I know this isn't a prompt or anything, and I know that it's not technically even an accomplishment of pure writing, but I did put a lot of work into the script and feel it's as true as any written word I've created. Since the Mod's are so swamped, I think we, the community of bloggers/writers, should continue writing and Using Our Words. After all, the idea of the blog is to continue our writing efforts in whatever way—prompted or not. It's not just an exercise in waiting for someone else to generate ideas for us.
Ready for this? It's kind of epic. The actual written project is at the end, but this is the story:
The Shed Piece (more formally known as the Performance Project) is a project undertaken by second year Production Students at the Victorian College of the Arts in Melbourne, Australia, and since I came in as a second-year student (on Exchange), it's in my curriculum. In short, the student creates a piece of theater between five and ten minutes long, documenting appropriately.
Sounds simple enough, right? If it does, then you've obviously never done it. Oh my.
It's called the She Piece because it takes place in a Shed on VCA's campus. It's a black box, 9.1m by 5.4m and it's incredibly dusty, old, and about-to-fall-down. There's a store of lights, sound, and a/v equipment in addition to an extensive prop and costume store. It's incredibly versatile, though most performances put the audience at one end in three rows and the show opposite it, thus creating the classic proscenium audience-stage orientation. However, I was determined to do something different.
The premise is so astoundingly open-ended that it's way, way too easy to just float through ideas or add things to a concept until kingdom come. Previous pieces have been: an extremely offensive mini-musical about a kid's safari show, a segment of a favorite play, a maze of hanging glowsticks with an synthesized sound-scape, an abstract representation of a greek myth with up to eight nude VCA members and live singing and guitar and fog and mirrors and a skeleton.
One challenge particular to me: these are presented almost daily for two months or so, meaning that some students have up to two months more than others. In addition, other second-year students have been gathering ideas and concepts and actors and designers and dancers to help them for about a year. In total, I had fifteen days. I found out about it on orientation day and I was scheduled to go second. I had no ideas, knew no one here, knew nothing of the campus facilities and faculty, and I had two weeks to create a theater piece that is about a third of this semester's grade. That is a hell of a challenge.
One night I was trying to figure out something solid and do-able in an intensely small time-frame. I racked my brain for two days and came up with nothing that I was remotely happy with. So I decided to give it up for the night and watch American Beauty. After the film, I just lay in my bed, thinking about the fact that I was as far away from home as I possibly could be, and about the world that lay between me and my origins. I fell asleep, woke up, and had my idea. I was going to recreate the night before for the audience. Sweet.
How to do? I was trying to figure out how I could most directly move the perspective of the audience into my head; it had to be direct as I only had five to ten minutes. Pretty quickly, I decided I wanted to make the audience feel like they were lying in my bed, so I was going to cover the floor of the Shed in carpet and make the audience lay on their backs on the carpets, looking at the ceiling (and the stars and sky I would create), just like I was in my bed, looking out the window. This idea made me so excited; I had an original, do-able idea and it didn't seem terribly difficult and it played to my strengths.
So I start going about making the soundtrack. Bar none, the song that perfectly complimented my night was Stem-Long Stem by DJ Shadow: Download the original track here if you're interested. It's a dark track, but I find it really, really deeply contemplative. It's probably some association from my days at NCSSM. Anyways, I get to work shifting track parts around in Garage Band to better suit my purposes, patching, looping, cutting, syncing, etc. While doing this, I wrote a script for a voice-over. I wrote it stream-of-consciousness style then edited the hell out of it to get sectional parts to be between rises in the music of the track. In total, I went through four or five major revisions of the script. I was terrified of it being self-important and overblown, making me seem arrogant and inept in front of lots of new friends and lecturers. I recorded some test audio during an early version of the script to adjust the timing on the track and, after way more work than was required, I got everything as close to how I wanted it as I could possibly get.
Then came the video to project onto the ceiling. I fed an early version of the track into iMovie to start. I created some cloud-scapes in photoshop and downloaded tons of Creative Commons images from Wikimedia Commons. After four days of back-and-forth video, sound, and script editing, downloading different images and clips as I needed them, I got a good rough draft of the video done. Time, testing (lying on my bed of course), and a peer opinion later, I made the final version. Here it is, though without the context and orientation in the Shed (and of course without being in Australia), it's a different experience to watch it here, but you can at least get an idea if you would like:
To suppliment the parts with stars, I wanted to fill the entire space with them, creating some interactivity and depth to it. So I also got a mirror-ball to reflect light onto the audience, walls, and ceiling in a starscape kind of way. It mostly worked.
All right, now that I was done designing and creating the ideas, all that was left was making the show itself. Over three days, I became extremely familiar with how to reserve and collect equipment and props. I vacuumed rolls and rolls of carpets and rugs, I gathered, asked, met with, and discussed the show with numerous VCA staff. I got a lot of people making grossed-out faces when I told them I'd have them lying on props carpets.
So the day came of loading in the show, and it wasn't quite as bad as it could have been. A couple of guys from the first Shed Piece and a third-year guy helped me put up drapes around the room and hoist the roof drape, and Elina—a good friend—came to help later. The roof drape alone took about an hour-and-a-half to hang. It was an epic undertaking that really took all five of us. After that, everyone but Elina left, who helped me set up my lights, sound, and projection. Then we tested it all, came back in the morning for more testing and finicky stuff, and told my front-of-house person what I needed her to tell the people before they entered. This included all the tripping hazards, fire exits, and where to put their shoes—everyone had to take 'em off. At long last, I opened the doors to droves of production students during the lunch break, and the show was off.
The first showing went really, really well. There were about twenty-five people and everything went off without a hitch—not including that I was shaking the whole time, including while holding/moving lights to hit the disco ball. It went really well and I was really, really satisfied with it. Apparently the other students liked it too, because there were close to 45 people who came during the second showing (including each and every one of the lecturers and staff). When Kym (the dean of Production) was told to take her shoes off and lie on the floor, she looked at me, smiled, and said, "Orvis, I hate you." It was satisfying and terrifying at the same time. Excellent.
It's a really great feeling when the people whose respect you are trying to gain see something you put tons of thought, preparation, and work into and come up to you and earnestly compliment you on how much they liked it—conceptually and how it was carried out. It is really a great feeling. I really can't describe it.
In the end, I and the next ones in bumped out my show, bumped in the next, and I returned all my equipment. For the rest of the day I heard almost nothing but compliments for it all, some really great ones coming from people I really respected and admired. It was wonderful. And best of all—except for a good amount of drawings, renderings, models, and documentation—I was done. So that night, the night of the 24th, I went away from the VCA with a huge smile on my face and had a wonderful night.
This is the script—the inspiration of writing that generated this entire story:
I'm lying in my bed. It is a strange bed in an unfamiliar country and there is an entire world between me and where I came from. My friends are waking for their first classes of the day, my father is arriving at work, and I am lying on my bed, wholly different in time and space, seeing a sky they have never seen. Seeing clouds. Seeing stars.
Welcome to the sky.
It's a truly complex machine we live in. We experience the incredible every day; it is all there for us to see, smell, taste, hear, and touch—the entire universe waiting for us.
Our voices go out into the sky as radio waves. Our great accomplishments make themselves known by lighting the earth at night. From space, the earth seems covered in stars, showing where we are and what we've created. [beat] But our stars cannot possibly tell the whole story.
People take incredible action with themselves and each-other, and every single choice has an effect on the entire world. The effect of each choice multiplies ad infinitum across every street, city, and nation and every second, day, and lifetime. With each hour, humanity rends itself to shreds while building a whole greater than itself. The power in every action is phenomenal.
It's a truly complex machine we live in. We experience the incredible every day; it is all there for us to see, smell, taste, hear, and touch—the entire universe—all of creation...waiting for us.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
So, WTF is up with UOW? (An Answer)
I've gotten a few questions about the status of this blogging exercise, since it's been quite some time since we've seen any activity. Here's your answer, laid out in all its explanatory glory.
THe primary issue is that both Mods have been bogged down in their lives outside of UOW. I planned and executed a trip to New York (where, incidentally, I'm writing from), and Mod 2's had a lot on her plate with school and work and possible traveling of her own. Personally, I also felt pretty guilty about falling behind in commenting on everyone's work, as I think it's unfair to ask people to make an effort if I'm not going to offer something in return (like feedback). This is supposed to be a side project, and if we don't have time to run it the right way, then we just don't have time and shouldn't do it half-assed.
That doesn't mean we're shutting down; a temporary hiatus is what's at hand, that's all. Frankly no one I've talked to has had time to write for us anyway, and I'd rather pick up again when we can have at least 3 posts per weekly assignment (that's at least 3 people posting a week, mind you). My thoughts: we'll leave off until April (which is still a busy time for students, I know, but that's always gonna be true. Students are busy!), which will give Mods 1 and 2 time to sort out what we're doing with UOW. It'll also give me time to organize the site in a more navigable manner--sidelinks archiving the weekly categories, for example, and adding sections showing who's been writing what, to make it easier to track our writing and our progress and whatnot.
I do want to thank everyone for their participatory efforts up to this point. The fact that we even got to start this thing is a happy thought in my book, and I'm glad that people have had such positive responses to the blog.
See you all in April!
-Mod 1
THe primary issue is that both Mods have been bogged down in their lives outside of UOW. I planned and executed a trip to New York (where, incidentally, I'm writing from), and Mod 2's had a lot on her plate with school and work and possible traveling of her own. Personally, I also felt pretty guilty about falling behind in commenting on everyone's work, as I think it's unfair to ask people to make an effort if I'm not going to offer something in return (like feedback). This is supposed to be a side project, and if we don't have time to run it the right way, then we just don't have time and shouldn't do it half-assed.
That doesn't mean we're shutting down; a temporary hiatus is what's at hand, that's all. Frankly no one I've talked to has had time to write for us anyway, and I'd rather pick up again when we can have at least 3 posts per weekly assignment (that's at least 3 people posting a week, mind you). My thoughts: we'll leave off until April (which is still a busy time for students, I know, but that's always gonna be true. Students are busy!), which will give Mods 1 and 2 time to sort out what we're doing with UOW. It'll also give me time to organize the site in a more navigable manner--sidelinks archiving the weekly categories, for example, and adding sections showing who's been writing what, to make it easier to track our writing and our progress and whatnot.
I do want to thank everyone for their participatory efforts up to this point. The fact that we even got to start this thing is a happy thought in my book, and I'm glad that people have had such positive responses to the blog.
See you all in April!
-Mod 1
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Po-ems
So, I have a sonnet and a villanelle, both first drafts. Extremely corny. I'm working on them as sort of goodbye-gifts for the baristas at the Starbucks near my work, because I go there every workday, and I'm kinda gonna miss those kids. And you know. It's nice to show appreciation blah blah blah here are the poems. (Also this is post #42 on the blog so MOD 1 FTW)
Villanelle--
The drink is secondary to the smile--
Twelve dollars daily builds up an addiction,
But my baristas make it worth my while.
With aprons tied and black hats set in style,
They know that at the bar and in the kitchen
The drink is secondary to the smile.
Their rapt attention to the coffeephile
affirms, with every visit, my prediction:
That my baristas make it worth my while.
The syrups, teas and lattes in my pile
of cups kowtow to only one restriction.
(That the drink is secondary to the smile.)
Their legendary service won't beguile
A fervent Coffee Beaner into switchin'
But my baristas make it worth my while,
So there is neither doubting nor denial of
The simple truth I tell in my depiction:
The drink is secondary to the smile,
But my baristas make it worth my while.
Sonnet--
I've been here every week since last September,
And while I have a dodgy memory,
I'll do my best, from now on, to remember
The names of those who've been so good to me:
Miguel and Shandra, Chris, Karem, and Jake,
Tomas (long gone), and Natalie, and Megan,
Then Robert, and then Adrian, and Becky,
Alicia, Patrick, Andrew, Sean, and Steven.
They labor at the daily coffee grind;
The service is impeccable, at worst;
At best, there is no better in my mind,
And in my heart, this Starbucks is the first.
There will be other coffee shops, it's true,
But none compare; they aren't ever you.
Villanelle--
The drink is secondary to the smile--
Twelve dollars daily builds up an addiction,
But my baristas make it worth my while.
With aprons tied and black hats set in style,
They know that at the bar and in the kitchen
The drink is secondary to the smile.
Their rapt attention to the coffeephile
affirms, with every visit, my prediction:
That my baristas make it worth my while.
The syrups, teas and lattes in my pile
of cups kowtow to only one restriction.
(That the drink is secondary to the smile.)
Their legendary service won't beguile
A fervent Coffee Beaner into switchin'
But my baristas make it worth my while,
So there is neither doubting nor denial of
The simple truth I tell in my depiction:
The drink is secondary to the smile,
But my baristas make it worth my while.
Sonnet--
I've been here every week since last September,
And while I have a dodgy memory,
I'll do my best, from now on, to remember
The names of those who've been so good to me:
Miguel and Shandra, Chris, Karem, and Jake,
Tomas (long gone), and Natalie, and Megan,
Then Robert, and then Adrian, and Becky,
Alicia, Patrick, Andrew, Sean, and Steven.
They labor at the daily coffee grind;
The service is impeccable, at worst;
At best, there is no better in my mind,
And in my heart, this Starbucks is the first.
There will be other coffee shops, it's true,
But none compare; they aren't ever you.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Snippet of a Larger Piece
Not a poem or any other prompt, just something small from a larger piece I am working on. Posted just to post something!
He leaves her in the spring with a laugh and a smile and a promise. He leaves her in the spring with a grin and a gentle kiss, with her father’s smile and a gold band on her finger. He leaves her in the spring with the sun gold in his hair and her dowry clinking softly in his bag. He leaves her in the spring, jumps laughing onto the back of the tinker's wagon, his kiss warm on her lips and his promise to send for her echoing in her ears. He leaves her in the spring with her father’s smile and her mother’s hard look and something small and tight and heavy in her belly, a seed planted by the laughter in his eyes and the way he had leapt so lightly onto the back of the wagon, the way his coat had flared out in the wind like wings and he seemed for an instant to be in flight.
He leaves her in the spring with a laugh and a smile and a promise. He leaves her in the spring with a grin and a gentle kiss, with her father’s smile and a gold band on her finger. He leaves her in the spring with the sun gold in his hair and her dowry clinking softly in his bag. He leaves her in the spring, jumps laughing onto the back of the tinker's wagon, his kiss warm on her lips and his promise to send for her echoing in her ears. He leaves her in the spring with her father’s smile and her mother’s hard look and something small and tight and heavy in her belly, a seed planted by the laughter in his eyes and the way he had leapt so lightly onto the back of the wagon, the way his coat had flared out in the wind like wings and he seemed for an instant to be in flight.
Sweet Control
I won't preface this too much accept to say that sorry it took me forever to start writing.
A poem for you:
Sometimes
It's all about that one line
the one that hooks you in the jaw
the one that acts like a law
Sometimes
It's the glance over her shoulder
the captivating stare
She always knows you're there
Sometimes
The situation isn't fair
You can't help but let her win
Giving up or giving in
Sometimes
The crime is in no reply
She wants a statue, not a rug
With a faith that doesn't budge
Sometimes
All is sweet as candied sin
She opens up and calls you dear
Whispers nothings in your ear
Sometimes
It's not her power, her embrace
You share the pain, but don't forget
She keeps loving you yet.
A poem for you:
Sometimes
It's all about that one line
the one that hooks you in the jaw
the one that acts like a law
Sometimes
It's the glance over her shoulder
the captivating stare
She always knows you're there
Sometimes
The situation isn't fair
You can't help but let her win
Giving up or giving in
Sometimes
The crime is in no reply
She wants a statue, not a rug
With a faith that doesn't budge
Sometimes
All is sweet as candied sin
She opens up and calls you dear
Whispers nothings in your ear
Sometimes
It's not her power, her embrace
You share the pain, but don't forget
She keeps loving you yet.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Short moments on Inauguration Day
A stolen moment of pride at being touched. In the rush of the instant, the second stills; frozen in time, excitement hovers in the air, palpable as a miniature sun. In the middle of the room, four eyes watch; four ears listen. A sticker gleams on the table, boldly declaring “I voted!” next to the book declaring our oft-claimed heritage. The instant is broken by the chant on the televised coverage, a chant echoing both a well-known song and a well-felt sentiment: na na na na, na na na na, hey-hey-hey, goodbye. I wonder vaguely if it can be heard from the helicopter hovering over the crowds. A surge of pride again wells, quite possibly something I’ll have to get used to. As I peruse the new White House website, my heart rises to my throat as I am greeted by the front page declaration “Change has come to America.” I hear Keith Olberman announce: I’ll say it first and then you at home repeat it. The 44th President of the United States, President Barack Obama. Go on, you’ll have to get used to it sometime.
I don’t repeat it; I can’t repeat it. I can’t speak, frozen in this moment of pride.
Semi-Structured Poems
Snow fall!
Now fall!
No fail!
N il!
Snow's not been here in many-a-year.
At least four, I think, if not more.
It's flurrying down,
to a slurrying ground.
People, people everywhere,
And none of them did blink;
People, people everywhere,
Nor and need to think.
Power is exchanged
It's a huge hoopla for the
inaguration.
People are all over the room
Listen, it's as quiet as a tomb.
The announcer then speaks
All rise to their feet
To herald a new era sans doom.
Now fall!
No fail!
N il!
Snow's not been here in many-a-year.
At least four, I think, if not more.
It's flurrying down,
to a slurrying ground.
People, people everywhere,
And none of them did blink;
People, people everywhere,
Nor and need to think.
Power is exchanged
It's a huge hoopla for the
inaguration.
People are all over the room
Listen, it's as quiet as a tomb.
The announcer then speaks
All rise to their feet
To herald a new era sans doom.
Poetry doodles!
Poetry!
Something I'm sort of not keen on sharing but since this blog is all about us improving our literary voices, I figured that it'd be helpful to post it. Be warned though, it's bilingual! Oh, and if anyone can tell me how to do the ~ over the N, I'd appreciate it :-) . That said, enjoy:
"Voz"
You,
Towering over
the dilapidated and broken
home of Eddie Olmos.
You,
who no one sees
or cares to notice
your overarching sombrero,
your bullet clad shirt
your caballo that runs
Toward!
la tierra de suenos.
Voz,
who once proclaimed,
"Es mejor de morir en mis pies,
than to continue living on my knees,"
You,
Grey
Barren
Broken hearted
Soulless
Suenos rusted
by the poder del Mundo,
will no longer stand.
Voz,
Nadie,
hears it now.
Voz,
Nadie,
No one,
Cares for you now.
Something I'm sort of not keen on sharing but since this blog is all about us improving our literary voices, I figured that it'd be helpful to post it. Be warned though, it's bilingual! Oh, and if anyone can tell me how to do the ~ over the N, I'd appreciate it :-) . That said, enjoy:
"Voz"
You,
Towering over
the dilapidated and broken
home of Eddie Olmos.
You,
who no one sees
or cares to notice
your overarching sombrero,
your bullet clad shirt
your caballo that runs
Toward!
la tierra de suenos.
Voz,
who once proclaimed,
"Es mejor de morir en mis pies,
than to continue living on my knees,"
You,
Grey
Barren
Broken hearted
Soulless
Suenos rusted
by the poder del Mundo,
will no longer stand.
Voz,
Nadie,
hears it now.
Voz,
Nadie,
No one,
Cares for you now.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Session #8: Seriously, let's write already
You may have noticed a lack of writing on this writing blog in the last few weeks. This is as much on the mods as it is on the non-mod writers (because we, too, are supposed to write) but we, like you, don't want to be the only ones doing it. So, here's the assignment.
I am extending Mod 2's assignment from last week. I am also extending MY assignment from the week before last. Additionally, I am reminding everyone that you always have free rein to write whatever you want, as long as you're posting something. Anything. Write a poem for Mod 2, or a revision for Mod 1, or whatever the hell you want to write without our guidance. Just, write something and post it.
I want to see posts this week. Not just from some of you. From me. From Mod 2. I want to hear from people who haven't written a single thing yet. This blog is certainly not your top priority, but it is a good exercise, and the best way to keep it from being a chore is making it a part of your routine, something that comes as naturally as checking your email, logging on to Facebook, or wasting time on Wikipedia. I realize that part of the problem is that I've fallen behind in MY responsibilities--I haven't sent out the weekly email, for example, in a while, and I haven't been good about commenting, as I said I would be.
Well here's the trade-off. By Wednesday, EVERY story that has no comments on it, will have a thoughtful, insightful (one would hope) comment from me. By next Sunday, all stories posted for this topical week will have the same courtesy extended to them.
So, man up! Let's get this show on the road.
I am extending Mod 2's assignment from last week. I am also extending MY assignment from the week before last. Additionally, I am reminding everyone that you always have free rein to write whatever you want, as long as you're posting something. Anything. Write a poem for Mod 2, or a revision for Mod 1, or whatever the hell you want to write without our guidance. Just, write something and post it.
I want to see posts this week. Not just from some of you. From me. From Mod 2. I want to hear from people who haven't written a single thing yet. This blog is certainly not your top priority, but it is a good exercise, and the best way to keep it from being a chore is making it a part of your routine, something that comes as naturally as checking your email, logging on to Facebook, or wasting time on Wikipedia. I realize that part of the problem is that I've fallen behind in MY responsibilities--I haven't sent out the weekly email, for example, in a while, and I haven't been good about commenting, as I said I would be.
Well here's the trade-off. By Wednesday, EVERY story that has no comments on it, will have a thoughtful, insightful (one would hope) comment from me. By next Sunday, all stories posted for this topical week will have the same courtesy extended to them.
So, man up! Let's get this show on the road.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Session #6: 1/04/09 - 1/11/09
Welcome to 2009! You may have noticed a dearth in writing in the past week which included the absence of a weekly topic. This is because Mod 1 was quite ill and Mod 2 was traveling, and between the holidays and the two of us, well, nothing got done. It's a new year though, which provides an excellent excuse for a new start, so here we go with a new topic!
We will actually move forward with our exercise by looking back at what we've done. We have all produced our fair share of writing, both on the blog and in the world beyond the blog. As fruitful as it would be to continue with new works, sometimes the best way to encourage growth is to go back to an unfinished piece and complete it, to find something old that can be made newer, better, and stronger with the experience you've garnered since it was last touched.
Revise an older work, preferably from the blog but otherwise something you've done in the last two years. Provide us with a link either to the original blog post or to the original text, for comparison's sake (how can we comment on a revision when we don't know what's been revised?). Go after your spelling and grammar, but don't shy away from making radical changes. A revision doesn't need to be a final draft, it just needs to be different.
Auld lang syne, all that jazz. Let's do it to it.
We will actually move forward with our exercise by looking back at what we've done. We have all produced our fair share of writing, both on the blog and in the world beyond the blog. As fruitful as it would be to continue with new works, sometimes the best way to encourage growth is to go back to an unfinished piece and complete it, to find something old that can be made newer, better, and stronger with the experience you've garnered since it was last touched.
Revise an older work, preferably from the blog but otherwise something you've done in the last two years. Provide us with a link either to the original blog post or to the original text, for comparison's sake (how can we comment on a revision when we don't know what's been revised?). Go after your spelling and grammar, but don't shy away from making radical changes. A revision doesn't need to be a final draft, it just needs to be different.
Auld lang syne, all that jazz. Let's do it to it.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Can you imagine?
Te imaginas, ¿ser madre a los catorce años? Mi madre tenia catorce cuando tuvo Anita...
¿Y tu padre?
Dies y nueve...
He had no siblings to care for. No one attached to him, needing him. Still a boy, he made a house for his child-bride, carefully laying out the steel structure for the tiny house. The site overlooked the river, and he positioned the windows to take advantage of the view. She would always love washing the dishes, as she could see the sun setting over the river, as the coquis sang their twilight ritual. She bore him a child at fourteen. Anita.
He took jobs in construction, she stayed at home. At the end of his life, he was still a strong, young man. He left twelve children of varying ages, the middle ones clocking in at fifteen, sixteen and seventeen. He had imposed the order of age, on the girls especially. Each male child had a female child to protect, and each child must be home at that arbitrary time: when Father arrives. They had their own roll call, with each child in his and her proper place at the proper time. By the time he left, there had already been defections amongst their ranks. His child-bride had taken experimental drugs to prevent a thirteenth child. He found them and flushed them down the toilet of their three-bedroom, solid concrete abode. It had seemed luxurious when he constructed it, but now the tin roof leaks and it is difficult to find a place for twelve children. Eleven. One of the girls left home at fourteen. He had pushed her, insisting that she not see her boyfriend, for he was nineteen, and this was unacceptable to him. His bride had helped her daughter, remembering what it was to be fourteen.
Monday, December 22, 2008
last week. high stakes sleepiness
El Gatito chiquitito pulls at the roots of my hair with very sharp teeth, preens me like a lovestruck parrot. Thrice tugged, my beleagered scalp relinquishes three hairs. Precisely what he needs! El Gatito chiquitito suffers from a protein deficiency. Three are missing from his brain and mine obviously fake out the problem by keeping the receptors from signaling their distress, but only momentarily. The only real solution is to keep him under my head with my hair fanned out over his purry self.
I orient as prescribed, and wake an hour later (with a cat under my pillow) when my childhood love, now deaf and blinding, begs to come in. Of course I can't let him. He'll be heartbroken at my infidelity. My heart breaks.
I orient as prescribed, and wake an hour later (with a cat under my pillow) when my childhood love, now deaf and blinding, begs to come in. Of course I can't let him. He'll be heartbroken at my infidelity. My heart breaks.
Session Five: 12/22/08 - 12/28/08
It's the big bad holiday week, full of Chrismahanukwanzakah cheer, but you won't be forced to wax nostalgic about It's a Wonderful Life or your most meaningful menorah moment.
The holidays, one hopes, are about something bigger than religious ceremony and the ritual of commercial give and take. This is the time of year when, more than ever, we are asked to think about others, the people we care about, the people who care about us, and what we mean to one another, what we're willing to give up for one another, monetarily or otherwise. Little things become meaningful, not just from ourselves and our loved ones, but from perfect strangers as well. Some of the most meaningful conversations I carry with me, the talks that remind me why my loved ones mean so much to me, are snippets I've gleaned from the people around me at coffee shops, on the subway, in stores, on the street.
Eavesdrop. Pay attention to what people are saying all around you, people you know, people you don't know, maybe a little bit of both. Once you've found a snippet that appeals to you, incorporate it into your piece for the week. Try to keep it verbatim, but if you want to make a few minor changes, feel free to do so. (Let's avoid paraphrase; you're not making up this conversation, you're utilizing it.) The conversation can be of any length; this isn't about length, it's about content.
Have some fun, and may all your holidays be happy!!! Love your loves, tip your servers, and if you give anything at all, give a damn! :-)
The holidays, one hopes, are about something bigger than religious ceremony and the ritual of commercial give and take. This is the time of year when, more than ever, we are asked to think about others, the people we care about, the people who care about us, and what we mean to one another, what we're willing to give up for one another, monetarily or otherwise. Little things become meaningful, not just from ourselves and our loved ones, but from perfect strangers as well. Some of the most meaningful conversations I carry with me, the talks that remind me why my loved ones mean so much to me, are snippets I've gleaned from the people around me at coffee shops, on the subway, in stores, on the street.
Eavesdrop. Pay attention to what people are saying all around you, people you know, people you don't know, maybe a little bit of both. Once you've found a snippet that appeals to you, incorporate it into your piece for the week. Try to keep it verbatim, but if you want to make a few minor changes, feel free to do so. (Let's avoid paraphrase; you're not making up this conversation, you're utilizing it.) The conversation can be of any length; this isn't about length, it's about content.
Have some fun, and may all your holidays be happy!!! Love your loves, tip your servers, and if you give anything at all, give a damn! :-)
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Half-remembered dream fragment
We lugged the ice across the porch to California from New York;
A length of floorboard was all we traversed on the way.
Black gloves don’t keep the weather out,
But this is winter in your sleep:
Our hands insistently press against
Cold cubes cut from cutthroat snows
That are warmer than the bend in the back of my knee.
One of my cubes is losing a corner that crumbled when I wasn’t looking.
I pile on the snow from the ground
But it isn’t the same when the snow’s not the same,
It doesn’t pack on the right way.
You can see how I tried with the seam,
It’s broken and we can’t hide it,
Now everyone will see.
Why did we have to drag it?
A length of floorboard was all we traversed on the way.
Black gloves don’t keep the weather out,
But this is winter in your sleep:
Our hands insistently press against
Cold cubes cut from cutthroat snows
That are warmer than the bend in the back of my knee.
One of my cubes is losing a corner that crumbled when I wasn’t looking.
I pile on the snow from the ground
But it isn’t the same when the snow’s not the same,
It doesn’t pack on the right way.
You can see how I tried with the seam,
It’s broken and we can’t hide it,
Now everyone will see.
Why did we have to drag it?
A City of Brick, all Clean, Solid, and Uniform
Two teenagers leave a party, driving away through the clean, safe streets. They park in an alleyway three blocks away from the City's quiet center. The party left an aural emptiness behind the talk. Alone, in a parked car, the silence was golden.
We were enraptured by being with each-other. We held each-other and that was all there was.
Out of nowhere, a Pringles truck screamed by our alley, shattering the silence. We heard a dampened rhythmic thumping from the truck when it passed, but the truck covered it with a gigantic screech when the driver slammed on breaks, swung the back around, and began to tip over. Astoundingly it came to rest on its back door, wheels touching the brick building, and the thumping got stronger and faster as the truck settled. The rhythm hit an apex, the truck hissed and split down the center, and the music exploded out.
It was raw rhythm and tone and motion and power. It drew deeply on the two of us, pulling something out of each of us that we had been neglecting. The tempo began to drive everything: our arms, our legs, our torsos, our breathing, our heart-beats, our muscles, our marrow. We needed to move, keep time, be the music. We needed it. There was nothing else.
People from the truck were moving fast. Two were at control boxes on the side of the building, two on the deck with modified mounted guns, shooting glowing neon streamers and glowsticks on and over everything on the street. A DJ in the back was moving between his decks and the switches for foggers, hazers, and lazers. Finally, at least ten people ran out to be the start of the crowd. They knocked on every door, pulling anyone who answered onto the street. People multiflied—cars and buses, bikes and segways, pole-vaulters and traceurs. The girl and I walked around a corner to see people on rooftops setting off confetti cannons and throwing down glowing streamers. There were hundreds of people, everywhere, all a part of this grand experience.
The truck's people on the control boxes finish hacking the emergency systems. Yellow emergency lights flash everywhere and the music streams from every loud-speaker in the City. Within a minute, the entire city is engulfed in rhythmic rapture.
The music was alive and the people of the City made its body. And the body danced.
We were enraptured by being with each-other. We held each-other and that was all there was.
Out of nowhere, a Pringles truck screamed by our alley, shattering the silence. We heard a dampened rhythmic thumping from the truck when it passed, but the truck covered it with a gigantic screech when the driver slammed on breaks, swung the back around, and began to tip over. Astoundingly it came to rest on its back door, wheels touching the brick building, and the thumping got stronger and faster as the truck settled. The rhythm hit an apex, the truck hissed and split down the center, and the music exploded out.
It was raw rhythm and tone and motion and power. It drew deeply on the two of us, pulling something out of each of us that we had been neglecting. The tempo began to drive everything: our arms, our legs, our torsos, our breathing, our heart-beats, our muscles, our marrow. We needed to move, keep time, be the music. We needed it. There was nothing else.
People from the truck were moving fast. Two were at control boxes on the side of the building, two on the deck with modified mounted guns, shooting glowing neon streamers and glowsticks on and over everything on the street. A DJ in the back was moving between his decks and the switches for foggers, hazers, and lazers. Finally, at least ten people ran out to be the start of the crowd. They knocked on every door, pulling anyone who answered onto the street. People multiflied—cars and buses, bikes and segways, pole-vaulters and traceurs. The girl and I walked around a corner to see people on rooftops setting off confetti cannons and throwing down glowing streamers. There were hundreds of people, everywhere, all a part of this grand experience.
The truck's people on the control boxes finish hacking the emergency systems. Yellow emergency lights flash everywhere and the music streams from every loud-speaker in the City. Within a minute, the entire city is engulfed in rhythmic rapture.
The music was alive and the people of the City made its body. And the body danced.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
last week's bit cont.
Hey all. I wrote some more after last week's entry. I'm experimenting with writing sex scenes that aren't horribly awkward. So! if reading about sex makes you squicky I wouldn't read this post. Still have no idea where this is going but so far I kinda like it. Enjoy!
It snowed today. And while the streets are covered in ice, I'm haunted by the sweet smell of her perfume. I've been drifting in and out of sleep, each waking bringing the mourning of her again. Its too cold outside for dreams and the scent of Rose is on the air.
Two months have passed since I wiped her sweat off my body with a cold cloth in my girlfriend’s old apartment. I’ve been with her for a few years now. With Susan. I don’t really know how long because we lost something along the road to this brand new house with brand new friends. Perfect, she calls ‘em. The friends and the house.
But perfect just ain’t us. We’re the girls you see on the streets. Tattoos from a hurried youth hidden under sweaters and loafers replacing combat boots. We’re the girls who never fit in during gym class. The ones whose eyes didn’t dart away fast enough in the changing room. The ones who take dyke and turn it into damn. We smell like sweat and sex. Nothing like roses.
Oddly enough, it all started to feel right again when I first walked into the pub to that smell of hers. Rose's. That smile could have melted anyone. Even a love-sick cunt like me in the coldest new England winter since the 1800’s. Guess that’s just how it goes some times. Love.
My first night with her ended like any other one night stand. We fucked all night and most of the morning. Till our legs ached. Shy good byes. A promise to call. And 15 text messages reminding me that Susan was none too happy with me. I’d talk to her later. I was too busy thinking of a soft pink nipple between my lips and sweet nothings in my ear. My ear that had recently only received dates, figures, and a reminder to feed the cat. Maybe it was her soft moans or the feel of her chest rising beneath mine. Maybe it was the movement of her hips. Maybe the movement of our hips. Perhaps it was the intensity of our connection that broke her lamp and brought me toppling down on her. Down on her in a pile of clothes that just wouldn’t come off fast enough. Damn bra. I knew I shouldn’t have worn one. Damn buttons. She didn't really need those pants on anyway. But mostly, I think it was her smile.
It snowed today. And while the streets are covered in ice, I'm haunted by the sweet smell of her perfume. I've been drifting in and out of sleep, each waking bringing the mourning of her again. Its too cold outside for dreams and the scent of Rose is on the air.
Two months have passed since I wiped her sweat off my body with a cold cloth in my girlfriend’s old apartment. I’ve been with her for a few years now. With Susan. I don’t really know how long because we lost something along the road to this brand new house with brand new friends. Perfect, she calls ‘em. The friends and the house.
But perfect just ain’t us. We’re the girls you see on the streets. Tattoos from a hurried youth hidden under sweaters and loafers replacing combat boots. We’re the girls who never fit in during gym class. The ones whose eyes didn’t dart away fast enough in the changing room. The ones who take dyke and turn it into damn. We smell like sweat and sex. Nothing like roses.
Oddly enough, it all started to feel right again when I first walked into the pub to that smell of hers. Rose's. That smile could have melted anyone. Even a love-sick cunt like me in the coldest new England winter since the 1800’s. Guess that’s just how it goes some times. Love.
My first night with her ended like any other one night stand. We fucked all night and most of the morning. Till our legs ached. Shy good byes. A promise to call. And 15 text messages reminding me that Susan was none too happy with me. I’d talk to her later. I was too busy thinking of a soft pink nipple between my lips and sweet nothings in my ear. My ear that had recently only received dates, figures, and a reminder to feed the cat. Maybe it was her soft moans or the feel of her chest rising beneath mine. Maybe it was the movement of her hips. Maybe the movement of our hips. Perhaps it was the intensity of our connection that broke her lamp and brought me toppling down on her. Down on her in a pile of clothes that just wouldn’t come off fast enough. Damn bra. I knew I shouldn’t have worn one. Damn buttons. She didn't really need those pants on anyway. But mostly, I think it was her smile.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Untitled Nightmare Fragment
Untitled Nightmare Fragment
All there is is me–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body and I want.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body and break it open, ease the pressure of my blood and see if it will vibrate the same way free of my flesh that it does trapped within.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body and break it open. I want to taste myself, the hot-thin-red-old-penny taste. I want to break myself open and taste the way I change, cooling, on the surface of her skin, the sharp ridges of her body.
I want to let go and fall and fall and fall and fall–
I want to let go and fall upwards into the granite of her neck.
I want to fall upwards into the granite if her neck and rupture, smear myself across her.
I want to fall upwards into the granite of her neck and rupture, smear myself across her until my intestines drape like pearls across the jut of her collarbones. I want to rupture and shatter so that she brushes the shards of my bones from her shoulders like dandruff.
I want to fall upwards into the granite of her neck and rupture, smear myself across her. I want to make her skin hot and red and shiny with the slick of my body, the smear of my self.
I want to burst myself against the craggy hills of her body and soak in. Soak in until there is nothing left but–
Her–
Her and the gentle curve of her smile–
Her and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body–
Nothing left but her and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body.
Nothing left but her.
All there is is me–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body–
All there is is me and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body and I want.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body and break it open, ease the pressure of my blood and see if it will vibrate the same way free of my flesh that it does trapped within.
I want to press my mouth to the sharp ridges of her body and break it open. I want to taste myself, the hot-thin-red-old-penny taste. I want to break myself open and taste the way I change, cooling, on the surface of her skin, the sharp ridges of her body.
I want to let go and fall and fall and fall and fall–
I want to let go and fall upwards into the granite of her neck.
I want to fall upwards into the granite if her neck and rupture, smear myself across her.
I want to fall upwards into the granite of her neck and rupture, smear myself across her until my intestines drape like pearls across the jut of her collarbones. I want to rupture and shatter so that she brushes the shards of my bones from her shoulders like dandruff.
I want to fall upwards into the granite of her neck and rupture, smear myself across her. I want to make her skin hot and red and shiny with the slick of my body, the smear of my self.
I want to burst myself against the craggy hills of her body and soak in. Soak in until there is nothing left but–
Her–
Her and the gentle curve of her smile–
Her and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body–
Nothing left but her and the gentle curve of her smile and the rigid rise of her body.
Nothing left but her.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Session #4: Topic for 12/14-12/21
Hey Folks
Linds here. Maybe its the wacky weather here in Portland, maybe its some cycle of the moon, or maybe I'm just a nutter but recently I have been having lots of weird dreams. I know I'm not the only one out there. So lets hear em folks! This weeks "assignment" is to write down a dream you have in the morning right after you wake up. Come back to it later and use it for inspiration. A narration? A poem? Song lyrics? Whatever you do, rock it! Looking forward to seeing what you post!
Love, luck and lollipops,
~Mod 2
Linds here. Maybe its the wacky weather here in Portland, maybe its some cycle of the moon, or maybe I'm just a nutter but recently I have been having lots of weird dreams. I know I'm not the only one out there. So lets hear em folks! This weeks "assignment" is to write down a dream you have in the morning right after you wake up. Come back to it later and use it for inspiration. A narration? A poem? Song lyrics? Whatever you do, rock it! Looking forward to seeing what you post!
Love, luck and lollipops,
~Mod 2
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Uncle Nestor
I actually DO have a story for the week 3 assignment I created, but I've found I need more time to work with it, because it's a bit lengthy, so in the meantime this is a piece I've also had time to reflect on in the passing week. Please note, "mahal kita" is filipino for "I love you."
----
My uncle is dying. Too much lung cancer. You’d think just having the cancer would be enough, but he’s got it in spades, there’s more infected tissue than healthy. Also he’s leaking fluid all over his body, fluid from the kidney, or maybe the liver, I don’t remember what the family says the doctors said to us. They didn’t say anything to me. I’m never around for these things when they happen. And these things, you know, they happen.
With his eyes closed, without his glasses on, I don’t recognize him as himself. This particular uncle, I know him by his glasses; I know him by his eyes magnified in lenses. Now he looks more like his younger brother Joe, with dark, glamorous eyelashes and a full, naked face. I would have walked right by him in the hospital, missed the room completely, if my aunts hadn’t been in there by his side.
His heart, it’s floating in his chest, pooled in the fluid from the kidney-and-or-liver. There are so many wires and tubes and cables that I can’t tell which one is supposed to be draining all that liquid from the cavity in his chest; I’d be more likely to pick out the catheter tube or the intravenous meds, or the oxygen. He’s not even breathing on his own now. The air moves into him and out from the machines, forceful and automated like perfectly scheduled clockwork. I watch him breath with cables in his mouth and tubes in his nose, not at all like himself, and his chest rises and falls in three repetitive steps: up, out, down. Again. Up, out, down. Perfect.
My parents leave me alone with him for a few minutes, because who knows how much I’ve got to say? Maybe it’s fifteen minutes, or twenty, or longer. Nurses and guests pass our room in the hallway, and I turn to greet every new step, expecting to see someone I recognize who might have more to tell him than I do. I look at him, and my mind won’t settle on anything. All I can say is “uncle na, uncle na,” like I’m talking to a child. I try to whisper “uncle na, mahal kita,” but it doesn’t sound right, like it’s done for show, so I stop and take his hand instead. He’s cold, and he doesn’t feel human at all. There’s a disconnect between me and our hands and my uncle. Still I stand next to him and I don’t let go. I have to warm his hand, as if that could be the secret to bringing him back to the family again. It’s all that I can do, the only thing I can give him, squeezing his cold hand and cooing “uncle na.”
The curtains in the room are pink, like a muted and dusky rose. The light cast on them comes in wide, vertical slats, angled from the setting sun and looking for all the world like an Edward Hopper scene, dusty and somber and soberly everyday. Set by the window is a gift from cousin Nora in a small, yellow bag. Wickedly attached, an aluminum balloon, labeled “Get Well!” Sitting at the forefront, a porcelain angel kneels in prayer, eternally vigilant, poignant. Precious.
----
My uncle is dying. Too much lung cancer. You’d think just having the cancer would be enough, but he’s got it in spades, there’s more infected tissue than healthy. Also he’s leaking fluid all over his body, fluid from the kidney, or maybe the liver, I don’t remember what the family says the doctors said to us. They didn’t say anything to me. I’m never around for these things when they happen. And these things, you know, they happen.
With his eyes closed, without his glasses on, I don’t recognize him as himself. This particular uncle, I know him by his glasses; I know him by his eyes magnified in lenses. Now he looks more like his younger brother Joe, with dark, glamorous eyelashes and a full, naked face. I would have walked right by him in the hospital, missed the room completely, if my aunts hadn’t been in there by his side.
His heart, it’s floating in his chest, pooled in the fluid from the kidney-and-or-liver. There are so many wires and tubes and cables that I can’t tell which one is supposed to be draining all that liquid from the cavity in his chest; I’d be more likely to pick out the catheter tube or the intravenous meds, or the oxygen. He’s not even breathing on his own now. The air moves into him and out from the machines, forceful and automated like perfectly scheduled clockwork. I watch him breath with cables in his mouth and tubes in his nose, not at all like himself, and his chest rises and falls in three repetitive steps: up, out, down. Again. Up, out, down. Perfect.
My parents leave me alone with him for a few minutes, because who knows how much I’ve got to say? Maybe it’s fifteen minutes, or twenty, or longer. Nurses and guests pass our room in the hallway, and I turn to greet every new step, expecting to see someone I recognize who might have more to tell him than I do. I look at him, and my mind won’t settle on anything. All I can say is “uncle na, uncle na,” like I’m talking to a child. I try to whisper “uncle na, mahal kita,” but it doesn’t sound right, like it’s done for show, so I stop and take his hand instead. He’s cold, and he doesn’t feel human at all. There’s a disconnect between me and our hands and my uncle. Still I stand next to him and I don’t let go. I have to warm his hand, as if that could be the secret to bringing him back to the family again. It’s all that I can do, the only thing I can give him, squeezing his cold hand and cooing “uncle na.”
The curtains in the room are pink, like a muted and dusky rose. The light cast on them comes in wide, vertical slats, angled from the setting sun and looking for all the world like an Edward Hopper scene, dusty and somber and soberly everyday. Set by the window is a gift from cousin Nora in a small, yellow bag. Wickedly attached, an aluminum balloon, labeled “Get Well!” Sitting at the forefront, a porcelain angel kneels in prayer, eternally vigilant, poignant. Precious.
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