Holding On and Moving On

     The last couple years have changed me as a person. With this in mind, I yearn to reach out and to blog again. However, I cannot do so as The Damsel. I have changed to much. While I hold onto the core of me. The writer, the poet. I must move on to a different way of expressing and being. For some this change will seem paltry. For me it has been cleansing. I am moving onto a new blog platform. A link all my own, a website fully functional to the new whims I have.

     I am pleased to introduce you to gossamerlens.com 

     In the blogpost of the same name "Holding On and Moving On" you will find an entry into a new chapter. For sometimes as we grow we must make space for the old us but move on to fulfill ourselves.

     If you wish to continue reading my work, supporting my writing, and see how I have grown and wish to grow my blogger presence... I hope you will scroll to the bottom of the gossamerlens.com and give me a like over there. Following 2019 posts will be posted both here and on my new blog. However, come 2020 it will be all about moving on. 

     Much love, and with goodbyes, The Damsel. 

     Ald Idunn, the new me, looks forward to greeting you.

See gossamerlens.com to stay up-to-date with the current blog.

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Two Stories, One Illustration ~ Part Two ~With Kiluminvti & A.J.Tawil

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    If you haven't already read Part One (click here to read) you might ask, "What does this title mean?"  Well let me explain, this post is apart of a collaboration with the artist Kiluminvti, and writer A.J.Tawil.  In this two part series two stories are told.  The first is featured in a previous post and is written by A.J.Tawil. The second story is shared below and told by myself.  Each story is unique and separate from the other, only linked by the fact that they are both inspired by what our imaginations saw when we viewed the following illustration done by Kiluminvti. 

     Without further ado, I present my story: 

     Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  

     Her head caught in a cloud of ribbon, her shoulders brushed with it.  Her hands couldn't help but let it wind through them.  When had it appeared?  Who knew. Some said it had always been with her.  Some whispered that it had appeared out of the blue.  But no matter how people imagined it came into being... the fact was that it was.  Had she ever tried to rid herself of it? No! For she clung to it, as it was her uniqueness. None could claim, nor even remember, someone who had such a beautiful highlight of color.  Especially one that floated around, and about, and with them at all times. 

     Often people traveled to see this lady with the flowing ribbon.  It fascinated them.  The young men spoke of how it highlighted her graceful shape.  The mothers clucked and worried about their own daughters who were "not so naturally gifted." This lady never thought to tell of how sometimes it got in the way.  Of how she might be trying to help with chores, and instead she would catch in the ribbon.  As time went on, she didn't even think much of how it tore her away from work.  What was work anyway, when she had something that drew people towards her?  

     Now though, she sat.  Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  In days past she had often thought outside of the ribbon.  Outside of letting it fascinate her.  But now, it no longer just drew her away from work.  It drew her away from reading.  Sometimes away from friends.  Once she had cared, now she let herself get caught in looking at the shimmering red of it, whenever she wanted.  Lately, as long as she wanted.  

     In fact, she couldn't stop looking.  Because really, wasn't all that she was?  It was beauty, it was special, people found her to see it.  So wasn't that what she should focus on?  Slowly her fingers curled around the ribbon.  Not knowing her own thoughts and the questions brewing.  Her fingers curled around the ribbon.  She just knew it felt like everything.  Her fingers curled around the ribbon. 

     Slowly. Curled. Around. Like the drowning of a mind. 

     Loosing herself in what everyone else could see. 

     Forgetting to be

~~~

   Thank you for reading! 

If you would like to see more of Kiluminvti's art some of A.J. Tawil's writing simply click on the name of either artist (anywhere in this post) and it will take you to more of their work. 

Want to read Part One of this collaboration? Click here

Two Stories, One Illustration ~ Part One ~ With Kiluminvti & A.J.Tawil

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    What does this title mean you may ask?  Well let me explain, this post is part of a collaboration with the artist Kiluminvti, and writer A.J.Tawil.  In this two part series two stories shall be told.  The first is featured in this post and is written by A.J.Tawil. The second story shall be told by myself, next week.  Each story is unique and separate from the other, only linked by the fact that they are both inspired by what our imaginations saw when we viewed the following illustration done by Kiluminvti. 

     Without further ado, I present to you A.J.Tawil's story:

     A dreadful story it is that I am too afraid to speak it. Thus it will be written down on black and white. Do not read aloud not even in whispers for she will hear and only misery will be upon you. Arielle she was once called a beautiful and fair lady. She was kind, and lovely. At the age of 12 her mother died of a violent fever as they all mourned her death she swore an: that never in her life will she be standing idle and useless. 

     A healer she became at the age of 16. The youngest of them but the most talented. She went from town to town, leaving her father, brothers and sisters behind. Although they were proud they were sad for a presence like hers couldn't ever be replaced. She healed and treated the rich as well as the poor. She was believed by many to be a Saint. She smiled much and her gaze was enough to cure all your heart's sorrows. 

     One day in the town of Flamant she met this boy this little kid of too few a winter to die. She spent sun and moon trying to heal him until he passed away in her arms. The eldest brother, although pained with grief, grew found of the courageous and inspiring woman and she as well. He was brave young man that would anything for his family, she thought.

     They wed a year later in Arielle's home town of Lyon many attended her wedding. High lords, Nobles, peasants and kings were all there to celebrate her wedding. She was loved by all. The newlyweds went on the road together and made a stop in Ashton. Beautiful Ashton, the moon shined, the food was excellent, and the weather perfect. 

     She strolled around walking from street to street, admiring the city with her husband until a sudden pull swept her off her feet. It was two lowlifes scums pulling her towards them by her hair. She fought back but overwhelmed by a surprise hit to the head, she fell flat on her stomach. One was holding her down by the arms with his nose sniffing her beautiful black hair.She looked up for an instant just to realize that her husband the young brave man she loved so dearly was running away from the scene without a glance back. She yelled and fought so hard that the one mounting her hit her on the back of her head. ''That's a nice ring ya' have have '' he spat he went for the wedding band, while the other held her wrist. She didn't let them take it so easily, although betrayed. The rogue drew his knife and cut of the finger that was bearing the jewel.

     The rest is history. She was raped, punched, kicked and left to die.

~~~

   Thank you for reading! 

If you would like to see more of Kiluminvti's art some of A.J. Tawil's writing simply click on the name of either artist (anywhere in this post) and it will take you to more of their work. 

Making a Difference ~ Guest Post

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How do you want to make a difference?

Here is what _CarvedWords_ believes you should be working on to make a difference: 

     One way or another, we all wish that we're able to make a difference in this world even by a bit if it is possible to us. There are loads of everyday things I'd like to change if it were possible for me. 

     Education has limited itself to textbooks and syllabus. Students are only taught to solve the equations and write answers as they are expected in the examinations. Students can be seen getting good marks with grades higher then expected. They can answer all the questions which relate to the textbook. But what about what's outside? What's actually going on in the real world? The more they indulge themselves into the textbooks, the more their creativity gets limited. 

     Education is meant to make learners. Not to destroy the artist within them. We can spot students conquering heights of success, but with that seems to come a low creativity. At the end of the day, a person won't be proud of the position he has in a multinational company. All he would need is creativity to fill his life with enthusiasm and joy. Education should bring out an artist in a student, because every student has got one talent or another. Teachers should encourage the talent within them. Students should be taught to be passionate towards their goals. 

     I don't blame the system as a whole, neither do I have any offense with the knowledge and the quality of it the education is providing students. I just wanna say that even after these efforts there still remains a huge gap gap between education and creativity. We as a society have our responsibility towards making the change that is needed. We've got to do something to reduce this gap, we gotta build a strong bridge between both education and creativity. 

     If I could make a difference, I would like people to change their mindset towards education, making it free from all the chains it has been tied to. Creating a strong bond between education and creativity. Giving this world creative minds rather than those with high IQ's. Making this world colorful, making it a better place. 

~~~

This is how Words_In_Air thinks you can make a difference: 

     The language of love. Make wide spaces in your heart. Life gets so chocked up, kindness so lost, love slips by unseen. Smile at a stranger, help an old lady carry her shopping, offer to cook a meal for someone who's sick. Volunteer at your local church, hospice, old age home, or orphanage. Read to someone who's disabled. It's good to donate something to a worthy cause, but what people crave is human interaction. Look into their eyes, listen with attention to their stories. Take an interest in their personal lives. That smelly beggar down the road? He just wants kindness from you. Ask him his name, give him a compliment, bless him with a pair of shoes, or something to eat and drink. You don't have to strike a conversation with everyone you meet, but the next time you are waiting in line, greet someone and smile. Buy a small chocolate for the checkout girl and bless her. 
It's the little things! 

     If you bless others, you yourself will be blessed. 

Make A Difference Contest & Giveaway

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Let's work together to celebrate National Make a Difference Day this weekend! 

TO ENTER: 

     ~Write up to 150 words that you think can make a difference and are worth sharing. 

     ~Choose if you want to submit via Instagram or GooglePlus. 
          If submitting via Instagram: Screenshot the official contest picture on my Instagram, tag @gossamerlens in the caption, and use the hashtags #NationalMakeADifferenceDay & #GossamerLens
          If submitting by GooglePlus: Screenshot the official contest picture on my GooglePlus, tag +TheDamsel in your post, and use the hashtags mentioned above. 

     ~Submit by: 12 Noon (EST), on October the 23rd. 

WINNINGS: 

     ~I will be picking my favorite 2 entries (depending on the amount of participation) to share this Saturday on Instagram and GooglePlus. Also, the top entries will be posted here on my blog (link in bio).*

     ~PLUS, every entrant will have their name put into a random drawing. A Happiness Quote Book, 1 Zentangle print, candy peach rings, and an Original Poem will be on the line. 

DEADLINE: 

     ~12 Noon (EST), on October the 23rd. 

     *If you win publication, all rights will remain yours and you will be acknowledged on Instagram, GooglePlus, and my blog Gossamer Lens

Yellowing Pages

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Sitting here writing

Wisps of image

Shrouded shadow

Of Imagined future

Passed before me

Danced like film

Across my vision

The cold

It touched my shoulder

The sounds

They faded away

Like yellowing pages

And I saw your face

As it could be

Your arm over

Around my shoulders

The whisper 

Of those words

The ones I love

To hear you say

Then it crumpled 

Like falling dough

The bread collapsed

And I was chewing 

On nothing

Poem 105 ~ 4/10/2013

     Memories, feelings, and thoughts diminish over time.  What once was often changes.  Sometimes, looking over older poems the emotions I wrote feel like a lie.  As the writer, I know what each poem was born through.  However, just because the adoration, pain, or perspective has passed as I've grown... that doesn't negate the validity of writing.  Every poem has helped me realize, handle, and come to grips with what I have felt.  At the moment of creation, each poem has filled it's purpose.  

     I have grown, I have changed.  I continue to feel, and I must accept the moving on that is life.  You cannot cling on to who you have been, or who you were.  Later it may feel like you chewed on nothing.  But at the time, that "nothing" felt like something.  Poetry is a way to express my now, and reflect on the past.  

     "I am a slave to emotion... Pens... Keep working... Until I need you no more... which will be when I stop feeling" 

                    Poem 106 ~ 4/11/13

A Case for a Pseudonym

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     Lately I have been getting some feedback/questions about my use of a pseudonym.  Some think that it is silly of me to hide my personal identity, and physical features and assure me that, "one of these days you will grow comfortable with yourself."  Others simply want to see what I look like, and think it would be more personal to know my name, and to have my age posted somewhere.  Some people have accepted this and others are a little bit more desirous for me to change my view on this.

     I would like to first attest to the realness of my blog.  Everything I post is truly my thoughts.  I am very comfortable with my self. I share my opinions, emotions, views, and (dare I say it) bits of my soul with you.  I am perfectly honest. Nothing I post is "fake" or said to conjure up more views.  Just because I go by "The Damsel" and I choose not to show my face, that doesn't mean I am hiding my mind or heart.

     The main reason I chose to adopt a pseudonym and not present pictures of myself on my blog, or any other linked profiles, is because I wished to keep away distraction.  There are two sides to this.

     The first being, that I don't want myself to leave off on writing. I don't want to slide into doing a "selfie blog" or something similar.  Compliments are very appealing to me.  I love to be called beautiful, or thought attractive.  Sometimes (on personal social media accounts) I find myself caught up in how many "likes" a picture will gain.  I occasionally catch myself thinking of how I could have received more "likes" if I had done something different with my hair, or the lighting.  I think this is something others can maybe relate to as well.  However, despite the naturalness of such feelings, I don't want to get caught in that kind of thinking.  Not here, where my goal is to try and share my thoughts and ideas in a well spoken manner.

     This leads to the other side of distraction.  I don't want my physical self to distract readers from the content I provide. When you come to read I want you to read my words and not to get caught up in physicality's.  Gender is pronounced by my pen name.  But I leave my race, exact age, hair color, height, and anything else physical up in the air.  From my writing you may be able to gain a general sense of who is behind the words.  However an exact portrait of myself, and my physical attributes are not presented.  I want you, as my reader, to follow me because you thought I portrayed, or said something well. Not because I have a decently nice body; or because it is correct for those in my culture to think a certain way.

     In essence, I chose pseudonymity because I don't want to feel the distraction of pride.  I choose a pseudonym because I want you, the reader, to take in the words, thoughts, and ideas portrayed.

Inspiration

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Oh joy of joys! 

Elation that I feel

In my bosom burn

Why were you

So long in coming

To this mistress of yours?

I wanted to write

For the world

For you

And now my joy! 

I can write any and all

But why all this time?

I may be a child

But I am old in heart

A fine polish emerging 

You look at my face

You see youth

But eyes deceive like fools

You touch my heart

And you will find

The age of time

So why did you wait?

Why so long in coming

When I longed for you?

But at last my joy 

You are mine... 

Though not for long

My wisdom knows; 

Tomorrow I will yearn 

For the something I still lack

Yet, there is peace in my soul 

And joy fills my heart

For now at least, 

In this precious moment.

Poem 43 ~ 9/11/2012

Appreciation Package

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     I'm so pleased with how far this has all come.  I started this blog 2 years ago with a simple statement of wishing to write things, because I have a point of view too.  It's awesome to see that people actually like hearing what I have to say.  I cannot begin to describe the thrill I get when I see that I have another view, much less another follower. So... 

     My 200th GooglePlus follower will be getting an appreciation package!

     The package will contain, Swedish Fish, 2 original poems, and an original signed Zentangle.

     I can only ship inside the contiguous United States. Apologies to my international brothers and sisters, I am just not that rich yet. Maybe someday.

     To everyone, thank you! I'm so grateful for how far this has come. I'm almost to 5,000 views, nearly hitting 200 followers, and my posts keep increasing in the amount of +1's I receive.

     Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favor! 

Pushed Into Flight

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     I say tweet tweet in the wind,
     The new bird can fly
     Mama bird gives a worm to eat
     I sit and think
     Brother bird sings a poem
     Baby bird sleeps.....

     This is the first poem I ever wrote.  I have no memory of writing it.  I declare that it is my first based off of the fact that my mother remembers writing down my words, and that my Grandpa wrote it down for himself.

     When I had just turned 13 my Grandpa gave me two sheets of paper.  Both together contained a grand total of three poems.  He and I sat together on his lazy boy (myself sitting on my arm rest perch).  He read me the poems with tenderness in his voice.  I listened. When he finished I asked him where they were from. He looked into my eyes and told me that they were my very own words. He told me that when I was 3 my mother called him and read to him these poems.  Careful to get every word he typed them up on his laptop. Now he was showing them to me.  His eyes showed pride.  Pride in me and these poems from the child I had been but don't remember being.

      A couple weeks before this moment, I had been under the impression that I had written my first poem.  It was a silly one, but the rhyme was good and the meter rather fair.  Now he told me that it was actually my 4th poem.  After 10 years of keeping it on his computer he wanted me to have a copy.

     "What for?" I asked.  "Why is this important?"

     I wish I could remember his exact words... but I cannot.  However, the condensed version I retain is, "These poems have a child's emotions portrayed in a natural setting.  Feeling is portrayed.  That is where the beauty lies. In the emotion."

     Only a little bit latter he died.  It was raw emotion. It was pain. And it reminded me of what he said. That beauty lies in the emotion.  And so, I wrote. I wrote my 5th poem. One full of love, longing, pain, and missing. The emotion pushed... and my wings unfurled.  I was pushed into a flight of expression.  A flight that sheds many poems, and helps me process the things I feel.

     Scraps and fragments
     Only pieces are good
     These 200 poems
     They hold shattered, scattered lines
     Scattered lines of beauty
     Pens have wasted ink
     I hope they except apologies
     However I'll keep wasting them
     Because I need to
     I'm a slave to emotion
     Pens, I am sorry
     But you shouldn't be
     So keep working
     Until I need you no more
     Which will be when I stop feeling