So last night I went to my new writing class. I'm not sure if I will continue with the whole series, but the teacher was an excellent facilitator-- open, warm, nonjudgemental, quirky, spontaneous. I think seeing those qualities in your writing instructor enables you to do those things more readily yourself.
The class is meant to almost help you start over in your head- to lose all the preconceived notions about how to write, or what good writing is- to turn new soil and allow fresh ripe fruit of the imagination to become full and juicy in the greenhouse of your mind.
Her technique is rooted in the sensorial experience so we did a writing prompt that focused on Sound, Texture, Taste, Color and Animal. We used each of these as platforms to do a writing exercise describing ourselves. Aerobacize the mind, Leslie said.
I'll share my rapidly scribbled stream of consciousness jottings here:
I AM THE SOUND OF....
fire before it's made, the waiting as the wick leans its ear into the lick of heat
clouds forming
isolated droplets of the lightest, most gentle intermitten rain, hitting the waterskin drum surface of an enclosed pond, sometimes hitting a lily pad, sometimes not
I AM the sound of....
the furthest furthest imperceptible echo of an animal that has barely escaped its predator, the hooves and fearhorror lingering as dissipating palpables in a distantly reverberating terrain
I AM the sound of.....
a piano lid being slammed shut.
I AM THE TEXTURE OF....
tracing paper, the way fog obscures mountains in the distance
melted icecream disappearing down the drain, escaping, not something you'd want to lick up off the dirty sink surface yet are still sad to see go
I AM the texture of.....
a slightly bruised dark red cherry- one that you are on the fence about as you're scooping up cherries at the grocery store and decide, oh what the hell, and toss it into the plastic bag
a glacier cracking, revealing the electric blue slush of water below
I AM the texture of.....
melting wax that's almost too hot, pooling in your palm, except it's perfect to burn a little, like that.
I AM THE TASTE OF....
saffron rice, both cooked and uncooked
the taste of water is the pot with the rice, minus the water the pot, and the rice
I AM THE COLOR OF....
turquoise, but minus the kick, more seafoam, less committment, a little toothpaste, with a whole assortment of things dropped in: the sun, a volcano, broken pieces of firetruck, pieces of conch shelles, stained glass, cathedral buttresses, bricks from the Great Wall, angles of the Jewish star, a moonbeam as a strawstick, stirring the mix, blinding, breathtaking, and dull, when stirred long enough.
I AM THE ANIMAL....
part goldfish. little. unassuming. iconic. dumb. somehow with a unicorn brow, with gazelle spirit, gazelle timidity, tigress temper, dolphin in the eyes- empathy, playfulness, if you can get into the waters deep enough.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Fog Brain Gets Ready for Writing Class
Okay! Today is the right day for a new post. Why? I ran into the former-lawyer-rare-law-books-bookstore-owner at lunch this afternoon. Apparently we enjoy the same Atlas Cafe. He was both easy and difficult to recognize. He looks like he would be a famous actor, so I was sure if I had seen him in movies or in real life.
He had brought what looked like a miniature version of the NY Review of Books (have they gone small, like Rolling Stone did? And others?) and I was reading Francis Ford Coppola's literary journal Zoetrope: All-Story. Meaning, it's all stories. All short fictional stories. I was getting familiar with the latest issue as I am applying to be a reader for their editorial team. I love reading. I love thinking about what I am reading. So, I hope they will let me be a reader. They apparently get 10,000 submissions a year. I imagine a mountain of papers, piling up in the office, and the way you dig is with your eyes. What a journey.
Well, there is a lot to write about. I slept fitfully last night, terribly. In my sleep I remember saying to myself, "this is the worst night of sleep I've ever had." It definitely wasn't, I can already think of four other nights which were worse (freezing on Mt. Merapi in Java last year, the overnight train ride sitting on the hard seat for 17 hours where Booth slept UNDERneath our seats, with the spittle and the sunflower seeds and shoes and grime, so I could lay down on his seat--) and a couple others...but anyway. It was a bad night's sleep, and I tossed and turned, stopped and started, all punctuated by the confusing life story of my dream's protagonist, a man named Narcisco Rodriguez, a Latino baseball player turned fashion designer. I could not understand what he wanted or needed from me, but I was tugged along the whole ride, at the expense of my rest. I hope he is happy, wherever he is now.
So I awoke in a fog. I wanted to write my cover letter for this readership thing, but I couldn't think. It was as if the fog from the Bay had somehow rolled into my cranium, usurping, filling every groove or crease, or fogging up every synapse, or messing with whatever happens in the technoworks of the brain, fogging me up, fogging me down. I went to get a coffee, well, an iced and minty decaf from what, in my limited expertise, is the best coffee in San Francisco. Philz. For $4.00 i was taken to an entirely new psychic realm. The fog is dismantling. A whole new sensation is settling in.
In half an hour I have to leave for my writing class. It's a new class I have decided to explore, in efforts to bulk up my writing muscles. I am trying to get all the creative juices flowing- at this moment I intend to apply to MFA programs in creative writing. The most essential element of the application is the manuscript/writing sample, 20-30 pages. I really need to revamp what I've got, or start on some totally new projects. And I figure a class is a good way to get some inspiration and direction.
Ok just looked at google maps topographic and the address for the class is Hill St. This hill looks like no joke. Better jump on my bike, now.
He had brought what looked like a miniature version of the NY Review of Books (have they gone small, like Rolling Stone did? And others?) and I was reading Francis Ford Coppola's literary journal Zoetrope: All-Story. Meaning, it's all stories. All short fictional stories. I was getting familiar with the latest issue as I am applying to be a reader for their editorial team. I love reading. I love thinking about what I am reading. So, I hope they will let me be a reader. They apparently get 10,000 submissions a year. I imagine a mountain of papers, piling up in the office, and the way you dig is with your eyes. What a journey.
Well, there is a lot to write about. I slept fitfully last night, terribly. In my sleep I remember saying to myself, "this is the worst night of sleep I've ever had." It definitely wasn't, I can already think of four other nights which were worse (freezing on Mt. Merapi in Java last year, the overnight train ride sitting on the hard seat for 17 hours where Booth slept UNDERneath our seats, with the spittle and the sunflower seeds and shoes and grime, so I could lay down on his seat--) and a couple others...but anyway. It was a bad night's sleep, and I tossed and turned, stopped and started, all punctuated by the confusing life story of my dream's protagonist, a man named Narcisco Rodriguez, a Latino baseball player turned fashion designer. I could not understand what he wanted or needed from me, but I was tugged along the whole ride, at the expense of my rest. I hope he is happy, wherever he is now.
So I awoke in a fog. I wanted to write my cover letter for this readership thing, but I couldn't think. It was as if the fog from the Bay had somehow rolled into my cranium, usurping, filling every groove or crease, or fogging up every synapse, or messing with whatever happens in the technoworks of the brain, fogging me up, fogging me down. I went to get a coffee, well, an iced and minty decaf from what, in my limited expertise, is the best coffee in San Francisco. Philz. For $4.00 i was taken to an entirely new psychic realm. The fog is dismantling. A whole new sensation is settling in.
In half an hour I have to leave for my writing class. It's a new class I have decided to explore, in efforts to bulk up my writing muscles. I am trying to get all the creative juices flowing- at this moment I intend to apply to MFA programs in creative writing. The most essential element of the application is the manuscript/writing sample, 20-30 pages. I really need to revamp what I've got, or start on some totally new projects. And I figure a class is a good way to get some inspiration and direction.
Ok just looked at google maps topographic and the address for the class is Hill St. This hill looks like no joke. Better jump on my bike, now.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saved by the Book
What does it mean when someone says, "It saved my life"? Just how close were they to the edge?
Today I wandered into a cavernous room, full of natural light, ceilings high and reaching up into that great height, stacks and stacks of antiquated books. Leather bound, like the volumes in a stately home's private library, or in one of those secret collections that only historians gain access to in the library. An older man with a full head of white hair, seated behind a typewriter, looked at me quizzically before answering his own question, "Are you looking for something in particular?"
He told me most every visitor is a wanderer, straying out of the layperson-friendly Bolirium Books just across the way. His bookshop is a specialty shop for antique law books-- and he proceeded to show me court documents from Salem in the early 1800's (Dartmouth would be buying those) and other ancient legal miscellany. This place is more like his office- when he acquires something, he already knows who he should sell it to. He is something of a matchmaker, between the book and the library, whether the library be public or private.
I was so happy to be free from my terrible job, my bizarre and manipulative boss, the toxic spill that had begun leaching into the groundwork of my mind. I have time to explore, finally, this neighborhood that I live in, inhabit, but don't feel I interact with, or contribute to. This bookshop and others housed in the nondescript building I always passed on 18th and Mission comprised a fascinating floor of printed matter. You had to be buzzed in. I felt like I had entered a secret club but no password was needed, just an interest in books.
So up there on the third floor I spoke with this kindly older man who had a zest for antique legal documents and books. It was great. I suppose in theory I could imagine these kind of people existed, but I had never met one, and so I felt that much more informed of the greater scope of my fellow humankind.
Anyway, when I asked if he had been a lawyer before he said he had, and when I asked how he was enjoying his encore career in owning this shop, he said it had saved his life. I wonder how he came to rescue himself, or how these books, and this venture, came to rescue him.
Today I wandered into a cavernous room, full of natural light, ceilings high and reaching up into that great height, stacks and stacks of antiquated books. Leather bound, like the volumes in a stately home's private library, or in one of those secret collections that only historians gain access to in the library. An older man with a full head of white hair, seated behind a typewriter, looked at me quizzically before answering his own question, "Are you looking for something in particular?"
He told me most every visitor is a wanderer, straying out of the layperson-friendly Bolirium Books just across the way. His bookshop is a specialty shop for antique law books-- and he proceeded to show me court documents from Salem in the early 1800's (Dartmouth would be buying those) and other ancient legal miscellany. This place is more like his office- when he acquires something, he already knows who he should sell it to. He is something of a matchmaker, between the book and the library, whether the library be public or private.
I was so happy to be free from my terrible job, my bizarre and manipulative boss, the toxic spill that had begun leaching into the groundwork of my mind. I have time to explore, finally, this neighborhood that I live in, inhabit, but don't feel I interact with, or contribute to. This bookshop and others housed in the nondescript building I always passed on 18th and Mission comprised a fascinating floor of printed matter. You had to be buzzed in. I felt like I had entered a secret club but no password was needed, just an interest in books.
So up there on the third floor I spoke with this kindly older man who had a zest for antique legal documents and books. It was great. I suppose in theory I could imagine these kind of people existed, but I had never met one, and so I felt that much more informed of the greater scope of my fellow humankind.
Anyway, when I asked if he had been a lawyer before he said he had, and when I asked how he was enjoying his encore career in owning this shop, he said it had saved his life. I wonder how he came to rescue himself, or how these books, and this venture, came to rescue him.
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