I can direct my life. I can direct my feelings. I am in control. I can redirect myself when I am feeling angry or sad. Direct: Choose, lead, guide, point to.
Sometimes we wish our life had a more direct path without all its twists and turns. But where’s the fun in that? You would no longer have to wait for something ‘just around the corner’. In fact, there would be no corners, just a straight, direct route to the horizon and end of time.
Directly. How awesome would it be if I was able to direct my thoughts clearly into words. Not just personal reflections but also in university research papers.
The pen swooped and stirred, notes high and low dancing together in response. A change of direction – the cacophony of C Major and D minors is usurped by the sparks parading out of the tip of the pen. Dip. Slash. Whip around and jutting through the air – enemy vanquished, transformed by a timely sequences of pen swishes into a harmless cricket. Ah, now, a post-battle cigar. Puffed out cheeks, the smoke clouds — “Mr. Stoll.” — smoke clouds wafting awa – “MR. STOLL.” The pen stills, shrinking back into the ordinary. Its potential shimmers as the interloper walks away.
How does one direct grief–does it become sadness, anger, fury? Or must you let it simmer on the stove of the day and night. Let it boil over if necessary until the day you feel ready to clean it up and cook a new dish. The human spirit is strong. It just takes time.
You really make it appear so easy along with your presentation however I in finding this topic to be actually one thing which I feel I might never understand. It seems too complicated and very vast for me. I’m looking ahead in your next submit, I will attempt to get the hold of it!
Direct. It’s a word. spelled by D, I, R, E, C, and T. It means many things, important things, which I must be very vague about right now. Sorry I can’t be more direct.
She pushed her hair out of her face, a tell-tale sign that she was winging it. I tried not to laugh at her. “Okay,” she said, looking down at the script, turning the pages, her brain working at a 100 mph. She picked up a pen and pointed absently upstage.
She just asked me, right out. The words hung in the air before her, starling in their bluntness. She stared at me, challenging, waiting for and demanding an answer.
it is very difficult for me to be direct because i worry about being perceived as rude or mean. but because i am not direct i am now being perceived as passive. this is a traight that’s necessary for someone in a leadership position and by not having this it makes me seem to not be an ideal candidate to be in a leadership position.
I had always wanted to direct a movie. Where should I have started? I have a phone – this smartphone in my pocket. I wondered how I could get going – editing was going to be hard, but as long as I knew people willing to injure themselves on skateboards, everything was going to be okay.
It starts in the right hand,
moving through the air
in quick strokes –
beats tapped out on imaginary clouds
and they watch and listen, their heart
beats matching up to the rhythm
of her hand and
soon the room fills with music,
sound and substance
from a simple, silent
flick of the wrist.
It starts in the right hand,
moving through the air
in quick strokes
beats tapped out on imaginary clouds
and they watch and listen, their heart
beats matching up to the rhythm
of her hand and
soon the room fills with music,
sound and substance
from nothing.
A knock on the door—
I know what is here for.
I watch it rattle and shake
And convince myself its fake—
Like a bump in the night
I whisper on, “it’s alright,”
Curled tight under a quilt,
Alone with my guilt–
And the night that bumps,
Like the door with a knock
I feel my spine as it jumps
Though the door is well locked
After days unchained
And now the other side begs
To be let in to and share blame
Nerves exploding like powder kegs
I know what it’s here for,
It’s not for me anymore—
It’s here to tell me to my face
This is no longer my place
It’s finally November, so I want to be direct with you: I don’t want to come see your in-laws for Thanksgiving. I know that might frustrate you just a little bit, but I’m tired of seeing your mother’s red “MAGA” hat, and I hate listening to hearing your father chew loudly with his mouth open. And for the love of God, don’t even get me started on your sister, who’s decided that she needs to scream at the TV every time the Pikachu float shows up during the Macy’s parade.
“Look at that!” said her sister. Pointing, she looked over at the garden. “That tree is looking directly at you.” She gasped, “Crikey.”
“Get out of the light! You will burn to a crisp.” She jumped back, cringing from the sun. “Crikey. What time is it?”
I can direct my life. I can direct my feelings. I am in control. I can redirect myself when I am feeling angry or sad. Direct: Choose, lead, guide, point to.
Sometimes we wish our life had a more direct path without all its twists and turns. But where’s the fun in that? You would no longer have to wait for something ‘just around the corner’. In fact, there would be no corners, just a straight, direct route to the horizon and end of time.
Directly. How awesome would it be if I was able to direct my thoughts clearly into words. Not just personal reflections but also in university research papers.
The pen swooped and stirred, notes high and low dancing together in response. A change of direction – the cacophony of C Major and D minors is usurped by the sparks parading out of the tip of the pen. Dip. Slash. Whip around and jutting through the air – enemy vanquished, transformed by a timely sequences of pen swishes into a harmless cricket. Ah, now, a post-battle cigar. Puffed out cheeks, the smoke clouds — “Mr. Stoll.” — smoke clouds wafting awa – “MR. STOLL.” The pen stills, shrinking back into the ordinary. Its potential shimmers as the interloper walks away.
on the tail of exasperated pushes come direct. the etchings of tight tendons let the sonder sink and the image of the old fuckers fester.
How does one direct grief–does it become sadness, anger, fury? Or must you let it simmer on the stove of the day and night. Let it boil over if necessary until the day you feel ready to clean it up and cook a new dish. The human spirit is strong. It just takes time.
You really make it appear so easy along with your presentation however I in finding this topic to be actually one thing which I feel I might never understand. It seems too complicated and very vast for me. I’m looking ahead in your next submit, I will attempt to get the hold of it!
Direct. It’s a word. spelled by D, I, R, E, C, and T. It means many things, important things, which I must be very vague about right now. Sorry I can’t be more direct.
She pushed her hair out of her face, a tell-tale sign that she was winging it. I tried not to laugh at her. “Okay,” she said, looking down at the script, turning the pages, her brain working at a 100 mph. She picked up a pen and pointed absently upstage.
She just asked me, right out. The words hung in the air before her, starling in their bluntness. She stared at me, challenging, waiting for and demanding an answer.
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
it is very difficult for me to be direct because i worry about being perceived as rude or mean. but because i am not direct i am now being perceived as passive. this is a traight that’s necessary for someone in a leadership position and by not having this it makes me seem to not be an ideal candidate to be in a leadership position.
I had always wanted to direct a movie. Where should I have started? I have a phone – this smartphone in my pocket. I wondered how I could get going – editing was going to be hard, but as long as I knew people willing to injure themselves on skateboards, everything was going to be okay.
´OUTSIDE HUGE AND SUNNY´, Direct speech .
To the crowds, WE HOPE THEY WILL LISTEN.
blunt. shameless. boisterous. unfiltered. out-there, crazy, raw. real. in your face, inappropriate
Hello!
It starts in the right hand,
moving through the air
in quick strokes –
beats tapped out on imaginary clouds
and they watch and listen, their heart
beats matching up to the rhythm
of her hand and
soon the room fills with music,
sound and substance
from a simple, silent
flick of the wrist.
It starts in the right hand,
moving through the air
in quick strokes
beats tapped out on imaginary clouds
and they watch and listen, their heart
beats matching up to the rhythm
of her hand and
soon the room fills with music,
sound and substance
from nothing.
A knock on the door—
I know what is here for.
I watch it rattle and shake
And convince myself its fake—
Like a bump in the night
I whisper on, “it’s alright,”
Curled tight under a quilt,
Alone with my guilt–
And the night that bumps,
Like the door with a knock
I feel my spine as it jumps
Though the door is well locked
After days unchained
And now the other side begs
To be let in to and share blame
Nerves exploding like powder kegs
I know what it’s here for,
It’s not for me anymore—
It’s here to tell me to my face
This is no longer my place
It’s finally November, so I want to be direct with you: I don’t want to come see your in-laws for Thanksgiving. I know that might frustrate you just a little bit, but I’m tired of seeing your mother’s red “MAGA” hat, and I hate listening to hearing your father chew loudly with his mouth open. And for the love of God, don’t even get me started on your sister, who’s decided that she needs to scream at the TV every time the Pikachu float shows up during the Macy’s parade.