The Man: He Resembles Both Owl AND Hobbit

Sorry it looks squished.

Someday I'm gonna have a fangirl outburst. Dread that day friends. Dread that day. 

It's weird how I already can't wait for his next work of art to be produced, published, and public-ized. Seriously, this guy is one of the most amazing artists of the century. And when I say artists, I don't even mean music. I mean artistry in the fine craft of photography and wordsmithing too. This dude is good at things. Things that I very much want to be good at. And to top if off, he still keeps his head and faithfully follows our Savior. Even when fame is a very nasty, twisted, and tangled business, he openly proclaims the truth:

http://www.ayoungblog.com/post/32385164655/to-him-be-glory-forever-and-ever

I guess this is just a re-statement of what I've said in previous posts. But why not have two more copper coins in the jar? 

Another reason to love Owl City: 

Every time I hear this it's like childhood nostalgia dances a tango straight into my ears.

^_^

G'night.

Whoa There Windspeaker!

Do I call on the wind, expecting it to howl, or do I simply want it to sweep me off my feet? Some say that you can't whistle to a thing as wild and free as it is, and then simply expect to have it at your side within the hour. But I guess I don't believe them. At any rate, I whistled and it came.

I'm one of those people you don't like to think about. Not because I'm a terrible person per se. More like because I concern you. People in general tend to become uneasy when someone unlike "normal" society is among them...and, well...I'm probably not the most normal of beings you might find in a big city like this.

But even here you have to wonder. Even here you'll find a few things under the surface that aren't quite what they seem. After all, you don't really think that the air just circulates on it's own, tunneling its way in and out of these subways like it has its own road map.
Nope.
The authorities aren't rearing to speak of it, but they really do have several Windspeakers working down in the tunnels---even the ones right beneath your feet, or the ones below Times Square itself.

Imagine it! The stations you happen to use, day in, day out, work to home and back again, are made possible only by my people. Well, it's a jolly good thing we don't require much credit or attention, otherwise you'd have a National crisis on your hands. If the Windspeakers went on strike, all the oxygen and air that reaches below would stop short, like a tab turned off. And that would be the end of something.

And the beginning of something else.

 

 

 

* * *

I literally just had this weird inkling: A book plot which takes place in modern day about the percentage of population who can actually control wind (and windspeed). One of the jobs available to them would be to control and stabilize air content in subways (like the really big metros used in NY and DC). Without them, underground travel would be impossible.

Like I said, "weird".

 

Hmm...Dear old slapdash inspiration strikes again. Anyone wanna use my new found idea?



Of Snippets and Socks

"What is it?", they say.
"What will it be?", I say.

And then I forget about it and dump it in my ever overflowing closet.

* * *

Hi all! How are you this fine afternoon (no, it really is fine---overcast and cool...The WINDOWS ARE OPEN!)? Lately you may have noticed the local trend of me posting random dialogue in the beginning of each post.

In explanation: I get these all the time. Just random snippets from some unheard of story that is non-existent and never will be.

Nice isn't it?

And by the way, my closet doesn't always overflow. That's just my fictional characters as she talks to you all in the three-lined snippet inserted above. I think I'll be doing that more often. I like to start blog updates off by picking you up onto your toes with randomness.

So now that I've started, where shall I begin?

*runs through titles in head*
Chapter one, "My Life As Recorded in 5 Minutes worth of blog time"...
*shakes head*

Nah. I won't bore ya. Nothing going on that would be extremely excited to the lot of you wonderful cyber friends. However, I do come baring a picture of what some may call "Awesome Sauce".

 

(Apologies for it not being the greatest of quality...)

*evil laugh*
My socks!

While throwing my room upside down and shaking the pennies out of its ears cleaning my room, I happened upon this pair of socks I seemingly forgot I had ownership of.
In conclusion then, I feel that now is the appropriate time to announce that to the world.

That is all.

K-Minty

P Sherman and All That

Hiya all.

Ever notice that when you're listening to a really good song and writing at the same time, all you wanna do is type the lyrics? That's what I've been feeling like. I've been walking around in agonizingly repetitive circles wanting to create something beautiful. I don't care what with---gimme anything: words, photos, music, crayolas,---ANYTHING!

But I can't.
Actually, I don't mean that like a "can't can't" more like just a "can't". Get what I mean?

It's something horrible to be an abstract thinker. I have a swirly twirly line of ideas and dreams dancing in my head, and I can't get the orchestra to play a number slow enough for me to catch up with them. I'm not an insomniac, quite the opposite really, but there are those weird nights when my brain is literally doing this to me:



You get the idea, right?

It's a colossal whirlwind of voices, words, pictures, and past. That's when I want my fingers to fly over a keyboard and start writing out every inkling I get...but it doesn't work that way. Inspiration comes to fast and leaves before I can hang up it's coat and hat on the rack.

Ain't that annoying?

So long live dashes of inspiration that I can never quite get down, eh? ;)

"And now we pause for a moment of abstract reflection..."

Those stars shine pretty brightly out there. You were one of them.

All I had to do was flip the switch that said "Skyline" and the night would have glowed finer than that time the moon exploded in our faces. They said to make a wish, but I was so caught up in the moment, I forgot to until it was too late. My chance was gone, and that meteorite dissolved behind the chimney tops. 

For a long time now, the sky has been a sort of obsession to me. I'm afraid of heights, but love the thrill of fear. I could hang up there for hours, climbing on those cumulonimbus' like a boss

Even if I can't see the blue in the sky, I still rejoice in the static charges that flit around, bouncing back and fourth, throwing lightning bolts hither and thither. 

But it's really great at night. That time when everything you never thought would wake up does. Those stars aren't all that visible from where I live, but I still know they're there. The moon is a floodlight, the helicopters fireflies, and those funny little bugs that fly in loopdeedoos around the porch light are the shrapnel of it all. Nighttime is like a fiery explosion of light that stands out at exactly the time you aren't looking noticing.

Here is where

I happen to live.

Luke Ln. and Highway 19

"Missing someone who's face you've seen before is one thing. But missing someone you haven't met face-to-face yet is another thing."

* * *

Once upon a time, in a little town off Luke Ln. and Highway 19 a tax collector sauntered the streets. Nobody walked with him, nobody talked to him. His face, shrouded in the cloak and hood that hung at his shoulders, was downcast, and he picked up his feet hardly at all. This tax collector was the picture of loneliness and despair. His life was sunk. He'd ruined his reputation, and he had gone so far into his evil deeds that he didn't believe he could ever be pulled out. With ever step, the weight of his sins heaped more heavily across his shoulders. He was out of hope.

The mid afternoon sun was beating down as the crow, like a herd of cattle, pressed and blundered and trampled their way around to hear what this new Teacher had to say. They had heard tale of this Teacher from many people---stories of his wise words, his bold finger rebukes, and even whisperings of miracles he preformed. The teacher made his way to a good spot where his face was shaded by a sycamore tree and began to speak.

Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say.

The tax collector continued to make his way down the street. He noticed the stillness around him and was confused at the lack of the usual evening rush of villagers. 

A then he saw it. 

The entire town was up ahead, near the sycamore tree, paying close attention to something the tax collector could not see. Holding his head a little higher and widening his eyes with curiosity, he picked up his pace and headed toward the people. Once there he was appalled at the mass of the crowed. Standing on the outskirts, there was no way that the tax collector could hear what was being spoken by the figure in the center. 

He wondered what on earth would capture this many people's attention? Who could this man, this foreign man truly be?

Filled with wonderment, the man struggled to press through the crowed in order to see and hear better. Unfortunately, he was small and easily looked over. After being trampled beneath the hooves of the citizens, his eyes fell to the tree that stood in a very convenient placed. 

Ah! That was it! The tree!

By now the tax collector was in earnest. Although he was unsure of why, he wanted with all his heart to see what this was all about. 

The tree looked easy enough to climb. Up and in and over and through---the tax collector moved through the branches. His small size made it easy to maneuver, and determinedly, he gazed that the face of the speaker.

And that was when it happened. 

Their eyes met. 

* * *

To read the rest check out Luke Chapter 19.

But boy, this guy longed to see Jesus. He wanted that opportunity. Bad. Maybe we can learn something from ol' Zac.