1. You think it will make you famous.
2. You seek revenge on that 8th grade teacher who told you that you lacked creativity.
3. You're sure it will make you look thinner.
4. Everyone will say glowing things about you on Facebook, Twitter, and in fancy martini bars.
5. You need something to talk about at parties (i.e. "Yeah, I'm working on a novel.")
6. Someone told you that you should.
7. You figure you can, because now you have an MFA. You learned how, from other people who wrote books.
8. You figure you should, because now you have an MFA. That was an expensive two years!
9. You figure if you don't, people will say you've "lost your touch."
8. You figure you can, because you don't have an MFA. Your degree is from the University of Life.
9. You figure you should, because you don't have an MFA. That'll show 'em!
10. You want to write a book just like that author you love so much.
11. You have a penchant for the barfy smell inside of books that haven't been opened in a really long time, you own a library card catalogue, you spell catalogue with a "u" even though you're American, and the right kind of writing implement is is almost orgasmic to you.
12. You are two pages into your idea and you're already obsessing over who will publish it, thinking of clever marketing schemes, and looking for agents.
13. You like talking about the book more than the actual writing of the book.
14. You have a really great idea - teenage vampires!
15. You don't believe in rewrites, editing, or anything beyond spell check.
16. You had a dream in which the cupcake told you it was time to write your masterpiece.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Elastic Memory
We remember and in our retelling of the memory we alter it. Memory is elastic. The sounds, smells, sights, textures, flavors you experience as you tell the story may alter the memory itself.
The memory I have of lying on my back in the driveway and looking up into the trees? That’s likely a composite memory. Several instances of taking photographs of leaves and bark, the photographs themselves, of the driveway my father took pride in, of all my time outside, and my own telling and writing about it have created a collective memory of something that brought me joy as a child. I share it often and in many different ways (written, oral, recall in my private universe) and in sharing the memory it is possible that it changes.
For those who cherish memories, the idea of them being not entirely “true” and elastic can be upsetting. But for those who have traumatic memories, this can come as a comfort. It’s an interesting concept.
I read an article last night in the Smithsonian magazine titled, “Making Memories,” published in the May 2010 issue, which focuses on this idea. Karim Nader, a neuroscientist who works at New York University, talks about how he recalled seeing television footage on September 11th of the first plane hitting the north tower of the World Trade Center. He was surprised to learn that this footage aired for the first time the following day.
In order for a long-term memory to be built, neurons need to manufacture new proteins and expand to make the neurotransmitter traffic run more efficiently. Long-term memories have to be built into the brain’s synapses.
We say things like “memory fades,” and think of ink on paper. Over the years, the memory might fade a bit. For an Alzheimer’s patient, the ink becomes invisible. Is it really possible that under any ordinary circumstance, memory stays the same? Nader challenged this idea by experimenting with rats.
From the article:
For anyone who has given birth to a child, you recognize the fact that you forget the pain. Your memory focuses more on the joy and less on the pain as time progresses. I’ve always wondered if this was the brain’s trick at getting the body prepared to have more children. If we remember the pain, the likelihood of wanting more children would be slim.
When I think of memory as being plastic, it’s a huge relief. My sister’s memory of a childhood event that we both participated in might be different from my recollection of it because we have led different lives, and told the story in a myriad of unique places which changed it for each. I think seeing photographs of events change the memory of those events too. Photographs remind and can change a memory.
Writers know that the act of writing down a memory can be cathartic. Therapists recommend keeping a journal to patients who need to work through complicated feelings. Is part of this process refashioning the memory so the person can live with it safely?
When I think of writing this essay three years from now, will I only remember the part about the rats and forget the rest?
If memory is plastic, then all memoirs are “lies.” I’m okay with this. I’ve always felt this way. The brain is fascinating, willing to embellish and make connections between all sorts of details that we experience, including those we dream. We are not always aware of our brain’s sleight-of-hand, and it sure is interesting. What colorful scarves are being tossed in the air of my brain as I write this? As you read it?
The memory I have of lying on my back in the driveway and looking up into the trees? That’s likely a composite memory. Several instances of taking photographs of leaves and bark, the photographs themselves, of the driveway my father took pride in, of all my time outside, and my own telling and writing about it have created a collective memory of something that brought me joy as a child. I share it often and in many different ways (written, oral, recall in my private universe) and in sharing the memory it is possible that it changes.
For those who cherish memories, the idea of them being not entirely “true” and elastic can be upsetting. But for those who have traumatic memories, this can come as a comfort. It’s an interesting concept.
I read an article last night in the Smithsonian magazine titled, “Making Memories,” published in the May 2010 issue, which focuses on this idea. Karim Nader, a neuroscientist who works at New York University, talks about how he recalled seeing television footage on September 11th of the first plane hitting the north tower of the World Trade Center. He was surprised to learn that this footage aired for the first time the following day.
In order for a long-term memory to be built, neurons need to manufacture new proteins and expand to make the neurotransmitter traffic run more efficiently. Long-term memories have to be built into the brain’s synapses.
We say things like “memory fades,” and think of ink on paper. Over the years, the memory might fade a bit. For an Alzheimer’s patient, the ink becomes invisible. Is it really possible that under any ordinary circumstance, memory stays the same? Nader challenged this idea by experimenting with rats.
From the article:
In 1999 he taught four rats that a high-pitched beep preceded a mild electric shock. The rats froze in place after hearing the beep. Nader waited 24 hours, played the tone to reactivate the memory and injected into the rat’s brain a drug that prevents neurons from making new proteins.
If memories are consolidated just once, when they are first created, he reasoned, the drug would have no effect on the rat’s memory of the tone or the way it would respond to the tone in the future. But if memories have to be at least partially rebuilt every time they are recalled – down to the synthesizing of fresh neuronal proteins – rats given the drug might later respond as if they had never learned to fear the tone and would ignore it. If so, the study would contradict the standard conception of memory. It was, he admits, a long shot. […] It worked.
When Nader tested the rats, they didn’t freeze after hearing the tone. It was as if they had forgotten all about it.
For anyone who has given birth to a child, you recognize the fact that you forget the pain. Your memory focuses more on the joy and less on the pain as time progresses. I’ve always wondered if this was the brain’s trick at getting the body prepared to have more children. If we remember the pain, the likelihood of wanting more children would be slim.
When I think of memory as being plastic, it’s a huge relief. My sister’s memory of a childhood event that we both participated in might be different from my recollection of it because we have led different lives, and told the story in a myriad of unique places which changed it for each. I think seeing photographs of events change the memory of those events too. Photographs remind and can change a memory.
Writers know that the act of writing down a memory can be cathartic. Therapists recommend keeping a journal to patients who need to work through complicated feelings. Is part of this process refashioning the memory so the person can live with it safely?
When I think of writing this essay three years from now, will I only remember the part about the rats and forget the rest?
If memory is plastic, then all memoirs are “lies.” I’m okay with this. I’ve always felt this way. The brain is fascinating, willing to embellish and make connections between all sorts of details that we experience, including those we dream. We are not always aware of our brain’s sleight-of-hand, and it sure is interesting. What colorful scarves are being tossed in the air of my brain as I write this? As you read it?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
I Wrote (a very short story using only subjects and verbs)
He swilled. He smoked. They lived. He planned. He collected. They worked. He tested. He hated. They loved. They lived. He drew. He plotted. He slept. They dreamed. He packed. He lifted. He walked. He carried. They lived. He rested. He arranged. He positioned. He aimed. They lived. He fired. They scattered. They screamed. He laughed. They ran. They fell. They lived. He fired. He laughed. They fell. He fired. He laughed. She hid. She aimed. He laughed. He fired. She fired. He fell.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The hive of my heart keeps track of time
On quiet days without you here the house is cleaner, but I fill my own coffee cup, and wonder where the spontaneous laughter from the living room has gone. I make sure all the artwork is hanging straight, flatten out the curled ends of throw rugs, peek into the card catalogue just to see the maps we keep inside. We've been to Arizona together and I kept a pamphlet on the birds we saw there. You were fascinated by the hands at the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. I saved the brochure and made a sketch of you when we sat outside in the garden.
The refrigerator sighs and trickles, Bananafish pecks at his seed, the window fan drones. I stare at the wall, the shadow of butterfly bush on the floor, my own filthy toes. No one adores you like I do and when you aren't here I probably eat too much cake. Its sweetness makes me sleepy and slow. I count the time by the bees drowzing on thistles in the garden. Zzzzwhirp. Will you be home soon? Zzzzzyes.
The refrigerator sighs and trickles, Bananafish pecks at his seed, the window fan drones. I stare at the wall, the shadow of butterfly bush on the floor, my own filthy toes. No one adores you like I do and when you aren't here I probably eat too much cake. Its sweetness makes me sleepy and slow. I count the time by the bees drowzing on thistles in the garden. Zzzzwhirp. Will you be home soon? Zzzzzyes.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Tempest
The shipwreck left a flotsam of empty Mountain Dew bottles, McDonald's containers, candy wrappers, and Diet Coke cans in our fourth-grade classroom dressing room. Every actor has scribbled on the chalkboard during the long pause between call and places, because no kid can resist chalk and an empty blackboard. "A plague upon this bowling" is my favorite rewritten phrase, and then there's the call for "pants off/dance off," a few caricatures of cast members, and a Shakespeare-as-Devil which somehow got labeled as Therese. Fans stationed in the room fart the hot air around more. It is impossible to keep cool in a mask and several layers of polyester weave during August, so we're left with humor. Paul revisits a favorite Caldecott Award winning book from the teacher's desk while he waits for his scene. An excerpt from "Are you there God? It's Me, Margaret" is written on the board behind the desk. Mandy reworks the ace bandage around her sprained calf, and Emily takes a swig of water and sits behind a personal desk fan.
During intermission, we take off our masks, strip down to the least amount of layers allowable, and stand outside in hope of a breeze. We've set out a few chairs too tiny for our butts near the corner of the school building. One by one players spill out of the building like characters from a romance novel - sweaty and desperate. We light up cigarettes, drink water, laugh about gaffes. Last night a heron flew overhead. A few nights ago a bat circled the urban forest just beyond the school. Some of us talked about watching the meteor showers. Nature doesn't pause for theatre. It is the theatre.
As "five minutes to places!" is called for the second act, we put our masks back on to return to our lives as a devious plotter, a spirit, a goddess, a drunken butler, a monster, a misplaced king. We wipe the sweatstaches from our upper lips. The lights go down and we go on to tell a story, while above our heads the scattered and roiling details of two weeks of our lives wait for our return.
During intermission, we take off our masks, strip down to the least amount of layers allowable, and stand outside in hope of a breeze. We've set out a few chairs too tiny for our butts near the corner of the school building. One by one players spill out of the building like characters from a romance novel - sweaty and desperate. We light up cigarettes, drink water, laugh about gaffes. Last night a heron flew overhead. A few nights ago a bat circled the urban forest just beyond the school. Some of us talked about watching the meteor showers. Nature doesn't pause for theatre. It is the theatre.
As "five minutes to places!" is called for the second act, we put our masks back on to return to our lives as a devious plotter, a spirit, a goddess, a drunken butler, a monster, a misplaced king. We wipe the sweatstaches from our upper lips. The lights go down and we go on to tell a story, while above our heads the scattered and roiling details of two weeks of our lives wait for our return.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Why I Love Hoop Dance
Some of you might have noticed a photo or two (or fifty!) of me with a hoop around my waist, my arms, or hoisted up in the air. It’s official. I’m obsessed with hoop dancing. Here’s why:
1. It’s some of the best exercise I’ve gotten. Ever.
I used to run. I’d do three or four miles a morning, combined with some weight lifting at a local gym.
With a couple of months of solid practice in hoop dance, I’ve built muscle in my arms (hooper’s shoulders!), toned up my legs a little, and lost weight – a bonus! (I don’t own a scale, but I can tell “the rind” at my waist that appeared around my 40th birthday is significantly diminished.)
2. I’m learning that I’m not such a klutz afterall.
With practice I store different tricks and moves into muscle memory. I’m still not the most graceful hoop dancer ever, but hey, I can move and not look like an idiot. This is a huge deal for me, having been laughed at by a professional dancer in a college-level jazz dance class. That left a bruise on my psyche. So ha ha to you, Mr. NYC FancyPants Dance Man! I CAN dance! Oh, and your class wasn’t as creative as hoop dance either, so there.
3. It’s good for the spirit.
With running, you get “runner’s high,” and with hoop dance you get “hooper’s bliss.”
You know that feeling you get (or got) riding your bike down a really sweet hill? That’s hooping. It makes you a kid again. It’s pure play. Hooping attracts good people. Put a hoop around your waist, and suddenly women, men, and kids alike are coming over and asking to give it a try. Why? Because it looks like fun, and it is.
4. I get to wear skirts!
I’m a girly girl from a theatrical, creative family. I’ve never liked pants much, so getting to wear skirts to “exercise” in is a major thrill. Hooping clothes run anywhere along the line of regular workout wear to tutus with torn fishnets. Some hoop dancers wear masks when they perform, or tiny little hats or crowns, or feathers … there’s a whole incredibly creative array of dress and makeup that makes me giddy just thinking about it. What do I wear when Irun? Oh, right. Sneakers, socks, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I’ll take a fun shirt paired with a skirt and pink leggings over that any day.
5. People who hoop make up a community of really positive and kind people.
I joined Hoop City, a sort of “Hooper’s Facebook,” about a month ago, and at the request of my sister (who gets total credit for my addiction to hoop dance), started taking SaFire’s classes. I began reading and posting in the forums on Hoop City, and joining in some of the groups. Everyone from newbies to professional performers posts there – and they are all supportive, encouraging, and inspiring.
The hoopers I know in real life are also this way. Everyone shares ideas and tricks they’ve learned with each other. A lot of hoopers attend festivals and concerts and take their hoops with them. I want to start doing more of that so I can meet more hoopers! I’m still trying to crack the secret code for getting people to join in a free hoop jam I’ve started at the park. My latest attempt at that is a hoop making workshop. I figure by empowering people with the craft of making a hoop, they will want to test it out.
6. It makes me happier.
All of the above combined conspire toward a happier me. When I’m happy, I make things happen for myself and others. I create. I make meals at home instead of eating out, I write more, I garden, I attempt to sew, I learn to use a rivet gun, I paint. I’m more likely to tackle a large, looming project that I've put off if I’ve spent part of my day in the hoop.
If it makes me happier and keeps me creating, inspired, and encouraging others, I think that's some of the best exercise I've gotten. Ever.
1. It’s some of the best exercise I’ve gotten. Ever.
I used to run. I’d do three or four miles a morning, combined with some weight lifting at a local gym.
With a couple of months of solid practice in hoop dance, I’ve built muscle in my arms (hooper’s shoulders!), toned up my legs a little, and lost weight – a bonus! (I don’t own a scale, but I can tell “the rind” at my waist that appeared around my 40th birthday is significantly diminished.)
2. I’m learning that I’m not such a klutz afterall.
With practice I store different tricks and moves into muscle memory. I’m still not the most graceful hoop dancer ever, but hey, I can move and not look like an idiot. This is a huge deal for me, having been laughed at by a professional dancer in a college-level jazz dance class. That left a bruise on my psyche. So ha ha to you, Mr. NYC FancyPants Dance Man! I CAN dance! Oh, and your class wasn’t as creative as hoop dance either, so there.
3. It’s good for the spirit.
With running, you get “runner’s high,” and with hoop dance you get “hooper’s bliss.”
You know that feeling you get (or got) riding your bike down a really sweet hill? That’s hooping. It makes you a kid again. It’s pure play. Hooping attracts good people. Put a hoop around your waist, and suddenly women, men, and kids alike are coming over and asking to give it a try. Why? Because it looks like fun, and it is.
4. I get to wear skirts!
I’m a girly girl from a theatrical, creative family. I’ve never liked pants much, so getting to wear skirts to “exercise” in is a major thrill. Hooping clothes run anywhere along the line of regular workout wear to tutus with torn fishnets. Some hoop dancers wear masks when they perform, or tiny little hats or crowns, or feathers … there’s a whole incredibly creative array of dress and makeup that makes me giddy just thinking about it. What do I wear when Irun? Oh, right. Sneakers, socks, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I’ll take a fun shirt paired with a skirt and pink leggings over that any day.
5. People who hoop make up a community of really positive and kind people.
I joined Hoop City, a sort of “Hooper’s Facebook,” about a month ago, and at the request of my sister (who gets total credit for my addiction to hoop dance), started taking SaFire’s classes. I began reading and posting in the forums on Hoop City, and joining in some of the groups. Everyone from newbies to professional performers posts there – and they are all supportive, encouraging, and inspiring.
The hoopers I know in real life are also this way. Everyone shares ideas and tricks they’ve learned with each other. A lot of hoopers attend festivals and concerts and take their hoops with them. I want to start doing more of that so I can meet more hoopers! I’m still trying to crack the secret code for getting people to join in a free hoop jam I’ve started at the park. My latest attempt at that is a hoop making workshop. I figure by empowering people with the craft of making a hoop, they will want to test it out.
6. It makes me happier.
All of the above combined conspire toward a happier me. When I’m happy, I make things happen for myself and others. I create. I make meals at home instead of eating out, I write more, I garden, I attempt to sew, I learn to use a rivet gun, I paint. I’m more likely to tackle a large, looming project that I've put off if I’ve spent part of my day in the hoop.
If it makes me happier and keeps me creating, inspired, and encouraging others, I think that's some of the best exercise I've gotten. Ever.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Living Where You Love, Loving Where You Live
In a 5 a.m. frenzy to get my baker daughter to work on time I thought about the buildings I passed (going ever-so-slightly over the speed limit and just bowing to the stop signs). The Liberty Throwing Company chucked and clucked behind its grey-painted windows. Early shift workers were at the helm of machines that make spandex threads. I once bought a car from a woman who worked there, and this is why I know the secret behind the name.
St. Hedwig's school sits squarely on Zerby Avenue and promontory in my mind. My daughter's first lessons in socialization, organized religion, and education were in that building. I walked her a mile from home every day to Kindergarten, through the baseball field behind the Russian Club, past a few barking dogs and their fences. It was there at the school that I directed a play called Princess Grey and the White/Black Knight. The entire school community (and my mother) rallied to make it happen - props, costumes, cardboard painted set pieces. The janitor shared his lighting talents with me after revealing he'd spent years in backstage work at a theatre in New York City. I see him now at the mini-mart every morning on Main Street. He is frail and thin. His teeth are missing, but he still smiles and always remembers me.
The school sits empty now, the by-product of diocesan budget cuts. The teachers have found other jobs and moved away. Weeds grow in every crack on the sidewalk where I once stood to wait with other parents for the dismissal bell at 2:05. The kids used to rush out in a whoosh of whoops, and their backpacks made them look like multicolored turtles.
The ungroomed and well-pruned shrubberies of side street homes collect snow in January that turns them into iced cakes. In spring, birds make them sing. Fans rest unevenly in windows of houses in the summer. This morning I noticed a home with two fans whirling away in the bedroom windows of the upper floor. It created a wonky eyed monster.
Most houses here lean like drunken uncles (to borrow from Carl Sandburg). Mine subsidences have been known to open up and swallow entire houses, or children on the sidewalk, or pets. I listen at night for the tell-tale "crack" that I'm supposed to hear before the ground opens up and gorges on clapboard. We only own the surface of our land here, and keep insurance for any greedy gulpings of earth. Owning land at all is such a strange concept.
A sprawl of progress neons "The Ave" as we call it. Planet Fitness runs in place under its bright yellow apex, Price Chopper shares a stripmall with what I've dubbed "World Domination Buffet," Radio Shack, and Blockbuster. Cole Muffler makes a good landmark and a joke - the neon sign blinks out certain letters suddenly turning it French - "le muffler." When a Lowe's Home Improvement Center moved in, they paid off a small church on the property they wanted and moved it up half a block. The day the church was on wheels, the entire town came out to watch it move.
Main Street is congested from sprawl traffic, but no one stops to eat at the Mexican restaurant whose owners painted a sunset mural on the front, or the barber who still has a working awning that he cranks open every morning. His storefront is filled with dollhouses. The old coin shop closed a few months ago when the borough bought it (rumor has it they are demolishing old buildings and putting in a stripmall), and had to pay to clean out three floors of accrued errata from a determined collector. I once took a coin in the shop for appraisal. It was worth nothing, but the shop was piles of fascination. War medals, buttons from ancient elections, metal detectors, and coins in their plastic protective cases. The helmet of a knight sat in his storefront window.
I love to walk and see what neighbors have put on their porches, plant in their gardens, and note the oddball personalities of mailboxes.
We leave a free book box on the stoop of our gallery and studio so the neighborhood has access to free reading material as they walk to and from work, or the sprawl of The Ave. It gets brisk traffic. Sometimes it gets a candy bar wrapper or two, and sometimes people donate bags of paperbacks.
I live here. It's imperfect, weedy, unkempt, off-plumb, full of strangers and friends. The energy of the past toil of our fathers was washed away in a flood that dissolved their progress. Sadness followed and lingered, closed shops, broke wills.
I live here to give my energy to this place. To stand on a school stage and hang a backdrop of roses that a 6th grader painted, to make a space for the arts where people are welcome to share their ideas and poetry, to share books, to plant flowers. I can live anywhere I want, but I choose to live here, and I owe it the best of my life.
St. Hedwig's school sits squarely on Zerby Avenue and promontory in my mind. My daughter's first lessons in socialization, organized religion, and education were in that building. I walked her a mile from home every day to Kindergarten, through the baseball field behind the Russian Club, past a few barking dogs and their fences. It was there at the school that I directed a play called Princess Grey and the White/Black Knight. The entire school community (and my mother) rallied to make it happen - props, costumes, cardboard painted set pieces. The janitor shared his lighting talents with me after revealing he'd spent years in backstage work at a theatre in New York City. I see him now at the mini-mart every morning on Main Street. He is frail and thin. His teeth are missing, but he still smiles and always remembers me.
The school sits empty now, the by-product of diocesan budget cuts. The teachers have found other jobs and moved away. Weeds grow in every crack on the sidewalk where I once stood to wait with other parents for the dismissal bell at 2:05. The kids used to rush out in a whoosh of whoops, and their backpacks made them look like multicolored turtles.
The ungroomed and well-pruned shrubberies of side street homes collect snow in January that turns them into iced cakes. In spring, birds make them sing. Fans rest unevenly in windows of houses in the summer. This morning I noticed a home with two fans whirling away in the bedroom windows of the upper floor. It created a wonky eyed monster.
Most houses here lean like drunken uncles (to borrow from Carl Sandburg). Mine subsidences have been known to open up and swallow entire houses, or children on the sidewalk, or pets. I listen at night for the tell-tale "crack" that I'm supposed to hear before the ground opens up and gorges on clapboard. We only own the surface of our land here, and keep insurance for any greedy gulpings of earth. Owning land at all is such a strange concept.
A sprawl of progress neons "The Ave" as we call it. Planet Fitness runs in place under its bright yellow apex, Price Chopper shares a stripmall with what I've dubbed "World Domination Buffet," Radio Shack, and Blockbuster. Cole Muffler makes a good landmark and a joke - the neon sign blinks out certain letters suddenly turning it French - "le muffler." When a Lowe's Home Improvement Center moved in, they paid off a small church on the property they wanted and moved it up half a block. The day the church was on wheels, the entire town came out to watch it move.
Main Street is congested from sprawl traffic, but no one stops to eat at the Mexican restaurant whose owners painted a sunset mural on the front, or the barber who still has a working awning that he cranks open every morning. His storefront is filled with dollhouses. The old coin shop closed a few months ago when the borough bought it (rumor has it they are demolishing old buildings and putting in a stripmall), and had to pay to clean out three floors of accrued errata from a determined collector. I once took a coin in the shop for appraisal. It was worth nothing, but the shop was piles of fascination. War medals, buttons from ancient elections, metal detectors, and coins in their plastic protective cases. The helmet of a knight sat in his storefront window.
I love to walk and see what neighbors have put on their porches, plant in their gardens, and note the oddball personalities of mailboxes.
We leave a free book box on the stoop of our gallery and studio so the neighborhood has access to free reading material as they walk to and from work, or the sprawl of The Ave. It gets brisk traffic. Sometimes it gets a candy bar wrapper or two, and sometimes people donate bags of paperbacks.
I live here. It's imperfect, weedy, unkempt, off-plumb, full of strangers and friends. The energy of the past toil of our fathers was washed away in a flood that dissolved their progress. Sadness followed and lingered, closed shops, broke wills.
I live here to give my energy to this place. To stand on a school stage and hang a backdrop of roses that a 6th grader painted, to make a space for the arts where people are welcome to share their ideas and poetry, to share books, to plant flowers. I can live anywhere I want, but I choose to live here, and I owe it the best of my life.
Monday, July 05, 2010
500 Words
Can you come up with a list of 500 favorite words? It took me about a half hour to write up a list (which I launched into willy-nilly), and then realized about three-quarters of the way through that I was going to have an overabundance of words for the project. A myriad. A plethora. An ivy-whorl of tenacious words.
1000 words? 10,000 words? I shared some toast with my husband. "Pillowcase."
We walked upstairs. I shouted down the hall, "Freckle! Piano. Gravity. Grace. Bespectacled."
I have some decisions to make (architecture?) with the first list I made. The process of making the list is really interesting to me. Some of the words I like for the sound, others for meaning, some for both. There are words that have emotional attachments. Some are a part of family vocabularies. A few are inventions. In the meantime, (fern) words keep springing up in my mind (foderol) like midnight mushrumps.
What are some of your favorites?
1000 words? 10,000 words? I shared some toast with my husband. "Pillowcase."
We walked upstairs. I shouted down the hall, "Freckle! Piano. Gravity. Grace. Bespectacled."
I have some decisions to make (architecture?) with the first list I made. The process of making the list is really interesting to me. Some of the words I like for the sound, others for meaning, some for both. There are words that have emotional attachments. Some are a part of family vocabularies. A few are inventions. In the meantime, (fern) words keep springing up in my mind (foderol) like midnight mushrumps.
What are some of your favorites?
Monday, June 28, 2010
Staying Aloft
I've never stepped on the Priority Sky Miles mat. If you have, you've paid too much by credit card. Sure you get on the plane quicker, but you're on with the screaming kids. They rolled all over the mat first with their strollers and Graco trappings.
Whether you walk down that flap of mat or wait until "Zone 4" is called and are herded through the gate, you likely have some special way of handling flight. (Or maybe not. This could be one of those places where I once again find myself alone on the playground.) Maybe you say a Hail Mary, or a few Please Gods, or you have another special mantra. Maybe you always say thank you to the person who scans the bar code on your boarding pass. Whatever it is, you're sure it works.
I keep a pinecone in my pocketbook. No one has frisked me for keeping a bit of the ground in my purse yet. It's a non-aerosol pinecone and is less than three fluid ounces.
The sudden camaraderie I feel toward my fellow passengers is always surprising to me. These are people I don't know, and will likely never get to know, but I start to think about what we might say to each other if the plane were to spiral toward the earth from 30,000 feet. The woman in the striped shirt looks like a soft grandmotherly sort. The tan guy is returning home from a vacation and seems happy. That crying baby is a good luck charm. The likelihood of a crash with a baby is small, I trick myself. Good.
A friend of mine told me once how she enjoys being in airports because "you can be anyone there." I think you can be anyone anywhere, and would rather be anyone anywhere other than in an airport. I enjoy watching people's reunions, but the frantic chirping of trapped birds in the Detroit airport makes me uneasy.
On the plane, I have my rituals. I figure if I am just good, if I pay attention, if I obey, the plane won't nosedive into the ocean. I always look at the safety card. I buckle my seatbelt when asked. When I exit the plane, I thank the pilot. I never complain about anything until I have gotten back on the ground.
If I am good, if I obey, if I don't complain, we stay aloft. If I bitch, it's a sudden plummet for all.
So I feel love for the trapped humanity on the plane until we land when I start to wonder why that woman is wearing a striped seersucker shirt. What a horrible word -- seersucker. I wouldn't want it wrapped around me. I wouldn't want to die in it.
The salt from my mini pretzels has confettied the insides of my pocketbook. My ears feel like they have blades in them. The view from 30,000 feet was a miniature wonderland. Thank God we're landed. Hail Mary. Hail Pinecone.
Whether you walk down that flap of mat or wait until "Zone 4" is called and are herded through the gate, you likely have some special way of handling flight. (Or maybe not. This could be one of those places where I once again find myself alone on the playground.) Maybe you say a Hail Mary, or a few Please Gods, or you have another special mantra. Maybe you always say thank you to the person who scans the bar code on your boarding pass. Whatever it is, you're sure it works.
I keep a pinecone in my pocketbook. No one has frisked me for keeping a bit of the ground in my purse yet. It's a non-aerosol pinecone and is less than three fluid ounces.
The sudden camaraderie I feel toward my fellow passengers is always surprising to me. These are people I don't know, and will likely never get to know, but I start to think about what we might say to each other if the plane were to spiral toward the earth from 30,000 feet. The woman in the striped shirt looks like a soft grandmotherly sort. The tan guy is returning home from a vacation and seems happy. That crying baby is a good luck charm. The likelihood of a crash with a baby is small, I trick myself. Good.
A friend of mine told me once how she enjoys being in airports because "you can be anyone there." I think you can be anyone anywhere, and would rather be anyone anywhere other than in an airport. I enjoy watching people's reunions, but the frantic chirping of trapped birds in the Detroit airport makes me uneasy.
On the plane, I have my rituals. I figure if I am just good, if I pay attention, if I obey, the plane won't nosedive into the ocean. I always look at the safety card. I buckle my seatbelt when asked. When I exit the plane, I thank the pilot. I never complain about anything until I have gotten back on the ground.
If I am good, if I obey, if I don't complain, we stay aloft. If I bitch, it's a sudden plummet for all.
So I feel love for the trapped humanity on the plane until we land when I start to wonder why that woman is wearing a striped seersucker shirt. What a horrible word -- seersucker. I wouldn't want it wrapped around me. I wouldn't want to die in it.
The salt from my mini pretzels has confettied the insides of my pocketbook. My ears feel like they have blades in them. The view from 30,000 feet was a miniature wonderland. Thank God we're landed. Hail Mary. Hail Pinecone.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Abstractions as Units of Measurement
An exercise in thought and wordplay on a hot afternoon where my brain is a fresnel of flaccidity.
1. An angstrom of angst
2. A furlong of fragility
3. Two hundred leagues of levity
4. An em of entropy
5. An en of empathy
6. A dram of damnation
7. Three gills of gumption
8. A gamma of goodness
9. One pennyweight of perniciousness
10. Ten scruples of sorrow
11. A rod of reality
12. Two cords of compassion
13. Eight pecks of peculiarity
14. An assay ton of anger
15. A hogshead of hilarity
16. A footlambert of foolishness
17. Two hobbets of hate
18. A jansky of joy
19. Three kips of knowledge
20. A maxwell of menace
21. An osmol of obsfucation
22. A firkin of friendship
23. A vara of victory
24. A weber of wisdom
25. A therblig of thrill
1. An angstrom of angst
2. A furlong of fragility
3. Two hundred leagues of levity
4. An em of entropy
5. An en of empathy
6. A dram of damnation
7. Three gills of gumption
8. A gamma of goodness
9. One pennyweight of perniciousness
10. Ten scruples of sorrow
11. A rod of reality
12. Two cords of compassion
13. Eight pecks of peculiarity
14. An assay ton of anger
15. A hogshead of hilarity
16. A footlambert of foolishness
17. Two hobbets of hate
18. A jansky of joy
19. Three kips of knowledge
20. A maxwell of menace
21. An osmol of obsfucation
22. A firkin of friendship
23. A vara of victory
24. A weber of wisdom
25. A therblig of thrill
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Monosyllabic Essay on the Old GE Fan in the Kitchen
The rite on a hot day in each home is the twist of a knob to form a drift of air. I prod the old fan blade and send it to a slow grind and turn. It finds cat fur in the air and the grate sports flags of hair that ebb in its wind. This fan groans in the face of work and needs a new nudge to pick up drive. One push with the edge of my thumb on the blade, two, three, four, and the force wins. I move the jar that sits near it and clunks with the time and time and time of turns. With my coax, my wish, the fan is still just a head that shakes a slow no, no, no all day in a room where bread sweats.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Forecast: Plenty of Piaf
Life is too short to be wasting it on music I don't like. If a piece of music doesn't open up a room I'm in, I don't want to listen to it. Music creates new rooms for me, sometimes entire mansions. There are almost always walls, but sometimes no roof or a floor.
Last night while waiting for friends to arrive for a meeting at the house I put on an album by Edith Piaf, (recorded in Mono!), and everything became a set for a French movie. The room was black and white and looked like it needed the despeckling filter in Photoshop. That's what I love about music. I can't even remember the title of the album I was listening to (it was a gift from my brother), but the music transformed a moment in my life and transported me to another place for a little while.
If the music inspires and creates a safe space for me to dream, or a space that's filled with color and movement, I'll listen. I won't remember the label or who produced it, but I will remember the room it put me in, the color of the walls, and if the room had a floor.
Trivia: Edith Piaf's matron of honour at her wedding in 1952 was Marlene Dietrich.
Oddity: Piaf singing La Vie en Rose turns my living room into pointillism.
Excitement: Rain all weekend. More Piaf in store for me.
Last night while waiting for friends to arrive for a meeting at the house I put on an album by Edith Piaf, (recorded in Mono!), and everything became a set for a French movie. The room was black and white and looked like it needed the despeckling filter in Photoshop. That's what I love about music. I can't even remember the title of the album I was listening to (it was a gift from my brother), but the music transformed a moment in my life and transported me to another place for a little while.
If the music inspires and creates a safe space for me to dream, or a space that's filled with color and movement, I'll listen. I won't remember the label or who produced it, but I will remember the room it put me in, the color of the walls, and if the room had a floor.
Trivia: Edith Piaf's matron of honour at her wedding in 1952 was Marlene Dietrich.
Oddity: Piaf singing La Vie en Rose turns my living room into pointillism.
Excitement: Rain all weekend. More Piaf in store for me.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Fragments of Spring
Stapled to the telephone pole
where her classmate died
two wilted bouquets of roses
form a Y.
.
A woman waves with a cigarette in her hand,
her long hair gathered at the bottom
with a rubber band, loose pink pajama pants
flop in the breeze. Her son's hand grips
the green seat of the school bus.
.
Today I clean the baseboards,
tomorrow I paint the hall floor,
Friday I take over the world.
where her classmate died
two wilted bouquets of roses
form a Y.
.
A woman waves with a cigarette in her hand,
her long hair gathered at the bottom
with a rubber band, loose pink pajama pants
flop in the breeze. Her son's hand grips
the green seat of the school bus.
.
Today I clean the baseboards,
tomorrow I paint the hall floor,
Friday I take over the world.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
Arrhythmia
The nurse asks: “What do the extra beats feel like?” and I say I don’t know. What I want to say is it feels like I am hugging a bag of feathers. That I am reading another one of those really long poems by a poet who uses tildes in between stanza breaks and is so very in love with the way his words look on paper. It feels like the sound the piano makes when you step on the damper pedal hard and then release. That’s probably too much information for his form, so I say “It feels like I shouldn’t take my heart for granted. I’m nervous. I hate it here.” It feels like I’m falling through the stars. Hole, hold, black hole murmur.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Clothesline
Tuesday March 2nd clomps across the busy street in heavy boots. It is double-freaking-parked, it is pocked with potholes, it is a clothesline full of old towels.
There's nothing particularly wrong with today, other than I can't seem to find my focus. I've had a series of pretty good days in a row where I've been writing and creating, and thinking good thoughts. Today, nothing but old towels and everything has a grey noise.
On the upswing, my stitches came out while I was in the car today! Healing complete.
There's nothing particularly wrong with today, other than I can't seem to find my focus. I've had a series of pretty good days in a row where I've been writing and creating, and thinking good thoughts. Today, nothing but old towels and everything has a grey noise.
On the upswing, my stitches came out while I was in the car today! Healing complete.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
aS
a typographical romance
Lowercase a was deviled by x, who leveled him with dagger punches to the gut. X was always bold. K joined in the fray for good measure, and kicked a in the foot while he writhed on the ground. The playground was silent after they grunted their way around the school building, leaving a in the dirt. A birch leaf shivered off a tree from the first frost. Lowercase a threw up from the pain of his bruises.
Lowercase o and u found a in the dirt, lifted him up and brushed him off. They agreed something needed to be done about the burly, aggravated consonants, and rallied the rest of the vowels into a meeting on the rock pile near the woods.
While they hunched and whispered, uppercase S appeared and nudged her way into their huddle. "What's all the hubhub, fellas?" she asked.
Lowercase a weakened. S was different from the rest of the consonants. She was majuscule. She was vivacious, confident, and deliciously curvy. Sometimes her curves dipped below the baseline, and it made lowercase q (who was the quietest girl in class) a little jealous of her display. S showed an enthusiasm for rolling down the grassy hill during recess, and everyone stopped to watch when she did.
The boys urged lowercase a to keep her out of the plans, but lowercase a couldn't help but trust S. "Together we can make similes" he thought.
S let herself in, and when she heard about their plans against x and k, she sighed.
a, e , i, o, u, and s (y only sometimes showed for the meetings), continued their plot to nab their tormentors. The boy's lavatory was a favorite place for meetings because S wasn't allowed, but she would occasionally tease her way inside when the teachers weren't looking.
It was during one of these meetings that x and k were were hiding in a stall, straddling toilets. "We'll use S's skills at rolling ..." o proclaimed with a wide grin. He was trying to win S's favors. It was beginning to irk a that o began all of his sentences with the word "So."
The stall doors clattered and x and k emerged like ninjas, delivering stealthy slugs to all the vowels.
The oooooo's, uuuuuuu's, and iiiiiiii's were heard down the hall and into the principal's office. S escaped without injury by rolling out the door. Lowercase a was slackjawed. The window was a possible escape.
Principal ! marched through the door as lowercase a considered the window. "Stop this at once! Get back to your classes! You all have detention!" Vice-principal ... paused with her mouth agog. "This sort of behavior ..." she trailed off.
Lowercase a was cornered in the coatroom after school by x. "I'll cut you to the core yet," he said. A didn't notice the shuffling of coats behind him as he trembled. O, i and e leapt out. Lowercase i tossed his tittle at x, who caught it with an extended arm. K ambled in just in time to kick i's tittle into the trashcan. A tried to slip into the alley between the coats when x stopped him by sticking out a foot to trip him.
S slithered in the coatroom, slipped a curve around lowercase a, and handed i back his tittle. U rocked back and forth on the arc of his stem, cooing to himself. E curled off to find q. None of this fighting was justified, said S.
X hissed at lowercase a. "I'll get you someday. Together we could have axed our way through school, crossing out all the useless facts, marking spots. You could have been more than an article. With her, you'll just make cute similes."
In love and cooing, lowercase a developed an elaborate swash near his rounded apex. S's love had saved him and transformed him into an alternate character.
S and a skipped a grade, and started a new family, similar in width, weight and posture, giggling glyphs and miniscules.
X and k were held in Principal !'s office, on the mean line. When questioned about their anger, they said they "didn't give a jot and tittle" about any of it and they'd "roll those i's again."
Lowercase a was deviled by x, who leveled him with dagger punches to the gut. X was always bold. K joined in the fray for good measure, and kicked a in the foot while he writhed on the ground. The playground was silent after they grunted their way around the school building, leaving a in the dirt. A birch leaf shivered off a tree from the first frost. Lowercase a threw up from the pain of his bruises.
Lowercase o and u found a in the dirt, lifted him up and brushed him off. They agreed something needed to be done about the burly, aggravated consonants, and rallied the rest of the vowels into a meeting on the rock pile near the woods.
While they hunched and whispered, uppercase S appeared and nudged her way into their huddle. "What's all the hubhub, fellas?" she asked.
Lowercase a weakened. S was different from the rest of the consonants. She was majuscule. She was vivacious, confident, and deliciously curvy. Sometimes her curves dipped below the baseline, and it made lowercase q (who was the quietest girl in class) a little jealous of her display. S showed an enthusiasm for rolling down the grassy hill during recess, and everyone stopped to watch when she did.
The boys urged lowercase a to keep her out of the plans, but lowercase a couldn't help but trust S. "Together we can make similes" he thought.
S let herself in, and when she heard about their plans against x and k, she sighed.
a, e , i, o, u, and s (y only sometimes showed for the meetings), continued their plot to nab their tormentors. The boy's lavatory was a favorite place for meetings because S wasn't allowed, but she would occasionally tease her way inside when the teachers weren't looking.
It was during one of these meetings that x and k were were hiding in a stall, straddling toilets. "We'll use S's skills at rolling ..." o proclaimed with a wide grin. He was trying to win S's favors. It was beginning to irk a that o began all of his sentences with the word "So."
The stall doors clattered and x and k emerged like ninjas, delivering stealthy slugs to all the vowels.
The oooooo's, uuuuuuu's, and iiiiiiii's were heard down the hall and into the principal's office. S escaped without injury by rolling out the door. Lowercase a was slackjawed. The window was a possible escape.
Principal ! marched through the door as lowercase a considered the window. "Stop this at once! Get back to your classes! You all have detention!" Vice-principal ... paused with her mouth agog. "This sort of behavior ..." she trailed off.
Lowercase a was cornered in the coatroom after school by x. "I'll cut you to the core yet," he said. A didn't notice the shuffling of coats behind him as he trembled. O, i and e leapt out. Lowercase i tossed his tittle at x, who caught it with an extended arm. K ambled in just in time to kick i's tittle into the trashcan. A tried to slip into the alley between the coats when x stopped him by sticking out a foot to trip him.
S slithered in the coatroom, slipped a curve around lowercase a, and handed i back his tittle. U rocked back and forth on the arc of his stem, cooing to himself. E curled off to find q. None of this fighting was justified, said S.
X hissed at lowercase a. "I'll get you someday. Together we could have axed our way through school, crossing out all the useless facts, marking spots. You could have been more than an article. With her, you'll just make cute similes."
In love and cooing, lowercase a developed an elaborate swash near his rounded apex. S's love had saved him and transformed him into an alternate character.
S and a skipped a grade, and started a new family, similar in width, weight and posture, giggling glyphs and miniscules.
X and k were held in Principal !'s office, on the mean line. When questioned about their anger, they said they "didn't give a jot and tittle" about any of it and they'd "roll those i's again."
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Squaring Up the Rugs
Never underestimate your power as a writer to procrastinate. If you think it's time to sit down to work on your novel, rugs will need squaring, curtains will need washing, and bits of lint will need to be plucked off all your sweaters.
I know this. I'm writing a novel. There. I said it in a public venue (as public as you can get with four readers). I said it and now I am committed to finishing it, because it's "out there." Now pardon me while I go put the kettle on. I like to hear it tick and whistle while I write. Or write about writing.
And in the meantime, here are two valuable and interesting links for writers, which I have read and enjoyed (squandered time):
The Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot (Lester Dent wrote the Doc Savage series)
Ten Rules for Writing Fiction
I know this. I'm writing a novel. There. I said it in a public venue (as public as you can get with four readers). I said it and now I am committed to finishing it, because it's "out there." Now pardon me while I go put the kettle on. I like to hear it tick and whistle while I write. Or write about writing.
And in the meantime, here are two valuable and interesting links for writers, which I have read and enjoyed (squandered time):
The Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot (Lester Dent wrote the Doc Savage series)
Ten Rules for Writing Fiction
Friday, February 12, 2010
My roots are a "22"
Yesterday I put on my heavy winter boots and shoveled a narrow path out to the car, brushed off a foot of snow, brisked the ice off the mailbox, and clomped back in the house to get dressed for a root canal appointment. It's not every day that you find yourself grateful to push aside heavy snow to get to the endodontist, but I've been waiting to get to see this guy for a few weeks, and two of them on a cheery round of bacteria-killing penicillin. The snow storm almost pushed my appointment back another two weeks, but a cancellation got me in earlier. I felt like I was hanging around the phone for a date to call.
With the blinds open at the office, the sun opened up a warm seat in the waiting room for me to fill out my forms and tuck into a book. The ear-budded office staff talked about efficiency with delegating the tasks of the day, and I tried to worry less by reading. Then the dreaded and anticipated sound of the endodontist's assistant calling my name, the intermittent shaking of my legs as I worried about not being able to swallow as my face went numb with novocain.
When the endodontist arrived, he tried to chit-chat about the weather to calm me. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" he asked, as my mouth was pried open. I tried to say "gorgeous," but it came out "gggshush."
Then I was faced with a light above my head and what felt like a torn balloon over my wide-open mouth for an hour and a half while the assistant and endodontist worked their medical magic. Words like "mesial" and "pulp" peppered their conversation. I wore plastic goggles and wondered what would happen next most of the time since they weren't the type of dentists who gave a play-by-play to their patient. There was the smell of clove, and the feel of my tooth being oddly higher than the rest for a bit, like a skyscraper jutting out among cottages. I saw the the tiny plastics that would be used to replace my roots, which I was told were "really long." I thought of how careful the dentists were, and how detailed the work was, and wondered about what I do for a living and how it compares. There's no avoiding someone's need for a root canal if it is your job to perform one. There is plenty of avoidance in a writer.
At some point my legs ceased their shaking, and the dentist talked about how he was tricked into watching a movie with his wife on the snow day before. It was "Slumdog Millionnaire." Had I seen it? Did I like it? With my mouth still latexed like the lining of a pool all I could say was "Yesh," but I didn't really like it.
When the procedure was over, I thanked both of them for their careful work, and walked out with my palsied mouth into the sun to try to whistle in the mirror. I laughed at the sight, started the car, and drove off into the blinding blue light of a
With the blinds open at the office, the sun opened up a warm seat in the waiting room for me to fill out my forms and tuck into a book. The ear-budded office staff talked about efficiency with delegating the tasks of the day, and I tried to worry less by reading. Then the dreaded and anticipated sound of the endodontist's assistant calling my name, the intermittent shaking of my legs as I worried about not being able to swallow as my face went numb with novocain.
When the endodontist arrived, he tried to chit-chat about the weather to calm me. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" he asked, as my mouth was pried open. I tried to say "gorgeous," but it came out "gggshush."
Then I was faced with a light above my head and what felt like a torn balloon over my wide-open mouth for an hour and a half while the assistant and endodontist worked their medical magic. Words like "mesial" and "pulp" peppered their conversation. I wore plastic goggles and wondered what would happen next most of the time since they weren't the type of dentists who gave a play-by-play to their patient. There was the smell of clove, and the feel of my tooth being oddly higher than the rest for a bit, like a skyscraper jutting out among cottages. I saw the the tiny plastics that would be used to replace my roots, which I was told were "really long." I thought of how careful the dentists were, and how detailed the work was, and wondered about what I do for a living and how it compares. There's no avoiding someone's need for a root canal if it is your job to perform one. There is plenty of avoidance in a writer.
At some point my legs ceased their shaking, and the dentist talked about how he was tricked into watching a movie with his wife on the snow day before. It was "Slumdog Millionnaire." Had I seen it? Did I like it? With my mouth still latexed like the lining of a pool all I could say was "Yesh," but I didn't really like it.
When the procedure was over, I thanked both of them for their careful work, and walked out with my palsied mouth into the sun to try to whistle in the mirror. I laughed at the sight, started the car, and drove off into the blinding blue light of a
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