So I started a new writing class & the first thing we are doing is object writing. I had to write on “Feather” for 5 minutes “Roses” & “Wrench” for 10 minutes each, & “Balloon” for 90 seconds. This is what I came up with:
Feather. Light & fluffy. Soft & sweet. I hear the bird chirping tweet tweet tweet. Does the bird know it’s lost it’s feather? The feather takes flight drawing with it the animal it is attached to. The feather, gray, & cold. Dead it is. The feather curved and smooth like the edge of the earth. The horizon it flies towards. Floating in the air. Lifeless, but yet alive in so many ways. Found on the ground lying alone. Drying from it’s separation. Separating. Losing itself
Roses. Colorful. All in a row. From a bush they grow. Yellow, Red, pink, white. Even the black one in plain sight. But what do they mean, these colors? They smell so fresh. I’d like to pick one. Place it behind my ear to hold back my hair. Pretty they grow alive and untouched. But if touched they die, turning brown. Shriveling up. Drying out. No longer a part of the circle of life. Thorns so prickly I am scared to touch them. I fear the pain & I don’t want to bleed. But when cut right, beheld with beauty. They hold life inside. Not just the plant. Tiny bugs they crawl inside this magnificent bud they probably conceive as the world. Earth as it is alive also. A tiny bud in this vast universe. Soon it will die because touched it has been, by grimy hands. Picked clean of the last living things. The rose colors are the different planets the bush the Milky Way. Does the rose know it will die? Do plants feel life? Do they see the future? A marvelous home for small critters to rome.
A wrench in my toolbox. Hard made of metal. Lifeless yet strong. Stronger than my bones, which are fragile, they break. The metal feels cold and stiff, clearly not a living thing. No feelings. Just atoms strung together. Covalent bonds formed. Take life it can in it’s firm grasp. Wrapped hands around a bolt. Twisting turning, pulling things tighter, or taking them apart. Rusty and jagged or fresh & smooth. Covered in oil in the master mechanics hands. Useless in mine. Creations it makes. Or destroy things it might. Silver not gold, new is better than old. Thud it makes as it clanks to the ground. Landing on toes. Smashing them into the ground, ouch! Dangerous to the child in whose hands it fits not. Crushing objects. Useful it is, when handled by the right person. I see my reflection in it’s handle. it turns
Balloon, red with a long string attached. It flies so high so light & free. I wish it could take me. Soaring into the sky. Higher than birds, like a plane. I hear the pop as it gets too close to the sun like Icarus. Pieces float softly to the ground. Red dead.