This is a project we had the first week of class. A mandala is a circle that shows your soul. http://img198.imageshack.us/img198/9448/201108120004503622.jpg
here is a link to the drawing
My mandala says many things about my inner self- my desires, my fears, my tendencies, and my thoughts. It is not organized too much, although it is mildly. There are about six different portions and some flow into others.
I first drew a fish, this is representation of me. I try to swim through the world and I try to embrace life. The fish is smiling as I smile when I embrace living. Waves are scattered on the fish’s skin; it is the tranquility of the fish and life in general. It is bigger than the boat in another scene; I think a fish has a significant amount of importance even though it is only a fish.
A large leafy tree is growing out of the middle of the circle. This tree grows like I, myself try to grow. It grows stronger, older, and larger and becomes abundant in life. It stems out to more and more branches and that explains how everything is related to everything and that all life is a common miracle. I climb the tree which shows my respect and love for it while also showing how I want to enjoy my life.
The least detailed part of my mandala is the black sliver. This sliver is small but gets bigger. This is darkness, sadness, anger, and craziness. Darkness can envelop in a person and destroy their mind. It can consume one completely and control one’s thought; this is shown by it going out of the circle.
Another scene reflects common day life and how I try to make everyone happy. I hold a balloon and the people around me are in bad states of mind: sadness, anger, and frustration. Someone can see the beauty of everyday life and show up with a balloon by their side instead of a rain cloud over their head.
Below the fish is a big scene, although it starts with an ocean. The ocean goes out of the circle showing the passing of time and a life of consumable happiness. The man in the boat shows how small he is compared to the ocean. On the left part of this bottom scene is a snake. The snake is darkness as well, but also fear. Fear for life, fear for love, and fear of going crazy. The snake is staring at a figure of me when I’m older. I am happy and successful in what I try to do. I stare at the snake like how I flirt with danger, take risks, and try to understand darkness. If I get upset and give up, the snake eats me. I stay standing on the border of the ocean and occasionally look into darkness.
There’s a young woman laying on a couch in her bathrobe, naked underneath, negotiating with molds of her teeth, trays filled with whitening solution, trying to set them evenly and leave them as her throat gurgles. When they’re in she lays back further, perching her computer on her lap and reaching for a red plastic cup, holding it at her chest. Saliva starts to gather at the sides of her mouth and she spits into the cup, quietly as possible so the young man on the adjacent loveseat doesn’t see, and he doesn’t, the television holding his attention. The young man looks down, shirtless, his left hand lying still on his stomach embracing the curve of a gut gone over the waistline. His hand moves up towards his neck, his fingernails catching in his chest hair with sharp friction, and he scratches at his beard, scraping the steel wool scruff on his face. He sighs and glances over at her, engrossed in reading, and clears his throat once, and then again, louder the second time. The television regains his attention, but only for a second or two. “Do you have to do that?” He asks “Whath?” He sighs, “Do you have to do that? Your teeth are fine.” The tray settled on her top jaw gets removed, “Yeah, I do.” He leans forward, “Why? Your teeth are plenty white.” “Are you kidding? They’re yellow!” “Ah, you’re crazy.” He turns back to the television, slouching back into the chair, his head leaning on his right hand. She exhales, and with heavy determination tries again to settle the mold on her jaw and let it rest, determined not to upset it, and, setting it successfully, relaxes again. And again, saliva gathers. She spits. As he sits, silent, his eyes narrow, mouth open only a sliver when she turns to see him. She stares for a second and then looks down, eyes to the floor, stirring up humid sighs through her lips coated in moisture. She hesitates, her hand resting on the cup that balances tentatively on her breasts. She can’t talk with the molds in, not without softening the sounds with the gurgling lisp of restricted consonants. She smiles in a demure, quiet way, hiding her amusement. She turns away, back to her computer, the screen reflecting a pale white off her face. She spits. This time he sees. His mouth changes, the television disappears. Suddenly his mouth shifts to a revolted grimace, his eyebrows angled inward and angry, eyes bursting wide. “Ugh, that’s disgusting!” “Whath?” Again, h
XRIVO is a concept that has been shaped and refined over the last year - however, in retrospect the driving themes and values have remained the same…
> We all like to create; it takes on numerous forms and fashions, but at our core we are a being that seeks individuality and expression of such
> We enjoy taking in the creations of others - whether it be a good book, an instantly eye-catching sculpture, or the way someone has just that right view caught via the camera.
As I have discussed this new creative forum with literally hundreds of people over the last several months, what repeatedly struck me was the personal connection people felt with writing - whether in the form of scribbled notes centered on a theme or story, or an idea waiting to be developed.
Which is what I identified with from the beginning of this journey.
An overly seasoned entrepreneur and businessman, hell-bent on being the guy recognized for taking on the toughest challenges - hardly a writer.
And, like many, I have the folders of book ideas - stories I want to tell, lessons I’ve learned that I want to share, emotional happenings that are permanently implanted in my head that seek release.
My role in this endeavor has been to run the business - I’ll leave the creative stuff to others - but in a way I represent a mass audience….the less talented with the written word and creativity, but no less passionate about it.
This is for all souls.
I’ve foundthis followingthe dust, take noteof not the journeybut the record. If there’s anythingI’ll be able to sayafterwards, it’s that I could’ve tried to bea saving grace instead, the regretincreases with life. A centuryago, this was scrappedto a piece, and tomorrowit will be ? So if youhave timeenoughand canfeel theselips for yourself, thiswilderness isyour inheritance.
I was just foolin' around with my writing last night when this exercise started happening on its own. It turned into an interesting examination of sentence-building and micro-level structure development, the things that constitute what people usually call, "Your voice." It may not make for the best reading, but I think there might be something cool to learn from this one. This probably came out of my undying affection for the well-wrought long sentence, something I picked up from one of my central creative inspirations, James Agee. The problem with long, flowing sentences is that, the longer they get, however lyrical, the harder it gets to make sure the reader won't get lost and forget the point that got the sentence moving. A good long sentence develops with momentum, building on its theme to a logical conclusion, a point that both rhythmically and thematically satisfies both the writer and the reader. That's nice and all, but how do you get there? Even Agee would get so hung up on his language that you'd have no idea what he was talking about, by the end. The premise of the exercise is simple, but kinda tricky to explain. You start with a 3 to 4 word sentence ("I want to leave", in my case). From there, you elaborate on that sentence with a single thought (say, "I want to leave and head somewhere") so that it's still a complete sentence, but a different, more elaborative one. Then you elaborate again with another thought, turning it into a different, longer, complete sentence. You do that until you have at least eight distinct sentences, all branching from the original. I don't think that serves quite as well as an example. So here's what I got: I want to leave. I want to leave and head somewhere. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts but wild and unselfish.I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts but wild and unselfish, built on the backbone and the tensile sinews of a stronger strain of mankind. The middle parts get a little weird and underdeveloped, but by the time you hit the last sentence, chances are you'll get a long sentence to be proud of. It may seem repetitive, but by constantly reminding yourself what the opening idea was, everything that followed will innately start referencing back to the original concept, allowing yo
evinced only by the stimulation in a sway,
in an eventual chafe;
the short-lived breath of renewal passing through.
inoutinout — the wounds reminisce.
they smile wide in nostalgia
and weep a salted pink.
serein, and she remembers.
he had a likeness to sand, slipping
like time; she had a soul like a soldier,
still going, searching back
confidant lost in combat:
I'm making a choice to be out of touch...leave me be,
he said, he said, he said—
but the essence burrowed deeper than realization
could dig, than acceptance could seep;
it stole away like an infidel,
as a memory withstanding
the rotted, pungent stench of
as a hope doused in impossibility, still kicking.
its place of seclusion pernicious to the touch and
thumbed only when honesty supersedes sensibility,
a phantom ache where you did reside:
soulmate, dry your eyes
you were my shadow and now
I walk unbalanced,
the sun ceases to exist as its evidence
and you have outlined my convictions
This piece is a collaboration between myself and the XRIVO Writing Interns. Each of them were given the same introductory paragraphs and told to creatively interpret them. They could do whatever they wanted, whether it was to completely rewrite the paragraphs or simply continue with the story. Each of them have a different focus when it comes to writing - from poetry to journalism - and they interpreted the initial paragraphs with that skill-set in mind. The result is a rather fun collaboration of the different directions a single story can take when multiple perspectives are brought in.
For William Blake
with eyes of struggle
watch the wind blow history
from limb to limb
as experience foliates
leaves fall to deteriorate
in the soil of the retina
to plant innocence
in blooming vision
as the future oxidizes
events start to accumulate
in the wind breathing on my limbs
This Poem is about many tings. Fire, Dancers, Performances.But it can be interpreted many ways. Tell me how you see it, and why.
P.S. I wrote this in poetry class in high school, and I need some real feedback on this. This is my favorite original piece so far, and I want to improve it. Thanks for the help everyone!