Archive for Literature

Ghost

Posted in abandoned, Art, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Fear, Photography, Poetry, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on 08/01/2018 by wooddickinson

path-2 copyWhen I think of the word ghost, I usually think, scary story. Like the around the campfire at a campout kind of story. Most ghost stories seem to require a few common things, at least one ghost, a scary setting like an abandoned house that’s falling apart and, a person who is going to be threatened by this ghost. It’s always good if it’s a girl and the person who saves her.

I like to tell a folktale at Halloween called Tailypo. This story was first recorded by Leonard Roberts in 1955. It comes from the Appalachian region of the country but I always use the Ozark’s as the setting because it’s closer to the mid-west. The story has variations in both place and the name of the creature but otherwise pretty much the same. It’s a fun story to scare kids with. The Tailypo isn’t a real creature so I’m thinking maybe it is a ghost.

Peter Straub wrote an amazing novel called Ghost Story. Read it. Do not watch the movie. It is horrible. This book is a great ghost story.

But there is a lot more to this ghost thing than just stories. Ghosts can be many things other than disembodied spirits. Like a ghost of an idea or maybe a ghost writer. There’s always the ghost town. Colorado is full of them. Then there is the thing writer are always looking for, a ghost of an idea. You get the picture. Many of the photos I’ve done over the years have had the essence of ghosts. A glimpse into a place we shouldn’t see.

I like this word. It makes you stop and think. Think about life and death and loved ones who have passed. It makes you wonder about what lies just beyond the borders of life. If you are wondering, yes I have seen a ghost. Have you? Recently I wrote a poem that’s a bit of a ghost story. I think. You never know with poems even when you write them. Here it is.

found us final


All writing is Copyright ©2018 by Wood Dickinson – all rights reserved

During the Time of Shadows

Posted in • Wood Dickinson Sites, Book, Faith, Fear, God, Hope, Monsters, Robin Randle Stories, Trees, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on 01/02/2014 by wooddickinson
tower22 copy

Black Tower

I was closing on the tower.  It was round with a pointed roof cap a good four stories above me.  It was completely black but not like dirty stone streaked with ages of dust storms and polluted air, no it shined in the tepid moonlight reminding me of obsidian.  No, it was obsidian and the glass surface was covered with ancient words.  As hard as it was for me to believe, the tower looked to be one single piece of stone carved into this shape.  As I approached, it loomed overhead emitting black like the natural glass it was.  This tower had been forged in the heart of a volcano and born perfectly formed just for this purpose.  The writing had been etched with painstaking accuracy onto the tower’s glass surface then fused with a power that made the words glow with light.  Different colored lights passed through the letters as they gave power to these ancient words.  This language was born deep in the mists of my memory.  It was when the ancient gods of the chaos had laid their plans to hold power over all creation.  These words were as old as the wretched seven words of pure magic.

Energy streaked around the tower first in the color of white lightning but then fading to blood red giving way to a pale blue glow.  These sparks of lightning shattered the night as they wove the wicked north wind that was leaving my hands numb.

The trail played out near the base of the tower.  I wanted to keep my distance from the wretched object but that wasn’t happening.  I couldn’t imagine touching this horror.  I found myself in awe of the hopelessness held by this monstrous bit of Wormwood’s handy work.  The wind had taken on the bitter smell of almonds and the frigid air swirled around me like snakes, crushing me with the power of a language I could no longer understand.  It was spinning the terror of the unknowing.  The terror of this tower’s unknowing.  This tower should not be.  Yet, here it was.  I had to do something to get away from this freakish, malformed cold.  I could only hope this chaos wasn’t living inside the tower as well.  I forced my feet into an awkward stumble as I made my way around the tower’s base only to fall face first onto the ground of the redwood forest.  As I spit dirt and pine needles from my mouth I forced myself to get up off the molding ground.  It was then I saw it.  A problem designed to pull the last bit of hope from my heart.  The doorless opening for the tower was a good fifteen feet above ground level.  I just had to be short right?

Words like the ones on the tower

Words like the ones on the tower

Up too Late on Christmas Eve

Posted in • Wood Dickinson Sites, Book, Clouds, Color, Faith, family, God, HDR, New York City, On Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on 12/25/2013 by wooddickinson

FlyLast night I went to see Frozen with two of my daughters. Got home about midnight a bit wired so I sat down and wrote and edited on The Robin Randle Stories. Next thing I know it’s 3 AM! Wow. Now today I’m still working on Robin’s little story but need to call it a day. It is Christmas.

The update is, Robin’s getting close to finished. Some of the transitional scenes near the end are giving me fits but hey, that’s what writings all about. Right? Never give up, Never surrender. You just keep going till the damn thing’s beat you to death! By the way, this photo here is one I took flying to New York in 2005 I think. Just found it and it spoke to me. Post production time on this photograph, three hours. Just sayin’. Oh, and if you want to be a writer, make sure pounding criticism is one of those things that doesn’t bother you.

I wish everyone a wonderful Christmas. Let the light of God’s love shine in your heart.

Peace…

Where I’m At

Posted in • Wood Dickinson Sites, Fear, Hope, Humility, Love, Need, On Writing, Trees with tags , , , , , on 12/14/2013 by wooddickinson

eco-friendly-signChristmas looming and I’m still back in October. I just get stuck there every year. I love days in October when the wind is blustering about and stirring up leaves and making a mess of the world. It reminds me of my mind. Those days late in October when large quantities of leaves come down from the trees like rain I’ll just sit on the front porch to work soaking up this rare kind of day. I smile at all the folks that seem moved to rake up all these fallen leaves as fast as possible. It’s like that chaotic mass of little multicolored objects all scattered across the yards, piling up in the corners of our world and creating nesting places for the brown recluse spider are just too much of a reminder how little control we have.

We like to believe we are masters over this earth, capable of bringing this mighty planet to its knees when the truth is everything and I mean just about anything going on inside and outside in our lives; is out of control. Chaos is part of the natural order of things and who are we to disturb that beautiful chaos of fall thinking that when the yard is all cleaned up, every leaf tucked away in its eco-friendly bag set out at the curb on Monday as yard waste for the trash pickup fellows, that we are any closer to order in our lives than we were before all that effort was spent.

We are fairly powerless really where just about everything is concerned. My advice is not to worry about the external trappings of life but rather seek the internal peace that comes from living a life where paying it forward, humility and quiet are the norm.

As an artist it’s in those quiet moments that I just might possibly glimpse a bit of what’s real in the universe.

peace..

PS – the free tip of the day: After you’ve written a part of your next great american novel, use a program on your computer to “speak” it to you. Listen closely and you’ll be amazed how hearing the writing lends an amazing perspective and an opportunity to fix all those nasty little writing quarks that drive editors (and readers) nuts. Remember, these are stories and stories are meant to be heard.

 

The Touch

Posted in Art, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Faith, family, Fear, God, Home, Hope, Humility, Kansas City, Love, Need, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on 11/06/2013 by wooddickinson
like a whisper
my hand plants in yours

unaware

scared you’ll pull away. 

no I pull, no risk, can’t risk

when you sleep sometimes, I steal a touch,

placed my hand upon your back
but
only for a moment.
 
sometimes you reach out to me
take my hand
 
I feel life unfolding like a breath
knowing it will be gone soon.

what is it that makes your touch so powerful?

only you

it holds me in fear and awe,

i wish for it

that you will snuggle toward me in the night
needing me

like air.

11/5/2013 – fairway, kansas

Creative Writing with the Crimson League

Posted in 100 in 365, • Wood Dickinson Sites, Book, Feature Film, Fine Art Photography, renegade pictures with tags , , , , , on 08/30/2013 by wooddickinson

I have a guest blog on the Creative Writing with the Crimson League published 8/30/13. Thank to Victoria Grefer for the opportunity.

To read my blog click HERE.

To visit the blog click HERE.

Support This Project!

Posted in • Wood Dickinson Sites, Need, Road Trip, UNL with tags , , on 04/26/2013 by wooddickinson

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