Oct 6, 2018
The sticky, brownish red food she gave me resembled a fruit roll up, which was why, when I finally took a bite, my tongue was shocked at the salty flavor. “What is this?” I asked.
“Porky pig roll ups,” she replied with a mischievous smirk.
I spit it out as soon as the words were out, clawing at my tongue with bare fingers.
I woke up disturbed. I didn’t even recognize the girl starring in my nightmare, but it was apparent that she knew dead animals were on my do-not-eat list.
It was hard to fall back asleep after that. I kept seeing the evil girl’s smile as she revealed the mystery food in my mouth. In my restlessness, my imagination fluttered from there into a story that’s been begging to be written for awhile now.
It’s a story I don’t really want to write, but it continues to plague me nevertheless. It’s a dark, dystopian story where humans are slaves to an alien race.
Did you know that when you’re reading a book or watching a movie, your brain affects your body in the same way it would if you were actually experiencing the events in that story?
In real life there are repercussions for what you do. In fiction there aren’t. I can pull on the skin of a tiger, hunt gazelle for a few paragraphs, and no animals would be harmed in the making of my story.
This is why I’ve turned to fiction recently. I feel a strong urge to inject a healthy dose of empathy and perspective into the world. As far as I know, there’s no better way to do that than with a story… nothing legal anyway.
P.S. There’s actually another reason I’ve been playing with fiction… for well over a year now I’ve been plotting (pun totally intended) a new podcast. I have big ideas for this show, but after way too much brainstorming (and not nearly enough action) I finally figured out how to start off simple and small.
The show will be called Art Ink, and each episode will feature art inspired stories. One short story and the one specific piece of art that inspired that story.
There are many reasons behind why I MUST create this podcast.
- I’d love to connect art lovers to new artists in a way that only stories can, by creating lasting impressions with shared experiences.
- There are so many artists who never write about their work… so I’m gonna do it for them!
- I also want to help artists help themselves by offering inspiration and motivation to pick up a pen, and eventually, by giving them a platform to share their work.
The initial episodes will be super short to start. Somewhere between 5 and 15 minutes. This is so that I can ensure I have time to create new episodes regularly, but eventually I’d love to work my way up to 30 to 60 minutes. Maybe some of you will help me achieve this goal by submitting your art-inspired stories?
I know, I know… I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to focus on launching, then I can fantasize about an overflowing inbox of submissions. One step at a time Bek, one step at a time.
I can’t give you a launch date just yet, but as soon as I know, you’ll know. Promise.
P.P.S. There’s another exciting development brewing… so stay tuned for the next newsletter. I guarantee it’s one you won’t want to miss!
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Jul 13, 2018
Do you believe in mind magic?
In 1978 a scientific study was done with 7,000 meditators who, over the course of three weeks, meditated on love and peace. Findings showed that, within this same time frame, there were significant global drops in crime rates (16%) AND terrorist activity (a whopping 72% drop!).*
It’s not that this was hard for me to believe, but I was shocked that this experiment had happened… and then equally disappointed that it hadn’t been repeated, at least not at this scale.
Suddenly, I had science to explain the strange “coincidences,” that’ve been ever increasing in my life.
The most recent example of this was just a few weeks ago, while I was scheduling out the first story I’d shared in over a year to be sent to my email list. I distinctly remember thinking of my friend, Michèle, and wondering what she was up to.
I met Michèle in Guatemala, where we stayed in the same home for several weeks. She lives in Canada, but we’ve kept in touch via email, and her occassional postcard whenever she returns to Antigua, where we met. She often replies or leaves comments when I share a story, and since it’d been awhile, I had a feeling she’d soon be filling me in on her latest adventures.
I was scheduling my email to go out the following day when I thought of Michèle. Then, I set it and forgot it.
The next day, after the email was sent out, I received a reply titled: What a Coincidence!
Michèle wrote that, just the day before, she had added me on her to-do list because she hadn’t heard from me in awhile and wanted to write me. The very same day I had thought of Michèle, it turns out, she thought of me too. From 1,000s of miles away, my thoughts had mingled with her thoughts… that seems clearly apparent to me.
You tell me… do you think it’s more likely we energetically connected for an instant that day, or was it some strange coincidence?
A coincidence like that, seems like the more far fetched explanation to me. We are all connected in ways I can’t explain, and these blips of proof are becoming more and more frequent to me.
Michèle, were your ears ringing at all as I wrote this?
P.S. Can you see the ghostly figure in this photo? I could’ve taken this story in many directions, but lately I’ve been really obsessed with the idea that we are energetic beings, connected to everyone, and everything, in this universe.
P.P.S. I’ve been working on an exciting new project, and if you like reading these stories, you’re going to love what’s coming next! Stay tuned =)
*I read this in Reality Unveiled by Ziad Masri – Original source cited in the book was The Source Field Investigations by David Wilcock.
Are you an artist with a story to tell?
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Jun 29, 2018
Now I know why deer freeze in headlights.
My mind was literally yelling “RUN!!!” as the deafening crack began to register in my mind’s eye. The massive tree in our backyard was falling.
I was facing the sound, but the blue corner of my studio was all I could see. My imagination crumbled the sheetrock as jagged branches ripped through the wall, coming right for me!
And then… there was silence. The corner of the room was intact. It was over.
But what did it hit?
I raced to the closest window and gawked out. A good 1/4 of the tree was now resting on my neighbor’s back porch. The trunk of the enormous maple split down the middle to the ground.
No one was hurt, there was minimal damage, but our poor, old tree wasn’t going to make it.
For the next month or so it was like I’d found out a friend had gotten terminally ill. The day I found out she was about 80 years old, I also found out she wasn’t going to make it another year.
I named her Ethel. I regretted not naming her sooner; the kind of shame you feel when you only acknowledge love as a direct response to its imminent loss.
I wondered what life would be like without Ethel.
Nine months earlier, when the cottonwood trees were sending their fluffy seeds into the air, my backyard became a magical grove. As the sun neared its exit on the horizon and the wind blew, Ethel’s leaves rustled, sending the dappled sunlight into a quivery, twinkling dance.
The floating fluff balls would hover, glide, and bob in slow motion. When the haphazard light caught them in its beam, they’d glow like fireflies.
The giant maple leaves were bigger than my head. Their rustling a comforting white noise that drowned out the nearby traffic and lawn mowers ever present on any summer day.
Now, it’s not quite as magical back there. Our backyard is bare and empty. I miss Ethel deeply.
I miss her shade. I miss her spiders (however much they freaked me out). I miss cover from the rain. I miss how she channeled the wind’s whispers; there’s no natural sound I love hearing more.
Nick suggested we ground her down into the earth, and plant a new tree, but I couldn’t let them totally bury her. Ethel’s stump remains, like a gravestone, protecting her memory.
Of course, now I’m wondering if maybe it would’ve been easier to try and forget.
P.S. – This story really did happen… a windy snowstorm took her out. It was the worst snowday ever.
I guess this one was a bit of a stretch from the photo. I saw lightning, that made me think of storms, and I miss Ethel so much!!! Sometimes it’s fun to see how far my stream of consciousness can go before I find the right story.
Are you an artist with a story to tell?
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Jun 15, 2018
Standing at the precipice of a 96 foot cliff, I was grateful none of the guys could see my face… or my chest. I was a horrible liar and I was sure my heart was visibly thumping. It felt like two fists were punching me from the inside out:
Left-right, left-right.
Left-right, left-right.
Mr. Fear screaming, “Let me out!!! Flight not fight!”
They said I was too scared to jump. They were right, but I couldn’t let them know that.
“Pussy!” one dick yelled, and I could hear the smirk on his face.
That’s right, I thought proudly, and I leapt. For a second, Mr. Fear stopped punching me. My heart froze as I sucked in a deep breath and plummeted toward the teal blue water below.
My feet stung briefly as they smacked the surface and the water enveloped me like a warm hug. Bubbly sloshing filled my ears and faded to a soft static hum.
As my descent slowed, before I began to rise, I was suspended for an instant. I opened my eyes and looked upwards. I saw the hot yellow sun behind pink and orange Day-Glo ripples swaying and shivering across the surface; tunnel vision with fuzzy edges.
I smiled and rose.
P.S. – This is a fictional story, I never jumped off a cliff. I once emptied my bank account to go skydiving on a dare, though, but that a different story.
Anyway… doesn’t this photo look like a sunset seen beneath tropical waters? I imagined what it would be like to experience a sunset underwater, and then I wondered how I got there. This is the story I dug out of that.
I think I’ll be playing with fiction a bit more in upcoming stories.
Are you an artist with a story to tell?
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Jun 1, 2018
“Let’s call Mr. Horn, Mr. Horny,” 10-year-old me suggested to my best friend. We were in line, about to make the afternoon march to the cafeteria.
I cackled, I’m sure, the same way I do now when I’m feeling silly, but my laugh was cut short by a booming voice behind, and way above, me.
“That’s not funny, Rebekah,” Mr. Horn scolded, and the disappointment on his face pierced me. I reddened with embarrassment. I’d obviously pissed him off, but I wished he would lighten up.
It wasn’t for a few years that I finally understood exactly what I had insinuated by simply adding a Y to my teacher’s name. It’s that same innocence and utter ignorance of the world that both failed me, and redeemed me, throughout that year.
I’m not sure how grades were calculated back then, but I know my unintentionally clever nickname didn’t help my case. Before 5th grade I was, effortlessly, a B and above student, but suddenly Ds were speckled across my report card. It was the first time my mom had to push me to do better in school.
I remember not wanting to care. Why did it matter if memorized every state and its capital? The struggle was real… especially in history and geography.
Towards the end of the year we had to write an essay about our “dream house.” I didn’t have a dream house; I had never dreamt of having a house or any of the things that come along with it.
My dad had returned from diving trip around that time, and had been editing video footage from his adventures through shipwrecks turned underwater habitats. My head was swimming with fish, sea turtles, eels, sharks, and rays.
I never really dreamt of living under the sea, but it seemed like an underwater house might be the kind of home that would live in a “dream.” And that’s the dream house I described in my essay.
Later on, in front of the entire school, Mr. Horn told me my essay was the best he’d ever read, and he handed me an award to prove it. I’d like to think he forgave this writer her wordplay.
The scale-like reflections in this photo sent a fish swimming through my imagination, and this was the 1st memory I stumbled upon.
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Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
May 14, 2018
It’s a warm, sunny day and the foamy, rippling surface of the river morphs the blue sky and pale green leaves into a sparkling, moving mosaic. You’re mesmerized by beauty of it all.
You might not notice the wide-eyed creatures looking up at you from their hiding spots, swaying alongside slimy seaweed stalks below… not until you look past the bright reflection to see beneath the surface. Unless you step into the river, you’ll never lose your feet in the soft, murky silt, or feel a fish nibble on your toe.
So much of what we consume is merely surface-level material. I don’t read the news because it depresses me… I frequently fall off of social media for the same reason. What’s interesting about that?
The paths I travel on either road head in opposite directions, but they both lead me to the same dark place.
“If it bleeds, it leads,” still sums up the drama-fueled stories of the news world. Yet, most personal news feeds on social media seem to take the opposite approach. Like a clip straight out of the beginning scenes of the movie, Pleasantville, my Facebook feed is full of happy people highlighting what’s great about their lives.
When I read the news I lose faith in humanity, when I read social media I lose faith in myself. Why aren’t we digging deeper? Why isn’t there any balance?
I’m no different than all my ‘friends.’ I avoid sharing the drama and failure in my life, showing only happy moments, wins, and accomplishments. What am I giving anyone with these posts? Nothing valuable. Just a surface-level “look at me,” post. What am I giving myself? A temporary ego-boost… unless no one ‘likes’ it, of course.
I’m really struggling to find balance in what I consume and balance in what I create.
When you don’t have anything nice to say… is it true that you shouldn’t say anything at all?
It’s certainly the safest thing to do.
I think I’m tired of playing it safe. It’s time to break through the surface of the pretty reflection and take a look at what’s lurking beneath.
P.S. No, this photo isn’t of a a real river… but you can see the resemblence, can’t you?
Did you know?
Patrons got to see this 2 days before anyone else, and that’s only the start of Patron perks!
Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
Apr 30, 2018
The golden lining is blurred out. I’m looking past all the beauty to the flawed, cracked parts. This is what I’ve been doing for months now.
Stuck searching for golden glue to fill the cracks. Where is it? All around me. Gold’s reflecting off of my skin and the surface of the water; all the while, I sink slowly past it… drawn to the cracks in the murky depths below.
Uselessly, I fill them. Not even gold lasts forever, though, and rising heat will eventually melt it away. Next time I’m angry or sad, rivers of gold will run down my cheeks, leaving the patched cracks hollow once again.
What if I stop trying to patch myself? Accept my flaws and just let them be flaws.
What if I let the gold that’s already there flow around me? Wash over me like the sunlight in spring after a long, cold winter.
What if, instead of trying to trap the gold and hold onto it forever, I just let it come and go?
It’s all too easy to take for granted the sunshine when there aren’t any clouds to fade its rays.
The next few photos I’ll be sending you were taken last year. I’ve been trying to send them to you since August, but… every time I sat down to write only dark, sad stories would come out of me. I didn’t want to be a drag, so I stayed silent instead.
This past summer was the beginning of a really difficult time in my life. Too many unexpected transitions for my change-resistant mind to process.
I had to constantly refocus on the things I was grateful for. There was so much gold in my life, but I couldn’t see because my perspective was narrowly focused on my problems.
I’m not gonna lie, it took effort to be grateful everyday. There would be days when I sat down to write and the cynic inside me flooded my mind with negative thoughts.
Ironically, some of the worst days were the most enlightening. In those moments when the only story I could tell myself was, “poor me,” I tended to look more closely at the things I took for granted. Clean water, food, and clothing are things I’ve never wanted for… and, sadly, they are the “little things” in my life that many people struggle for just to survive.
The short story is: I’m on the other side of another deep dip in my life, and I’m sure my daily gratitude practice helped me get through.
The golden lining is always around you, and it’s so easy to lose focus on it… just know it’s there… and don’t forget to glance over every once in awhile.
Did you know?
Patrons got to see this 2 days before anyone else, and that’s only the start of Patron perks!
Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
Apr 3, 2017
When I let my gaze get lost in this image, I saw a sandstorm at sea. Imagine a stormy sea, you’re squinting through stinging, tear-filled eyes as the boat bobs and tips. You can see land, but it’s really just a big, blurry blob that’s not getting bigger fast enough.
The title was born: Sandstorm at Sea. Lost in my imagination, I continued to wander down any path those words took me… and things got a little heavy. Usually, this is the part where I furiously scribble out any pain or vulnerability that’s leaked onto the page. Instead, I kept writing. I told myself I didn’t have to publish it, it would be good to just get it out.
When I was finished I decided that I was too afraid of offending you… I wrote a new story; it was light-hearted and funny.
Then I had a thought: why don’t I let you choose your own adventure? A fond memory of reading R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps books crossed my mind… why not?
So this week I have two stories for you, read the one that calls to you, or read both, the choice is yours.
A Heavy Hearted Sandstorm at Sea
A Light Hearted Sandstorm at Sea
Did you know?
Patrons got to see this 2 days before anyone else, and that’s only the start of Patron perks!
Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
Mar 15, 2017
“Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art.” ~Stanislaw Jerzy Lec
Everything about her was tiny, her frame was petite and her voice was softly small. She pulled at each finger of her glove before fully removing it, and repeated the process on her other hand. I estimated that the woman in front of me was in her 40s, but her hands looked 2 decades younger.
“Can I have a chair?” she asked, and I rolled an office chair over to the cart I’d cleared for her things. As she unrolled a bundle of manicure tools, and set out various bottles of skin products, I wondered if she was more accustomed to jobs that offered her private dressing rooms. Did they actually have stars on their doors?
It was the first time I’d ever met a hand model, and since my job was to basically hover until she needed something, or until we started shooting, I probed her with questions about the job. As she spoke she barely looked up from her hands and never stopped massaging them, but she was happy to indulge my curiosities.
She never does dishes, I learned, or anything else that might risk damaging her precious hands. Her worst fear was of getting paper cuts, yet she’d been expertly trained to wield a knife for chopping vegetables. I tried not to imagine what a chopping mishap might look like… without success.
She never leaves the house without gloves on, she told me; in the summer too, and even when she goes to the beach! I imagined her in a bikini with Cinderella gloves on, and the perplexed looks on the faces of any strangers who noticed this odd attire.
“The hands are the first things to age,” she said, with a slight smile, still elegantly moving her hands against one another.
I pitied her in that moment, but only because I couldn’t imagine her life for myself. A life without being able to get my hands dirty. A life spent hiding from the sun. A life full of superficial fear, and a fear most of us will have to face… the fear of aging.
I think of the palm readers who can tell so much about a person from the lines in their hands. I think about how the repeated expressions on someone’s face are what determine where the wrinkles will show. I think of how much more interesting a dilapidated building is compared to a flawless new one. The more cracks you can find the more stories there are to tell… and I’d say the same thing for wrinkles and scars.
To age well is to barely live. That is my humble opinion.
I look at this photo and I see a wrinkled Earth. I think of how we, humans, are worse than the sun to the Earth’s skin… prematurely aging it. Lost in all the hopelessness I have for Earth’s survival, and our own, the only thing I can say is, at least she lived.
Did you know?
Patrons got to see this 2 days before anyone else, and that’s only the start of Patron perks!
Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
Mar 1, 2017
“No, I don’t wanna be a clown!” I cried as I ran away from my father to hide, and pout, and resist the red, yellow, and blue garment he was dangling in front of me.
I was 7 and I had just spent the past few minutes being awed by my older cousin in her princess costume. In the brief time I was aware I’d arrived at a costume party, I’d also arrived at false expectations of getting an equally girly costume.
Apparently, though, my dad had known about the party all along. As I made a scene, he’d explained how hard he’d worked on the clown costume. Yup, my dad had sewn together the primary-colored atrocity, and eventually I gave in to wearing it.
I didn’t usually make scenes like that. I swear, my parents will tell you I was a pretty well-behaved kid… that’s probably why everyone felt so bad for me. Everyone complemented my ridiculous attire, but I didn’t believe them. I don’t remember any talk about a contest, but suddenly, there was a tiny golden trophy in my hands. I’d won 1st place for my costume.
I’m not a parent, but I imagine parents do project their own hopes and dreams onto their children-whether intentionally or not, and my dad is definitely the funny guy in the family. However corny his jokes are, they’ve rubbed off on me. Today, I’d much rather make people laugh than put a dress on. You will certainly never mistake me for a princess… but a clown… that’s not outside the realm of possibilities.
In case you’re wondering WTF this has to do with this photo, well, I can’t escape seeing a smile in it… what do you see?
Did you know?
Patrons got to see this 2 days before anyone else, and that’s only the start of Patron perks!
Artsy Reflections started out as the Photo and 100 Words project back in 2014 – find out why I started it and how it evolved.
