Gertrude was the best warrior in her village and had been challenged to slay a great beast. After a week, she gave up. She she didn’t even know what one looked like. After setting up camp on a green mossy mass, she vowed never to go home. She learnt moss topiary, weaving and even painted many of the rocky spikes in her garden. A year later, the mossy mass woke. It was a great beast. Gertrude was sure she could still slay it, but she’d built such a lovely home for herself. It would be sad to leave, she thought, she held her spear poised over it’s head. At first the beast threatened to crush her. But when it saw the way it’s spiky spine had been painted and it’s mossy fur tidied, they made a deal. They wouldn’t kill each other after all. Gertrude would get to stay on the beast and it would continue to be painted manicured fabulously.
Last day of June, so I thought I’d do one last art challenge. Thanks again Terry Whidborne the artist, and also to Chris White, whose blog post reminded me of the Sunday Sketches again.
I’m a pretty quiet person. Yesterday as I filmed with all the psychologists I noticed for the first time what it’s like to be in a room filled with other quiet slow talking people. Sometimes its difficult for quiet people- but yesterday it was so easy.
The flowers were loud, they grew fast toward the sun constantly spreading their seeds and letting their petals fly on the wind. Rock tried to keep up with them, but it was hard. By the time he’d finished introducing himself, the flowers had wilted or turned away. Rock always thought there was something wrong with him. Why was he so slow? Why was he so quiet?
One day it rained. Hard and fast, Rock was pelted with fat bullets of water. He could feel the earth softening beneath him, and then he was sliding. Rock wasn’t used to moving, it was fast and scary. But when he finally came to a stop, there were no loud chattering flowers. Just a bunch of grey lumps. He wondered what they were. But then they began to speak, a slow deep rumble. Rock recognised it immediately. There was nothing wrong with Rock, he was just being Rock.
Big news! I am doing a TEDx talk for TEDxQUT on the 2nd of August about my project. I’m really excited but I find public speaking very difficult, as I’m sure many people do. On day 78 I did a story on my fear of speeches and my propensity for violent blushing. This is going to be a big ordeal for me- I’ll be filmed, there will be an audience and I dare say there will be blushing. So I’ve written today’s story inspired by public speaking difficulties.
Words stick in her throat and dribble from her lips in a muddy indistinguishable syrup. People watch horrified as the newborn words flop about on the floor unable to find their feet. Some words begin to climb back into her throat, quivering with nerves. Her voice shakes from the quivering and then the words clog it all together. She scoops up the remaining words from the floor and carries them home. They’re not bad words, she thinks as she bathes them. If only she could give them a proper send off, let them loose in the wild. If only she could throw them into the wind and let them float effortlessly around the audience touching those nearby. Next time she’d be stronger, next time they’d be alright.
“What’s olive oil?”
“I think if you crush olives and it makes oil. You can do it with coconuts, vegetables, peanuts…”
“How do they make baby oil, do they crush babies?”
The two children sit in terror. The first turns to their baby sister, June.
“June, there’s no such thing as Bananas in pajamas, they’re just men in suits.”
“What are you doing!?”
“I’m crushing her dreams, I want to see if you get baby dream oil.”
June begins to cry.
“Quickly, collect the tears. We’re going to be rich!”
Yesterday at work, Ian was having philosophical difficulties with this question: “If olive oil is made from crushing olives… how do they make baby oil?”
Andrew’s been pondering the question, what is a “vegetarian zombie”? So I’ve explored some Zombie philosophy.
Urge for brains constant. Irresistible. But also urge to help others. So make diet, more earth friendly, like human vegetarians do. Choose what brains. Brains that not contribute much. Never eat scientist brains. Some politicians okay. Best brain from Murdoch man. He spread his brain though everywhere through paper. His brain very renewable.
Terry Whidborne (find out more at his site) is a stupidly talented person especially with a pen/pencil/paint or really anything- I imagine he could even carve an amazing sculpture with a pin if he wanted to. Every Sunday he does a sketch and sends it hurtling into the chirping land of tweeters. I got excited and couldn’t wait for today’s so I used last week’s as today’s prompt:
Fairies are hairy. I always thought they were smooth delicate creatures with impeccable dress sense and perfect figures. I locked myself away in libraries and even lived in the woods for a month in search of these perfect beauties. But when I finally tracked them down, I found a group of tubby hairy artists buzzing about. They’d been drawing themselves into books for decades as gorgeous creatures. My disappointment was quickly replaced with relief. No one is perfect. Everyone is insecure.
I asked my doctor if he had any favourite artists. He said Margaret Preston.
Grace has very distinct boundaries. Don’t hug her, don’t look her directly in the eye and definitely don’t take her to anything loud. Everything must be clear and repetitive. At first it seems restrictive, sad even. But the closer you get to Grace, the more intriguing the boundaries become. She’s different, beautiful and bold.