Impulsive Writing (31)

Rock + Water = Time

Rock + Water = Time

If nothing changes, does it happen in time?

The concept of change effectively defines what is meant by identity. More specifically, for something to have a distinct identity it must exhibit resistance to change.

For example, pick up and try biting a rock. What you immediately discover is that it likes being what it is, and isn’t terribly interested in changing either its position or size. Yet, over time, it will inevitably do both…when it comes into direct contact with another, equally resistant identity. Of course if it is floating in space, unless it strikes another rock it will likely retain its unique ‘state of being’ for a very long time. But if it resides at the bottom of a stream, or the edge of a river, it will inevitably be reduced over time to bits of sand, and then be further reduced to smaller particles (e.g., molecules) which will eventually dissolve and become part of the surrounding water. So…first rock, then water.*

And thus it is ‘change’ (in terms of ‘identity’) that defines time. So…slow change, slow time. Fast change, fast time. No change, no time. (If you wonder about the difference between fast and slow time, in terms of change…imagine being an electron in the middle of a nuclear explosion. Then imagine that same electron residing deep in an iceberg. ;-)

*Which then eventually evaporates and separates into air and sand…and may again become a rock, given enough time. (But that’s another story.)

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Quiz: If you take a picture of a rock, develop and frame it, then hang it on your wall…will the photo of that rock never change? Or is it now an ‘identity’ (independent of the rock it depicts) who’s time has just begun…changing, as it slowly fades away in the light of day?

Snappy vs. Prozac

Prozac

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911? My name is Mrs. Cuthbert, and I want to report some obscene behavior across the street from my house!

Around 5:30 AM his cell phone began to ring. Chris reached over the bed, grabbed his pants off the floor, rummaged through pockets until he found his phone, flipped it open, checked the number (it was Carrie, his next door neighbor), then pressed the “talk” button.

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The Story Untold

Newfoundland - The Story Untold

Write about a lost thing that shows up again in an unlikely place.
(An irresistible ‘prompt’ from Mattie’s Pillow)

Lost

I was around two years old when my father left for Newfoundland. He bought a small, isolated cabin located deep in a remote inlet on the south coast of the island, and planned to spend the winter there working on a book.

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He Got The Message

She’d left it at the front desk.

“Meet me at the used bookstore at Provinski Square a little before five. When you get there, buy the green copy of Great Expectations that has a small piece missing from the top of its cover. Make sure they put it in a bag. When you see me coming, leave the store, turn right and walk toward the subway entrance. I’ll be right behind you. Have the bag under your arm. I’ll exchange it with my copy (which contains the codes you need) as we pass through the entrance area. Once we’re inside, you head toward the information kiosk, and I’ll continue to the escalator. As soon as I’m out of sight, leave the station and walk across the square. You’ll see a black Yugo parked on the other side. The driver will be standing next to it. He’ll take you where you need to go.”

It was now five o’clock. It was cold and starting to rain. He had the book, and was waiting just inside the store entrance. He could see the black Yugo parked across the square. The driver was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk next to it, and appeared to be nervous.

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Impulsive Writing (30)

“I defy any poet to deny ever having written about the trials and joys of writing poetry. All the Greats have.”Ca3(PO4)2 – A Creative Journey (by Rivenrod)

Well, I’ve never written anything about writing poetry so I guess I ain’t one…much less one of the ‘Greats.’ In fact I’m so unsophisticated as to still believe that poetry evolved to make oral story-telling easier to remember and repeat. Only after printing and publishing became commonplace, did the ‘meaning of poetry’ begin to morph into something that words alone could no longer describe, especially if no longer crudely ‘shaped’ by using rhythm or rhyme. In other words, it was no longer simply a means of relating a story, but instead became the story…whether ‘memorable’ or not. (After all, once printed, what was said could not be so easily forgot! ;-)

For example…

A Poem Becoming Poetry

I find that…

Poems (of mine)
usually rhyme
if there’s time.

But probably not
if they’re thought
then soon forgot.

As for meaning,
Its like dreaming:

You like to feel
you’re at the wheel,
and turning it for real;
deciding what’s right
and what’s not.

But when you awake
you better write quick
before meaning fades
and all those words
so deeply thought
so creatively wrought
rush back to amend
a void in the pot
where rainbows end
and dreams begin…

again…

or not.

Yet UNDERSTAND that
in the room there was
no unwashed hand to
blot the force from
that dim light above
the frame of doors
hanging limp on hinges
forged from fear
or joy to seal a
child’s lips to
stiffened paddles of
sailboats. (Not ships!)

(I would go on but
cabbage has begun
ominously to sprout
from my fingertips.)

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