A pretty little dove flew by my window
but it was only a flash of a glimpse;
Etched in my memories is the most beautiful sight I ever did see.
I sought out this dove
and found she was delicate in nature.
Pure and heavenly; the dove is perfect
So I put her in a cage.
But my dove did not sing
and her feathers began to gray.
Right before my eyes, she turned into a pigeon.
It was then I realized,
That such beauty can not be caged.
The hermit painter lives alone
without a friend to call upon
or a love to call his own.
He prefers this solitude to create
piece by piece.
Yet despite his single life the canvas is still white.
The hermit painter, he hasn’t felt in quite some time.
No need, urge or desire to occupy his mind
Not joy or pain, he has nothing to convey
and his apathy shows on every canvas that remains white.
The hermit painter has not seen the sun.
His skin pale his hair white
And his eyes know not light
but what little light would suffice
from a candle by his side.
And in absence of proper light
it’s no wonder the canvas remains white.
The hermit painter has not seen the world.
He has not heard music in decades,
nor has he read literature in years.
He knows nothing of the new,
and has forgotten everything that is old.
Perhaps if he stepped out into the world
his canvas would not still be white
The hermit painter has hundreds upon hundreds
piles upon piles;
paintings, sketches, ideas left untouched all white.
And had it not been for the absence of light,
a chat with a friend, a love to relish.
A melody to his ear or an interesting story
the hermit painter might have seen a canvas painted in color
and not a canvas painted in white.
The hermit painter falls ill.
On the final days of his life he does not paint.
Instead, he goes outside.
He hears the laughter of children
and it fill his with infectious joy.
He hears music; urban, classical
sensational new age foreign sounds he’s never heard before.
Millions of books; he reads every story he can.
He plays chess with a new friend in the park,
and takes a chance on a an ageless beauty
sipping coffee alone in the afternoon.
Everything he’s been missing
the hermit painter decides,
he must, he must, he MUST!
give one final canvas a shot,
and indeed it would be his greatest work of art
He sits and stares,
and suddenly it begins to appear
as if all on it’s own, the canvas painted itself.
A culmination of the hermit painter’s life.
First came the solitude,
every encounter and opportunity missed.
Then came the apathy.
Following, the lonely candle by his side.
Every note he had never heard,
and every word he had never read
they too appeared magically on canvas,
and it was indeed his greatest work of art.
The hermit painter now gone from this world
left behind for all to see.
And from every corner of the earth
they gathered where the canvas was housed
and took in the message the painter left behind
on his single greatest work of art.
A blank canvas hangs; the painter entitled “white”.
Tyler Williams of Blanchester, Ohio selects marijuana strains to purchase at the 3-D Denver Discrete Dispensary in Denver, Colorado on January 1, 2014. Legalization of recreational marijuana sales in the state went into effect at 8am this morning. By Theo Stroomer/Getty Images.
You know what motivates me to write? When people give me feedback on my work. Please, feed my ego?
“…Of course, how could I forget the three football jocks that corned Eric in the bathroom during third period. Unaware of my presence in the first stall, where I often slept during trigonometry, I could hear Eric’s voice and three others. Then the sound of hard pounding on meat and flesh, the shuffling of feet from under the stall door. I heard Eric gasping for the air that escaped his body with each blow, and the assailants yelled “Kick his faggot ass!” Then, their foot steps walking away, the bathroom door shutting, and silence. I stepped out of the stall and Eric looked at me with swollen eyes, blood dripping from his nose. He lay on the bathroom floor helpless clutching his side where had been repeatedly kicked. I didn’t stop, or return his stare. I simply washed my hands and left.”
Tomorrow, legal marijuana goes on sale in Colorado:
At 12:00 a.m. MST this Wednesday, the first legal sales of marijuana will occur in Colorado. Other sales will follow shortly in Washington state. How will this actually work? Colorado has been scrambling to come up with a legal architecture for this new industry, and the results look more modest than many expected (e.g.: There will be a very limited number of distributors, it can only be used at home rather than in cafes or large parties, etc.), but there are some creative entrepreneurs at work already. But what will this look like in a few months? Will marijuana lose some of its stigma? Will it lose some of its caché? Will usage actually increase substantially, or are the people who would use it already finding ways of getting it? And, perhaps most importantly, will Colorado’s and Washington’s experiences end up…
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Without mind you say words.
Tear and rip my heart,
those words are like knives.
Sharp blades, dull blades,
each one stings the same.
Without mind I regard.
the assault received,
I am withdrawn
Without mind you act.
Fear and anger arise
and you, wild thoughts and all,
perceive so wrong
Without mind I listen.
The noise you make I hear.
though words you speak not clear.
And I perceive anger and fear.
Without mind we lose.
The barrage of feelings and emotion,
unwise attention is the cause,
manifestation of the rest.
Without mind we are caught,
in the struggle to end all suffering
where it always begins.
Without mind.
How artist Samantha French describes her work:
My current body of work is focused on swimmers underwater and above. Using vague yet consuming memories from my childhood summers spent immersed in the tepid lakes of northern Minnesota, I attempt to recreate the quiet tranquility of water and nature; of days spent sinking and floating, still and peaceful.
See more of her work here.
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