils

corrupting our very souls.

Edited by Cassea

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