In Silhouette

img-alternative-textAnd though the world be silhouette, the definition of thy lines holds more power than any vibrant memory. In each stroke I remember, each molecule of ink I feel. This is no random symmetry, no desperate thought reformed, but all I was and am and wish. Brush strokes on a canvas to you and she and them, but not to me. In silhouette, I remain here: Japan.

Author’s Note: I drew this picture and wrote these words after watching a BBC series on the art of Japan. I wasn’t going to post it, but hope you like it. This piece means more to me than most as it’s a place I dream of someday visiting.

Richard

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No Other Word but Beautiful (An Author’s lot)

As an author, I strive to communicate in as perfect a form as I might. After all, is that not the point to being an author. I obsess over what words to use, and not use, how best to place them and how best to extract their full capacity for creation. Glue words and adverbs are but a few of those I try to quash and replace with better. I have a personal hate for repetition — I can spot it a mile off — and always try to be innovative with descriptions. After a time, these things become easier but one can always improve.
So what?, you bellow. Well, here’s the thing. I read that of all the words in the human language there is only one that cannot be adequately replaced by another. One might say it a singular word untainted by human overuse and in some cases — more so than ever these days — underuse. That word is beautiful.
Beauty, it is said, is in the eye of the beholder, and although you may dress it up in fine clothing it is always distilled down to that most particular of descriptions. This morning, I was taking my usual run when the clouds started to peel away to reveal the dawning sun. I don’t like stopping when running — I’m a creature of habit — but there are times when you just have to. I grabbed my phone and took the above picture before the moment dissolved from eye and memory.
As a man of many written words, as I have said in this post, there are times when you should use only one. Beautiful. The image is, was, and only ever will be beautiful.
Thus endeth the lesson.

‘It Is Not The Artists Who Speaks, But Life Within The Artist Who Has Much To Say’ (19)

Please take a look at this wonderful post by, Anna.
I’m a strong believer in the power of words and Dylan was worthy of his Nobel Prize for some of his single lines never mind his entire portfolio. Also, Armando’s explanation of the medatative state whilst painting is so like me when writing that it’s freaky.
Enjoy
Richard

Big Art Theory Blog

‘The highest purpose of art is to inspire. What else can you do for anyone but inspire them?’Bob Dylan

Few days ago, trying to chase away the ‘fall blues’, while having my morning coffee I have noticed that finally the sun was rising above the sky, which faintly promised for a pleasant weather for the rest of the week. Taking another sip of my latte – still feeling quite uninspired- I said to myself – ‘I wish something spectacular has happened’.

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When I opened my mailbox,  I’ve noticed that there was something  waiting for me there. It turned out that my blog had few new ‘followers’ which, of course, made me very happy. Among them there was an alert about a writer called Kim (author of  a very nice online read called ‘Peace, Love and Patchouli’).

As a faithful believer in low of attraction (‘ask, believe, receive and…

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Author Feature: J.C.S

Richard’s Note: A Little Background

When I first took, what was for me, the bold step of putting my work on a writing site, I was terrified of what people would say. I loved writing, but expected everyone else to hate my every word (no exaggeration). I was then extrodinarily fortunate to meet two wonderful ladies, who helped me get through this, Jasmine, or J.C.S to everyine else, and if she’s reading this, Debbie.

Where I had no confidence, Jasmine exuded it. Where I doubted myself, she did not. I can honestly say that if not for her prompting and encouraging words, I might never have become a published author. That was four years ago now, and mine and Jasmine’s friendship is stronger then ever. It is a constant source of amazement that no matter how much I antogonise her, (which I can do becuase she can’t reach to strangle me from the other side of the Atlantic) that she remains my pal. Jasmine has now self-published several books, all variances of the Science Fiction Genre, and has become an accomplished graphic novelist and clothes designer, too. She really is multi-talented. It is to my personal delight that I can now help her as she has so often helped me.

Without further ado, it is my great pleasure to present to you my good friend J.C.S. Here is an extract from her latest work, Bleeding Stars and Paper Hearts: Romance of the Synthies. Also, some of her wonderful artwork.


There stood a tree, new, young, fresh. The leaves were newly bloomed. There lay grass, the sun cresting over a hill in the distance.
Adrianna came from behind the tree, rubbing her belly. Then a foot pressed out, it’s imprint making the both of us grin.
“This is all I ever wanted,” I said softly, now nestling my nose in her curls.
“Just the three of us?” she said.
Then she stepped back, tears spilling helplessly from that pretty little face. Like a sick magic trick, she turned to ash and covered my feet. The sky then darkened, as rolling clouds hid the sun.
And the tree that bore leaves greener than my eyes was now barren, and wicked in a way.
My eyes opened. My vision was blurred. I could hear the whizzing of machinery, and the beeping of a heart monitor. I felt a sting from my neck to my shoulders and realized the situation of my conformity.
I shot up, the sting now pressing down my back. My vision remained blurred, but I could make out the silhouette walking to me.
“Brandon,” I heard Thomas say, “we didn’t think you’d wake up so soon.”
“Where’s Adrianna?” I said, gasping for air.
Struggling to think.
Silence.
“Where is she?” I moaned.
Silence.
“Thomas!!!” I roared, clearly losing my mind.
“I don’t know!” he offended back.
I tried rubbing my eyes to clear the haze I was viewing. When I decided to stand, I felt that of an infant learning to walk. I stumbled, knocking over equipment and chairs. My vision cleared enough that I could see Thomas barring the door, but his strength was no match for mine even in my weak state.
I shoved him aside and swung the door open as my feet came into contact with cold, wet pavement. Being that I still couldn’t see, the rumbling sound of hovering cars, and their horns jolted my sight a little clearer. I was now backed into the wall by the door I exited, my heart beating at an abnormal pace.
Thomas came out of the door, holding his arm and glaring. When he saw my belittled expression, he then grinned and laughed a little.
“This is the supposed Dump,” he said, gesturing about.
“Where is Adrianna?” I asked again.
“Get dressed, and I’ll show you.”
After fixing my belt, and ripping a hole in my shirt to fit my wings, I proceeded to follow Thomas down the hall and into an empty room. A large screen played uniform images of Adrianna, as if she were facing a camera. Some of the video playback ran in fast forward, as other moments you could see the angst in her face.
Thomas sat down, typed in a few words onto a keyboard, and motioned I sit as well.
Then he sighed, before pressing the space bar.
“You won’t like what you hear…” he said, giving me a strained look.
“I don’t like a lot of things.”
“I warned you…”
Adrianna smiled, her eyes looking down. The camera seemed to be vibrating, as an obvious explosion could be heard.
I panicked. Until she spoke.
“I’m pregnant,” she said softly, “and it’s been nearly three months since I’ve seen Brandon…”
As if I myself walked into a sound proof tunnel did swirl my efforts not to become angry. I immediately rose to exit, when Thomas caught me by the shoulder.
“She left that house, Brandon,” Thomas whispered, “I don’t think anger is going to get you anywhere…”
Matted down angst rolled out of my sigh as I turned the knob on the door. There stood a studious looking male Synthie in a white lab coat. He seemed hesitant to speak, so I walked past without a word as well.
“We need to run a few diagnostics on you…” he mentioned, rushing to keep up.
“Did I excrete any liquids during my three month hibernation?” I asked.
He blinked, flipping through the pages of his clip board.
“We almost couldn’t keep up with the waste bag attached to your bed…”
“Analyze that,” I said, still walking.
Where was I going?
“Did we find the Baron?” I demanded to Thomas.
The doctor and Thomas exchanged uneasy glances before Thomas decided to answer.


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Here is the little lady.

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J.C.S.
Author, Artist, Designer
Creator and Owner of
Byond Epic Ent.
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I think these are some of her army of clones for when she takes over the world.
Below is the link to her website. Please do check it out.
Thank you all for reading
Richard
PS For those who worry about spelling and such. When I proofread my part of this post, the only word I’d spelled wrong was my name. LOL
Unless Ruchard is my name?

The Writer

I’m tired, so tired, looking at a screen full of things I do not want to read. There are stories, twisted tales, those who seek attention and those who pretend not to. There are those who in any other format I would deem perverted, yet, here, I am supposed to accept. This is not what I want. This is so not what I want.
There are words piled before me, words I use, but not in the order I would use them. There are sentences and syntax set to pictures, both moving and still, songs and celebrations, lives from here, there and everywhere, and none of them mine. There are lives lost and lives found and some somewhere in between. I try to indulge them, help even, but it is with a heart steeped in regret. Why? Just because. I need no reason nor excuse, I’m beyond that, no debts owed.
Answer them all, they say. It’s for your own good, they scream. Get involved. Sell yourself. Porn your life for the greater good. And most do. And most will. But I won’t.
So, in the arms of exhaustion, I realise, all I want to do is write. It is the only thing I’m good at, and the only thing I wish. I have so much to exhale. Such a lot. This is what I must do. And this is what I shall.

Take a breath. Close your eyes. Put your fingers to the keyboard. And smile. At last.

Sculpted

 There’s an echo in the valley,
 
 A hollow thrum of glaciers past,
 
 Memories of the sculptor at work
 
 Carving out a future view.
 
 I see the chisel marks,
 
 Tools of ice and snow,
 
 Waterfall tears of rock removed
 
 Marking excavated beauty.
 
 It fills me with joy from my aerial sentry,
 
 As I feel a small part of something larger.
 
 After all, is that not what we all wish for,
 
 Even the valley itself?