#Creative Curiosity: Reclaiming the Joy of Writing

[author-mandi-bean]

Facing February

Any other writers trying to get their shit together in 2025?

[citrusbabydaycare]

The Super Easiest Ways to Feel Little

(Absolutely Zero Gear Required)

🍊 use your non-dominant hand!

Whether it’s using a fork or brushing your teeth, using the wrong hand will make your tasks a little more difficult, like you’re learning them for the first time!

🍊 use both hands!

Like holding a cup or carrying things around, sometimes little ones need to be extra careful not to drop things <3

🍊 try it a new way!

Walking around? Maybe you could skip! Or only step on the white tiles! Or carefully step over the concrete lines! Little ones are so creative, they can turn something simple into something super fun

🍊 give it a voice!

“Well hello Mr. Fork, how are you doing today?”“Very well, thank you, Mr. Spoon.” No toys, no problem! What do you think your comb would say if it could talk?

🍊 no erasing!

Write/draw/journal with something that can’t be erased, like a pen or a marker (sharpies are my favorite!). The mistakes don’t matter, so if you mess up, keep going! Can you fill the whole page?

Age Regression is not about the objects you have, it’s about reclaiming the mindset of curiosity and healing the part of yourself that finds joy in the little things. <3

[andrewmfriday]

Let These Books on Creativity Inspire You

Some people out there don’t think they’re creative, but I want to tell them they are creative in their own way. Forget perfectionism. Forget creating something just to make money. What about the journey? What about having fun by constructing something just for the joy of it?

I don’t know why, but I enjoy reading books about generating creativity. Maybe it’s to get ideas on getting ideas. Maybe it’s the psychology of mixing things together and coming up with a story, a drawing, a song or a dance move. Here are some of my favorite tomes on tapping into my inventiveness and imagination:

Steal Like an Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative by Austin Kleon — A guide to unlocking creativity by embracing influence, remixing ideas, and finding inspiration everywhere. Kleon affirmed my belief there is nothing new under the sun when it comes to a creative project. I just have to put my own spin on it.

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert — A motivational exploration of how to cultivate creativity by overcoming fear and embracing curiosity. By the author of Eat, Pray, Love. Gilbert encourages me to be a “weirdo” about creativity and not caring what anyone else thinks. Done. Also, she espouses how I should derive my worth from the journey and not my definition of success or failure.

The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin — A meditation on the artistic mindset, emphasizing openness, intuition, and the creative process as a way of life. I enjoyed these dozens and dozens of short creative “devotionals.” I could spend ten minutes reading just one and get some much perspective on life and creativity out of it.

Every Writer Has A Thousand Faces by David Biespiel — A deep dive into the evolving nature of a writer’s creative identity and the necessity of reinvention. Biespiel is a poet, but the creative techniques he talks about, such as “word palettes,” can be used in other forms of writing.

Hot-wiring: Your Creative Process, Strategies for Print and New Media Designers by Curt Cloninger — A hands-on, unconventional guide to sparking creativity in design through playful and unexpected techniques. Okay, this book may be for graphic designers, which I am, but I got ideas for applying the methods he mentions to other areas of creativity. I especially liked his brainstorming digital sketches for book covers.

How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci: Seven Steps to Genius Every Day by Michael J. Gelb — A practical framework for developing creativity by adopting da Vinci’s habits of curiosity, observation, and lifelong learning. A creativity classic that I am going to reread. I can only imagine da Vinci living today. He could teach us how to not take everything around us for granted. I learned how to see differently with this book.

The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron — A transformative 12-week program that helps artists reclaim their creativity through daily practices like morning pages and artist dates. Another classic I want to reread. Cameron encourages exercises like the “three pages” and “going on a date with yourself” to get in touch with your creativity. I encourage anyone who wants to find inner healing to go through this book. It’s not just for “artists.”

We’re all “artists” — even if we don’t think so. We just need to find our own brand of creativity. These books might help.

My Linktree

[risehealingcenterca]

Recovering from Narcissistic Abuse: A Path to Healing and Empowerment

Narcissistic abuse doesn’t just leave emotional wounds—it can alter self-perception, create confusion, and erode confidence. One moment, you’re uplifted by their approval; the next, you’re questioning reality. The emotional turmoil is real, and its impact runs deep. But recovery is possible. It begins with awareness, strengthens with boundaries, and flourishes in self-acceptance.

The Impact of Narcissistic Abuse

Healing isn’t just about “moving on.” The effects of narcissistic abuse run deep, shaping thought patterns, emotions, and relationships. Some key challenges include:

Loss of self-worth. Constant criticism and shifting expectations can dismantle confidence, leaving a lingering sense of inadequacy.

Emotional exhaustion. Constantly managing someone else’s moods and behaviors drains energy and mental clarity.

Anxiety and self-doubt. Unpredictability fosters a cycle of overthinking and hypervigilance.

Trust issues. Repeated betrayal makes it difficult to feel safe in relationships.

Distorted reality. Gaslighting can cause confusion, making it hard to trust one’s own experiences.

Unclear identity. Years of adapting to another person’s needs can leave survivors feeling disconnected from themselves.

Recognizing these effects is the first step in reclaiming control. This happened. It wasn’t my fault. And I am taking back my life.

Steps to Recovery

Healing is a process, often nonlinear. Some days will feel strong, others fragile. The key is consistency in prioritizing yourself. Here’s where to start:

Limit or Cut Contact If possible, remove their influence. Block communication, avoid reminders, and create space for healing. If necessary (co-parenting, work), keep interactions minimal and unemotional.

Rebuilding Self-Worth The damage is real, but so is your ability to heal. Self-compassion, affirmations, and engaging in fulfilling activities help rebuild confidence and joy. Start small—list your strengths, set achievable goals, and surround yourself with positive reinforcement. Healing takes time, but every step forward is progress.

Processing Trauma Emotional wounds need attention. Therapy methods like EMDR and somatic work, as well as journaling and meditation, can help process past pain and create space for healing. The nervous system may still be wired for survival mode, but with time, intentional self-care, and therapeutic support, it can relearn safety and stability. Expressing emotions through creative outlets like painting, writing, or music can also offer an alternative path to healing.

Finding Support Isolation is often a byproduct of narcissistic abuse. Seek safe relationships—friends, therapists, support groups—to remind yourself that your feelings are valid. Joining survivor communities can provide insight, reassurance, and a reminder that you are not alone in this journey.

Setting Boundaries Learning to say “no” without guilt is essential. Protecting your emotional space isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. This might mean limiting conversations about your past, enforcing consequences when boundaries are crossed, or even restructuring relationships that feel unbalanced or unhealthy.

Rediscovering Identity After adapting to someone else’s expectations, reconnecting with yourself is vital. Explore hobbies, passions, and personal goals to regain a sense of self. What activities once brought you joy? What sparks curiosity? Rebuilding your identity is about exploring without judgment and allowing yourself to exist freely outside of someone else’s shadow.

Practicing Self-Compassion Healing isn’t about fixing yourself—it’s about letting go of self-blame. Growth happens in the small, daily choices to be kind to yourself. Acknowledge progress, no matter how minor it seems. On difficult days, remind yourself that setbacks do not define the journey—they are part of it.

Regulating Your Nervous System Trauma leaves its mark on the body. Techniques like breathwork, grounding exercises, yoga, and mindfulness help restore a sense of safety. Try progressive muscle relaxation, nature walks, or even cold exposure therapy to recondition the body’s stress responses. The goal is to shift from a state of hypervigilance to one of peace and control.

Overcoming Common Challenges

Guilt and Shame It’s common for survivors to blame themselves for staying in the relationship for so long or for falling for the manipulation. Release this guilt. The tactics used against you were designed to keep you trapped, and your reactions were survival mechanisms, not personal failures. Forgiveness—of yourself—is an essential step in healing.

The Fear of Being Alone Leaving a toxic dynamic can feel like stepping into a void. The fear of loneliness may tempt survivors to return to familiar patterns. But loneliness does not equate to emptiness. Use this time to cultivate self-love, strengthen healthy relationships, and enjoy solitude as a space for personal growth.

Handling Triggers and Emotional Flashbacks Unexpected reminders of past experiences can bring up intense emotions. Instead of suppressing them, acknowledge and work through them. Grounding techniques, self-soothing exercises, and professional support can help in processing these responses without being overwhelmed.

Rebuilding Healthy Relationships

After narcissistic abuse, trusting others can feel impossible. Take your time. Learn to differentiate between healthy and unhealthy behaviors. Build connections based on mutual respect, emotional safety, and genuine care. You deserve relationships that honor your worth.

Moving Forward Healing doesn’t erase the past, but it creates a future no longer defined by someone else’s control. Recovery is about reclaiming your authenticity, confidence, and peace. You were never meant to stay small. Keep going. A life beyond the pain is waiting for you.

Every moment you choose yourself is a step toward freedom. The healing journey is yours—unfolding at your pace, shaped by your strength, and leading toward a future filled with self-acceptance, growth, and peace.

Contact Us

[coffeebreakwithjay]

The Transformative Power of the Early Morning Pause: Ten Benefits to Start Your Day Intentionally

Carving out a few quiet moments each morning can feel revolutionary in a world that never stops buzzing.

The "morning pause"—a deliberate practice of stillness, reflection, or mindful ritual—is more than a trend; it’s a lifeline to reclaiming control over your day and well-being by creating a foundation of calm, clarity, and purpose.

Below are ten compelling benefits of embracing an early morning pause, inspired by the principles of quiet reflection, structured intention, and gratitude.

Reduces Stress and Anxiety Starting your day with stillness—whether through meditation, deep breathing, or mindfully sipping coffee—signals to your nervous system that you’re safe. This practice lowers cortisol levels, easing the body’s fight-or-flight response. Over time, this habit builds resilience against daily stressors.

Enhances Mental Clarity and Focus A morning pause acts as a mental reset. By stepping away from distractions, you clear the fog of overwhelm. Studies show that even brief mindfulness practices sharpen focus, helping you tackle tasks with precision and creativity.

Boosts Emotional Resilience Quiet time allows you to process emotions before the day’s demands take over. Journaling or reflecting during your pause helps you identify and release negative thoughts, fostering emotional balance.

Improves Productivity and Time Management A structured morning pause encourages you to prioritize. Spending five minutes mapping out your day (e.g., listing the top three goals) ensures you channel energy into what truly matters, reducing time wasted on trivial tasks.

Encourages Mindfulness and Presence Mindful rituals—like savoring coffee’s aroma or feeling sunlight on your skin—anchor you in the present. This habit trains your brain to stay engaged, reducing autopilot mode and enhancing joy in small moments.

Strengthens Gratitude and Positivity Starting with gratitude (e.g., reflecting on one thing you’re thankful for) rewires your brain to focus on abundance rather than scarcity. This shift cultivates optimism, which ripples into interactions throughout the day.

Fosters Creativity and Problem-Solving Quiet moments activate the brain’s default mode network, linked to creative insight. A morning walk or free-writing session can spark innovative ideas that hustle culture often stifles.

Promotes Physical Health and Energy Morning pauses that include gentle stretching or hydration rituals (like warm lemon water) kickstart metabolism and circulation. This boosts energy levels, preparing your body to thrive.

Cultivates Intentional Living You reclaim agency over your life by choosing how to begin your day. A morning pause reminds you to align actions with values, whether kindness, curiosity, or courage.

Deepens Relationships with Others When grounded in calm and gratitude, you’re more patient and empathetic. This emotional availability strengthens connections, whether with a partner, coworker, or stranger.

How to Craft Your Morning Pause ● Design a Ritual: Combine activities that nourish your mind, body, and spirit, such as meditation, coffee savoring, journaling, or light movement. ● Protect the Time: Treat these minutes as non-negotiable. Even five minutes can be transformative. ● Embrace Flexibility: Your pause might evolve daily. Some mornings call for silent reflection; others thrive with upbeat music or a brisk walk.

The morning pause isn’t about adding another task to your list—it’s about gifting yourself space to breathe, think, and be. By prioritizing this practice, you invest in a version of yourself that navigates life with grace, purpose, and gratitude. As the sun rises, so does your opportunity to shape the day on your terms. How will you pause tomorrow?

I use and love this item. If you click on any of the underlined text and make a purchase, I will earn a small commission, allowing me to buy a cup of my favorite beverage, coffee, at no extra cost to you.

[newwavenewsandentertainment]

Creative Curiosity: Reclaiming the Joy of Writing

[reddeadrevival]

Do you have any HC’s on what the gangs spirit animals would be? Like, Arthur as a a stag- I’ve seen that one alot. I’m interested to hear what you think tho!

So uh … I spent a few hours making these… ^^“

All based on this site: https://educateinspirechange.org/nature/animals/25-spirit-animals-amazing-meanings-behind/

I will write everything below as soon as I can.

I know I’m missing Jack, Strauss and Uncle.

Simon Pearson: Turkey (Nourishment, Abundance, Generosity)

Micah Bell: Hawk (Clear Vision, Power of Focus, Messenger)

Rev. Swanson: Frog (Rebirth, Cleansing, Transformation)

John Marston: Crow (Fearlessness, Flexibility, Higher Perspective)

Arthur Morgan: Horse (Strong Emotions, Driving Force, Appetite for Freedom)

Javier Escuella: Fox (Cunning, Awareness, Increased Perception)

Josiah Trelawny: Butterfly (Playfulness, Rebirth, Transformation)

Bill Williamson: Lion (Strength, Assertiveness, Anger/Aggressiveness)

Lenny Summers: Deer (Gentleness, Vigilance, Innocence)

Molly O’Shea: Spider [No spider in photo because I have arachnophobia] (Creativity, Patience, Feminine Energy)

Sadie Adler: Panther/Leopard (Aggressiveness, Guardian, Reclaiming Your Power, Death & Rebirth)

Abigail Roberts: Dolphin (Peace & harmony, Inner Strength, Protection)

Susan Grimshaw: Tiger (Strength, Aggression, Personal Power, Unpredictability)

Karen Jones: Hummingbird (Enjoyment, Resiliency, Independence)

Tilly Jackson: Dragonfly (Adaptability, Joy, Transformation)

Mary-Beth Gaskil: Cat (Independence, Curiosity, [cut off “Adventure”])

Sean MacGuire: Coyote (Joker, Adaptability, Playfulness)

Hosea Matthews: Bear (Action & Leadership, Strength & Courage, Healing)

Dutch Van Der Linde: Wolf (Instinctive, Sharp Intelligence, Lack of Trust)

Kieran Duffy: Turtle (Humble, Persistent, Determination)

Charles Smith: Owl (Intuition, Wisdom, Ability to sense deceit)

[xoxoendoh]

Umbra

Dreams, it occurred to her, didn't all have to be nightmares.

SasuSaku Month 2018, Day 11: Eclipse ☽

Rating: M (dark themes, language, some barely NSFW content beyond “read more”)

A/N: This is written a style that isn’t my usual and won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but I like it for this and hope you do as well. Lastly, this is set in the pre-Shippuden time skip. 

She had willed herself to forget, begged her mind to wander, but she couldn't forget the anniversary. Not now. Not when the silvery evidence of Moonrise shone so clearly on her skin... 

Her body went rigid. The pain was coming back, thoughts of him were coming back. It had been exactly twenty-nine days since her Lunatic dream had last invaded her mind. Since he had invaded her mind. Since she had allowed herself to think of him, ...to feel anything at all. 

She decided it was the Moon causing her insane dreams—that was it. That had to be it. Seeing the Full Moon simply reminded her of him....

Because he was the Moon.

Solid.

Strong.

Pale.

Devastatingly beautiful.

Untouchable.

Unreachable.

Encased only by a halo of darkness.

Covered in craters, wounds of the past.

Never to be fully healed.

Only to be further mottled and marred.

Surrounded by bright lights longing to illuminate his constant Umbra.

But unable to touch those radiant stars.

…

…

…

He was the Moon, but so was she.

…

…

…

Her fingers reflexively curled inward, nails poised to cut crimson Crescents into her palms, but she caught herself and flung them out in a quaking fan.

No.

She wouldn’t resort to that. She’d sworn after his last apparition that she wouldn’t allow him to interfere. Not again (not even in her nightmares). And she had prepared for this, after all: she had acquired a silver bullet to keep the Moon at bay. She emptied the contents of a small bottle in her trembling hand, weighing (medically, scientifically, practically…) how many it would take to knock her out cold, to wave away any chances of dreams….

—

She felt him there; she didn't sense the proximity of his chakra—no! She felt his body on hers, his lips on hers, his fingers twining with hers. 

She slowly unlidded her dazed, anesthetized eyes. 

He withdrew (for just a moment) to give her a handsome smirk, and she was dazzled. The charcoal depths of his eyes, the way his pale face reflected the Moonlight—was the Moonlight.... It wasn't fair how beautiful he was, it wasn't fair for any one man to be able to incite such lust in her! It wasn't fair that she should hate him for all the pain he caused her…yet all she could do was love him in that moment.

A sure hand slid up her bare thigh and under the loose, white shirt in which she slept, gliding over her cool stomach with born grace. His air-soft lips gently skimmed over her neck, constricting her breathing with the touch of a feather. She cried out softly and tilted her head back, begging for more of his awakening touch, begging to feel something again.

Years and months and weeks and days and hours and minutes and seconds of pain and the agony of nothing had worn her.... So she succumbed. 

To her fear, her anger, her guilt, her lust, her love. 

She let the waves of emotions roll over her, yet she didn't drown as she had expected. She stayed gently afloat, hovering placidly above rage and hate and fright and blame. She would give to him whatever he asked, so long as he continued to bring life back into her veins. 

A dream. Can I only feel alive in a dream…?

The thought didn't quite hit her, just drifted serenely above her head, and she didn't care anymore. She just wanted to feel life again, and his hot touches seared her with sensation. His knuckles flowed leisurely over her neck as he charily held himself above her petite frame, cognizant of his mass. His lips caressed hers so chastely, so delicately, they wouldn't have broken the thinnest thread of silk, left a spider's web unmarred. 

He was far gentler than she remembered…but he was in her dreams, after all.

She kissed him back, but so tentatively, so faintly, for she thought the slightest movement would wake her into her nightmarish reality, would dispel her Moonlit dreamland. Her lips made another contact with his, and she couldn't help but deeply inhale his scent, a breath of life. 

Dreams, it occurred to her, didn't all have to be nightmares (or so she desperately hoped).

She carefully wrapped an alabaster arm around his neck and brought him down on her, threading her fingers through his dark hair. She tightened her grip on the hand around hers. For just a moment, she resisted allowing their mouths to collide, but she disregarded whatever thought had stopped her and let their bodies meld, his long hair dusting her forehead and cheeks.

She hadn't been touched in so long, let alone kissed (ever). But it felt so perfect, and she knew she had to be dreaming (but she didn't quite notice). He felt so natural, so masterful above her. She let him guide her lips with his until she found a soft, delicate rhythm to follow. She felt his tongue deftly flick across her bottom lip, and she parted for him with a low keen, reveling in the heat of his body, his mouth. She traced her dainty fingers over her love's strong shoulders, imprinting her hallucination into her mind as well as she could. He was taking everything so slowly, being so careful with her, savoring every second. 

It was (ironically) everything she had ever dreamed of.

He stroked her tongue with his as he put his weight on an elbow. He tenderly held her face, unhurriedly running his thumb over her cheek bone, as if checking for evidence of tears. He pulled away just long enough for both of them to catch a quick breath, to see the longing in the other’s eyes, and then descended on her body again. She felt whole with his body pressed so closely to hers: so warm in his arms, so at home in her own house for the first time in years.

Home is wherever he is, she realized.

He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, and he stole the moan from her throat. Pleasure undulated through her limbs before settling in her stomach, coiling and unfurling. She became more confident in her explorations of his mouth and traced his lips with curiosity and wonder, gliding over his tongue with hers. His groan resonated through his chest into hers. She felt that deep sound everywhere and pulled him closer.

She loved being kissed. She loved being held. She loved being caressed. She loved feeling another heartbeat on her. She loved simply being touched. She loved loving him.

And she just fucking loved feeling alive for the first time in so long.

And then came the grief—it had finally sunk it. A dream—it was another dream. She knew such pure elation, joy, happiness, ecstasy would soon end. The tears came shortly after her realization that she was dreaming, dreaming the bliss she felt!

And she kissed him fiercely.

Do you see what you do to me?! she thought. Do you know?!

Hoping enough heat could vaporize the tears, she arched her body into his, sucking on his tongue, digging her nails into his scalp. 

She would take what he could fucking give her.

But he bit down on her lip in admonition, and a low growl rumbled from his throat as he retreated from her embrace.

Why…?

Crestfallen, deflated, she surrendered to him (as she always had) and allowed him to break their link. He lowered his cheek to her shoulder, panting on her neck as he kissed down the length of it. Yet she was nearly sobbing: his rejection was a vacuum. She didn’t notice when he rolled off her and pulled her back into his chest. Limp and inanimate, she clung to what she could see, to what she knew was real: a teardrop, pearlescent in the Moonbeams, sliding toward the white cliff of her nose. When his mouth leisurely roamed across her shoulder and bare arm, she couldn’t feel it. 

But when he wrapped an arm around her waist to enfold her utterly, drawing her small body flush against his... 

He had refused to leave his genteel ways for passion…yet she could feel the hard manifestation of his desire pressing cotton into her skin. In an instant, her tears ran dry and she turned in his arms to face him. 

If this is a dream…why can’t it be a fantasy? 

She placed butterfly kisses down his neck, sliding lower and lower down her sheets, further and further out of his arms, until she reached the white divide of his yukata.

"Make me feel alive," she whispered on him as she spread the material to shed more Moonlight on his skin.

He strained under her lips as she traversed the hard ridges of his abdomen, as her trailing fingers delighted in the incalescence of his body. He stiffened as her mouth touched the hollow of his hipbone. But when she began her aching descent of the sinewy V she found there, he went rigid. 

The fever in her froze, and she looked up to him. His face was serene perfection, but his eyes betrayed him. He closed them, almost painfully, and slowly oscillated his head. Before she could object, his arms had reclaimed her. 

Why? This is my dream, so why can’t I...?

Then he kissed her forehead and nestled her into the crook of his neck. She could feel his breath on her ear, the steady drumming of his heart, the stroke of his fingers—lulling and soothing. And she couldn’t fight it. No matter how much she knew she should be angry or miserable or lustful or heartbroken or guilt-ridden, she closed her eyes in complete tranquility: he was there, she could feel him there, and he wanted her too.

But she opened them a moment later, and he was gone.

In his place was the blinding sun.

Hope you enjoyed it. :) Just getting back into writing creatively again, and I still feel so rusty—feedback is always appreciated! 

I made this a stand-alone, but it comes from my fic “He Was the Moon.” ☽ If you’re interested in more, you can read it on FF.net, along with some of my other SasuSaku and ItaSaku fics (which are not written in the craaazy-dramatic diction I use in “HWM”). Be advised: "He Was the Moon” is dark and does get very NSFW.

Anyways, thank you to the SasuSaku Month organizers and everyone who’s participated—love seeing all the SasuSaku in my dash!

My other SSM18 submissions:

☀ No content warning:

Gravitation, Day 2: Side by Side |  Close to Lost, Day 4: Burn

☾ NSFW: The Cherry Wood Armoire, Day 31: Free

[greaterthannine-blog]

Yvonne Part Three

The Last Edition of my Friend Yvonne on Film

Over the past few months of my gap year, I have come to dearly appreciate school again. Not that I didn't appreciate academic life before, in fact I reveled in it and that it provides so much creative freedom (to some extent) and an audience of people essentially obligated to see/hear/observe your ideas and dole out feedback. When I chose to take a gap year, I knew I would miss school, but at that point (the end of senior year of high school) during the throes of IB exams, I was fucking exhausted and duly needed a hiatus.

But what I didn't realize was how lonely a gap year can be.

Sociality?

What I've temporarily bypassed by taking a gap year is constant social exposure. No longer am I waltzing through hallways and classrooms interacting with friends, teachers, administration, strangers, etc. on a daily basis. I do converse with my coworkers, but customarily those chats are in regards to work-related topics and not interests, hobbies, and other conversational topics. That's what I miss about school, which I never considered I would, given that I limited my mingling to be almost exclusively in school. Even though I love(d) my high school buds amazingly, after the final bell rang I would always require time to myself to recharge for the next day.

But now I don't have that. But I'll manage don't worry. It's not forever.

Besides, I keep myself constantly occupied with Greater Than Nine, photography, art, writing, college applications, retail work and other various pursuits. It's incredible, but I don't really have an immediate group of artsy people to bounce ideas off anymore. But in a way it's a great learning experience, as I now have to problem solve without assistance, advice or feedback from others. Everything can be an educational experience as long as you interpret it as one.

Anyways, given my current lack of social interaction, I do not have any new friends. However, I supplement that by trying my best to maintain communication with people I was great friends with while in high school. One such friend is this lovely lady Yvonne, whom is featured in this lil' series. I've touched on why Yvonne and I share(d) a remarkable friendship in a copious number of past posts, notably Yvonne Part One and Yvonne Part Two, but there are still many other posts where I speak to our relationship.

Behind the Story

Anyways, for these photographs, I turned off our overhead lights and spotlights to solely have sunlight shining in. The weather that day was gloomy and overcast, so such natural light was much darker and helped create a much different mood for these photographs than those with artificial lighting.

I wanted to bring in an air of mystery and suspense to these photographs. Some features were already in place: The white sheet, the vignette created by the camera lens, the oftentimes shotty and irritability of the camera's focus, Yvonne's yellow lace blouse, and her dark hair. Overall my goal was to create an atmosphere as if the The Haunting (1963) met The Addams Family (1964) met a Technicolor film met a smidgen of contemporary fashion. A mishmash of different influences to morph into the mood portrayed in these photos.

I'll describe the story portrayed in these photos, so that you can better understand the concept.

I hope it's entertaining at the very least.

The Actual Narrative

It's a balmy summer's day, and there is a girl. She prances around a meadow barefoot and dressed in her yellow lace blouse and denim shorts. She is not alone in the meadow; surrounding her in between the stalks of grass are butterflies, grasshoppers, dandelions and buttercups, all culminating to a tranquil yet buzzing aura. Cicadas in the trees provide a metronomic serenade as a backdrop to the scene's merriment.

Nearby is the reason for her presence; a family reunion of which she is a part. Under a large canvas tent, are tea and sandwiches, deviled eggs and Shirley Temples. The women don sundresses and straw hats and exchange garb about career pursuits and daintily gloat of their children. The men wear t-shirts or pinstripe button-ups with trousers and boast of their sector occupations or squabble of baseball brackets. The young people wear playsuits or sprightly denim pieces. They play at the edge of the shade provided by the tent, with balls and bubbles and twigs. 

  The girl is years older than her younger relatives, so she remains alone, but occupied. She is lively and adventurous, an untainted and headstrong spirit, laughing gleefully as she explores the meadow. She is not fearful of insects, nor afraid of rampant rocks or splinters. She knows what her true fears are and they are not found in this serene stage.

As she pads through her surroundings, one bare foot after the other, she eyes details that her junior cousins would neglect. To the left a fallen tree painted in lichen and moss, with three snails oozing along. To the right a trickling creek, an object of runoff from the nearby river. As she moves on, she notices a faint trail lined with daisies and forget-me-nots and ladybugs lonesome. Intrigued by the path, she stands on a small boulder in the vacancy it presents among the grassy space and peers onward. As the trail vanishes in nearby distance, she can discern through a copse of willows the silhouette of a looming structure. Curious as to what it could be, she remembers why she is there in the meadow. With her right hand grasping a tree trunk on the side of the path, she glances over her shoulder. The women are chatting. The men are chuckling. The children are zooming to and fro. They will not note her absence, at least for a while. Besides, it will only be temporary. Just for a peek.

Making her mind, a mischievous smile touches her face and she turns towards the trail. She treads carefully, ensuring she doesn't trip while gazing mesmerized through the trees at the shape ahead. In her hypnotization, she does not notice a rusting sign dangling from an old metal gate with faint marks of warning. Even had she seen it, it would not have deterred her. She is fascinated and curious; thriving on the thrill of an unaccompanied adventure. 

When she exits the grove, the trail ends, and before her stands a desolate mansion. Immediately she detects it was once a lively and grand house. There are remnants of hand carved trimming, and immense vertical windows. A stone stairway lined with elegant iron guard rails escalates to the entryway. Despite its apparent grandeur, the manor appears dingy, with peeling paint, shattered panes of glass and a purplish-grey hue to every detail. The wrought-iron fence is rusting, the window frames are flaking and the barrier of the third floor balcony sprawls on the canopy sheltering the front stoop and porch, having abandoned its prescribed post.

But that's not to say that nature is not impeding and reclaiming the space. It is apparent upon first sight. Vines slither up the crumbling siding, and the distant buzzing of bees alerts there is a hive dribbling with larvae and honey. Sparrows dogfight, dragonflies dart from left to right and the front yard is overrun with wildflowers. 

Curiosity confirmed, a distracted grin spreads across her face as she ventures forward towards the gate leading to the front steps. As she pads through the floral undergrowth, she glances up at the daunting structure, but is unfazed by its sinister yet dreary state. Stopping at the front door, she sees a knocker, shaped as a roaring lion's head with a spindly spider inching down the nose. Knowing all too well that the house is abandoned, she bypasses the knocker and turns the solid brass doorknob. The massive door creeps outwardly open to reveal a shadowed foyer. The interior appears to be entirely crafted from mahogany; the floorboards, the trim and railings all the same deep woody shade. Mirrors line the walls and every piece of furniture is cloaked with a white sheet. The end of the entry hall ends in a choice of three directions. Sitting rooms and entertainment spaces to the left and right, and a murky corkscrew staircase leading to the upper levels. The girl sets her sights forward and pads up the staircase, her right hand grazing the mahogany railing as she ascends, and leaving gentle footprints on the creeking dusty floor beneath.

Coming round the stairway's bend she notices a friendlier air. At the top is a hallway leading to the left and the right. Adorning the wall are oil paintings of lilies and ponds and peaches. Her hand skims the wall's surface as she glides left towards a mahogany door opened slightly ajar.

The door resists minutely to her gentle pushes due to decades of dereliction or as if hiding something, but finally it submits and slowly swings inward. The space behind the door is a bedroom, however at first glance it was difficult to place, as almost the entire room is veiled in white sheets, even the floor. But upon more careful inspection the sheets resemble the forms of lamps and side tables, armoires and chaise lounges, and an enormous four-poster bed. She sees that this room, while still tinted a purplish-grey like the rest of the mansion, has been lit by a tremendous French-window on the front facing wall of the house. She tiptoes over to the window and peers out. Over the copse of trees she can view the reunion! Deep in her excitement and joy in the meadow, she had not noticed the manor rising in the festivities' backdrop. Perplexed she failed to see this, as observing is a favorite of hers, she steps over to where the veiled bed stands, only three meters away from the window, and plops down on the sheet-covered floor beside it. If she so chose, she could simply lean back against the bed to watch her extended family, but not wishing to disturb the carefully hung sheets, she suffices with the floor.

It is here on the floor, in front of a four poster bed cloaked by white sheets, in a decrepit, dusty and ominous abandoned estate that we imagine these photographs were taken. Her surroundings are shadowed, eerie and grand, yet she is undisturbed by such characteristics. Because she is headstrong and self-assured, she can be joyful and cheery no matter the state of her environment. Had a photographer waltzed in to shoot snapshots of this girl as she was, these are what s/he would have seen. A girl in her world, dressed how she wants, being who she wants; carefree and smiling nonetheless. 

Insights

That lil' narrative more or less describes the mood, atmosphere and story behind these photographs. If it helped clarify things, wonderful! If not, well... I either did a shit job writing, a shit job developing the mood of the story, a shit job creating a world from which these photographs could come from, or you just didn't get it. Any of those are equally possible, but there's a tad more blame placed on my shoulders than yours. Because if this narrative didn't make any sense whatsoever, than I did a poor job conveying my thoughts, with the consequence being your difficulty understanding. So please don't feel bad if it doesn't make sense. In fact, if it doesn't make sense to you, please leave a comment with feedback so that I may use that information for future photographic reasoning narratives.

Anyways, thank you to Yvonne for being a snazzy-ass model. Can't wait to reunite in a few weeks.

And thank you, to you, for reading.

And as always,

Thanks for popping by.

Toodles,

Isabella