#creativivity

[that-whichisnot]

We very well may have met already.

[billherbert23]

Creativivity: The Writing Life of

Here's the full Workout. WARNING: this is only for those fully committed to the Writing Life of Creativivity! 1. Wake up: practise your Lying Down. If you remember any dreams, now is the point to return to them. 2. Get up: move to the chaise longueur with a refreshing minty drink. Consider social media, just in case. 3. Shower or procrastinate: the decision is yours! 4. Go to a nearby coffee place with wifi: under no circumstances prepare your own whatever-meal-it-is. 5. Doodle or procrastinate: the decision is yours! 6. Check whether you're at home or not: if at home, practise your Lying Down; if still out, purchase a pie. 7. Practise your Lying Down. May require tea. Remember: cake is your friend! 8. Time for the pub! You may wish to review all the writing you got done. Alternatively, you may wish to procrastinate - the decision is yours! 9. Nine is a very large number - probably best to Lie Down. At this point, you can disregard the silly rule about getting home first. Ah, Creativivity!

[kyle4j]

My girlfriend asked about things I love in nature. This is what I told her.

I love the warm sun on my face and my back and the sound of cicadas as I sit on my deck with a book and a cold lemonade

I love the crisp cool of the evening when the sun goes down and the lights on the trees come to life on Commonwealth Ave, where they shine through the snow that sits atop the branches and spills onto the heads of lovers below.

I love the white softness which rests on the handles of park benches and crunches under shoes as businessmen and young girls walk the sidewalks.

I love the misty neighborhoods on windowpanes, of water drops, sprinting in rivulets to the bottom, and the way they blur the lights of the oncoming cars and the sweet orange streetlamps.

I love the calming thunder of small clear musket balls, fired from clouds, which land on the pavement and drip from the awnings of city bus stops, where girls with blue hair and exorbitant large dark eyes wait for their magic carpets to nowhere.

I love the petrichor and the misty feeling in the air on a spring morning, early enough to see the dew on the bright blades of grass and late enough to see the sun shine through the grey clouds, a recipe for cheerful melancholy.

I love the strolls in public gardens, tended trees and tall hedges, perfect curves to families of flowers, whose hue seems to leak into the open air and fill it with color.

I love the setting sun at the close to the play which is a summer's day.

I love the kids in the pool who splash and scream despite their neighbors, and who stay up all night listening to only the crackling sound of the flame in the pit and the calm buzz of the crickets, playing their wings with rosined up bows.

I love the laughs and the smiles on the warm sands and the calm quiet on the coast when the sun slips down into the water to cool off, and the fires in the cove which agreed to help light her sky. I love the ukulele in the distance and the couple in the cave under the pier, just towards the edge of the shore.

I love the light above the ice cream shop window when fathers carry daughters on their shoulders and the grins on their faces when the daughters make faces at the request for jimmies or nuts on daddy's sundae.

I love the birds soaring, flapping wildly but landing gracefully to say hello to squirrels in the feeders meant for themselves.

I love nature.

[musicalsushi]

Two bunk John got off the map. He wasn’t limited by the contours of convention any longer. Instead, he leaked what he loved. He was leaking Jesus. And pretty soon the puddle he made swallowed us all by the lake it formed. That’s the way the chemistry of God’s love and our creativity work together when combined. No reservoir can hold it, no disappointment can stop it, and no impediment can contain it. It can’t be waved off, put off or shut down. Instead it assumes yes is the answer even when it sounds an awful lot like no to everyone else.

Bob Goff, love does