"Art is the creative expression of the human spirit, and it cannot- it must not, for the sake of the human community- be limited to those few who achieve critical acclaim or financial reward." -Pat Schneider
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Dreams
Response to Writing by Heart- prompt #7
The Memorized Text:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dreams by Langston Hughes.
The Memory:
I was starting high school, and I registered late because we had just moved from New York a week or two before school started. Due to last minute enrollment I had nothing to say about my schedule. I arrived and it was handed to me, likely created with whatever spaces were left in whatever classes were available. I remember a lot about that year socially- a new town and school, making friends and trying to find my place. Academically however, I remember little beyond how ahead we were in New York, compared to my grade level peers in Florida.
And there's one more thing I remember about my 9th grade classes: my elective class, Speech with Mrs. Stephens. She was a skinny older lady with big round hair, much like the wig Dustin Hoffman wore in Tootsie. Come to think of it, the hair and the big plastic rimmed, slightly shaded glasses she wore with the librarian neck chain attached were all reminiscent of the movie character. But she was the sweetest, happiest lady with a soft and kind voice, each word carefully enunciated. She was the Speech teacher after all. These days the class she taught would probably be called Public Speaking, not to be confused with speech therapy.
I never thought of myself as a speaker. A short, slightly chubby girl fighting to stay grounded in a somewhat obnoxious Long Island town, I was not exactly the epitome of confidence. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't particularly shy or socially inept. I played sports and always did well in school. But where I came from, everyone did. Pretty early on in the semester, Mrs. Stephens seemed to take a liking to me. One of the benefits of growing up in an academically competitive town, was the development of a strong work ethic. It didn't matter that Speech was "just an elective." To me it was a class, and that meant doing my best. I was just that kind of student.
As I mentioned, Mrs. Stephens took a liking to me and soon she asked me to compete on the Debate Team. Seriously? I thought. What do I know about debate? (Mom, if you're reading this- no snarky remarks about my affinity for argumentation). I was picturing nerdy guys in suits at podiums, arguing about politics*. No sir. That was not for me.
But that's not what Mrs. Stephens had in mind for me anyway. No. She wanted me for O.O. which stands for Original Oratory. You see, the Debate Team is really the Speech and Debate Team. She wanted me to compete in the Original Oratory event, in which I would be required to write a 10 minute speech about any topic I chose, memorize it. Then I would practice it, over and over, and over and over again with my teammates and my coach, to make sure it was well spoken, engaging, and within the 10 minute time frame. I worked on a couple of speeches throughout the year; the one I competed with most was on the topic of loneliness. It argued the difference between being alone and being lonely. I don't remember much about it other than the mild success I had in tournaments.
The speech I remember most though, was one I wrote for a specific competition. We were given a theme for our speeches and we all wrote on the same topic. This meant competing against my own teammates, which made the competition more challenging for me. My practice partner- who I can hear and picture clear as day, but can't remember her name- would also become my competition. The theme of the oratory was, Destiny, Choice Not Chance. My teammate wrote an eloquent speech quoting Frost's, The Road Not Taken and a couple of verses from The Police's song King of Pain. She was a year or two older than me and had more experience. I enjoyed watching her practice. I don't remember much about my speech except I used a quote from Abraham Lincoln I can't recall now, and another piece since ingrained in my memory today.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dreams by Langston Hughes.
The Reflection:
As I recalled this tiny high school blip on my radar screen, I realized I've never reflected much on this experience. Heck, I don't know if I've ever even given it any thought at all before now. I only competed on the Speech and Debate Team my freshman year, most likely because I became involved in other activities like competitive cheerleading and Key Club. I vaguely remember Mrs. Stephens approaching me sophomore year, but I no longer had speech class which meant less time to practice and ease in avoiding her.
But here's what I do know now. I have absolutely no fear of public speaking. Sure, I get the pre-speech adrenaline rush, and an occasional case of butterflies in my stomach. But I really have no true fear. In fact, I kind of like the adrenaline rush. It's a little like waiting to get on a rollercoaster. I'm not sure if this is something in me early on or if my experience on the Speech and Debate Team is responsible. Either way, it's pretty significant considering most articles or surveys, like this one, about Americans' biggest fears, has public speaking high in the ranks with heights and bugs. Whether Mrs. Stephens developed this in me, or noticed and nurtured it in me, I have no recollection of a significant public speaking experience prior to high school.
When I reflect on my oratory days, I also realize the wonderful writing experience it gave me. Writing a 10 minute speech is no minor feat (it would take much less than that to read this blog post), and writing for speaking is a whole other challenge for engaging an audience. You don't like my writing, you just stop reading it. You don't care for my blog, you just click on something else, maybe after leaving a negative comment, maybe not. But you don't like my speech, whoa...I can see it on your faces, hear it in your whispers, and i have to stand in front of you anyway and finish. We also had to use research and quotes, which gave me a good lesson in citing sources and choosing other people's words carefully.
I might go so far as to say Speech and Debate launched me as a writer. I hadn't thought about that until now. It wasn't until after two and half years of college, lots of self-doubt, and the guts to make a change, that I ended up deciding on a degree in Speech Communication. It really is amazing how much Speech Communication and writing are intertwined. Hence, communication.
Finally, back to the Langston Hughes poem, Dreams. I'm not sure why I chose this poem of all things related to destiny. Maybe it was in my English book that year. It's not as though I googled "dreams" or "destiny" on the internet. It was the 80's. But I do love Hughes' simple poem. Life really is about dreams. I'm always chasing new ones, and sticking with the ones not so easy to reach. The term "dreamer" is often used to connote one who lives in a fantasy world, who is unrealistic. I disagree. And defer to definition number one: one who dreams. Without my dreams, I would be that broken-winged bird, flying in circles in a spiral toward the ground face first. With my dreams, I'm outstretched, soaring with my face to the sun, always reaching, holding fast.
I believe in dreams, hopes, wishes. And I believe when your dreams come true, you create new ones.
Photo Credit: iama.be
*Of course I know now what a foolish stereotype I had in my head. Have you seen The Great Debaters?
Monday, December 21, 2015
I Shall Not Want
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want." line 1 of Psalm 23
I kept trying to use cool song lyrics from The Verve, U2 and Alanis Morissette, but this line from Psalm 23 that I had to memorize at First Baptist Church in Pontiac, Michigan some 39 years ago was the line that kept creeping into my brain. I had to let it; obviously there was something meaningful embedded in these words.
I remember my Bampa (maternal grandfather) asking me what I wanted for my birthday---my 7th or 8th, I can't remember which--- and me telling him I wanted a white Bible with gold edges on the pages. Everyone thought it was precious. That was me. Precious and genuinely Christian to the core.
When I got the gift, I immediately turned to this, my favorite (maybe because I had to memorize it?) part of the Bible. The picture was beautiful: sheep drinking from a clear stream, shepherds watching over them.
I remember as I recited this verse over and over again thinking I loved all of the words except the part about death. The idea scared me, even if God was with me.
Flash forward a couple of years later when Bampa died of a heart attack. This Psalm was printed on beautiful laminated cards along with his "stats." The words took on a whole new meaning, and now I cannot read them without getting weepy. What they didn't do was give a 9-year-old comfort that someone she loved dearly was gone, ripped away from her suddenly. In fact, since then, funerals make me a kind of uncomfortable I cannot explain.
I shall not want.
Those words are true. I have never wanted for anything, even growing up in a lower middle-class family. Well, I wanted but didn't need for anything.
As I approach a new phase in my life, one where family roles are changing, my career is taking a new path, and my body has started rebelling against me, I have to remember that I do not want. And, now I think I am ready to transition. The part of the Psalm that will guide me through this oddly confusing yet amazing time starts in line 2 and bleeds into line 3: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul."
A little restoration and stillness sounds just fine right about now.
And, yes, I still am not keen on line 4, but I am sure one day I will see it differently.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Prompt #7
Think of a text you know by heart. A piece of poetry, lyrics of a favorite song, a bible verse, a book excerpt- you get the idea. It should be longer than a single sentence quote, but hey we have no rules here. Write it down by hand in your notebook or type it out on your keyboard. Read it over a few times, as though you don't know it by heart.
Think about why you chose this piece of text and write anything you are inspired to write, in any format. When you post, provide the text and the original author.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
'Curio'sities
I used to give my mother gold charms for birthdays, Christmas, Mother's Day. When she was 50, she started a hair wrap. Just one. It was nearly a foot long by the time she cut it off. It was adorned with the charms I gave her, and it was all her. She was so ladylike and professional, gorgeous, sophisticated, with one long, pink, hippy wrap. She cut it off before receiving chemotherapy when she was diagnosed with cancer, a year before she died. I inherited her wrap, among other things. I used to carry with me in my pocket as a talisman when I needed her strength. I lost it once. For a month. I was lost without it, devastated really, until I convinced myself that a student at the high school I worked at stole it. It wasn't stolen; it was in the pocket of my winter coat. I haven't carried it since, so scared am I of losing it again.
My mother had a brass bell that she used in the last months of her life. She had a three-story condo, and would ring the bell for me or my aunt when she needed something. It's been in my classroom since I started teaching. This always made me uncomfortable, as a student would inevitably ring it, which would jar my senses. I would then give the history of the bell, and said student would return it to its resting place, embarrassed. I brought so many things I loved into my classroom when I was married. My classroom was home, not the place I paid the mortgage for. I am proud to say that this bell is in my home. It rests between my incense burner and a small rose quartz etched with the word 'beauty'.
The third item is actually a few items in one vessel. This dates back to my teen years. After graduation, I went through a period of self-exploration. This meant many hours alone in nature, particularly the beach. I had read about "holed" stones, which, according to folklore, gave the bearer power to see spirits. According to legend, to look through a holey stone from shore, one could see a phantom ship on the horizon. I looked. No ships, but I think the wonder drew me. It's hard to explain. Anyway, the stones live in salt water in a small glass bottle, where they've resided together for over 20 years.
These objects are mine. No matter where I live, or how much I downsize, they will be with me. Even if I move to another country, or onto a sailboat, or in a shipping container, these curios will travel with me.
Cover Me
Saturday, November 28, 2015
9/21/2001
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html
Every Rose has Its Thorn
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/11/prompt-6.html
"HELP!" I screamed out, if only in my head, as I was stared down by the overly attentive guy (Devon? Darin? Does it matter?) who refused to get the not-so-subtle hints to leave my house as I recovered from a wisdom tooth removal surgery. My puffy, bruised cheeks and mouth packed with cotton dressing were the only reasons I didn't verbally rip this guy a new one, but the hateful glares alone should have been enough.
A little background may help: I had been on three dates tops with this guy. He was, to put it mildly, a goofy guy who my grandmother worked with at Barnett Bank. Although I was a 17-year-old senior in high school, apparently this 20-year-old shooting star was the right brand of Christian to meet my grandmother's criteria and to convince my parents to let me date someone older. He wanted to introduce me to his parents on our first date. Uh, no thanks. And, can you wipe off your sweaty palms before you apply your death grip to my hand? In fact, may I have my hand back please?
And now, this. His refusal to leave my side after the surgery bordered on stalking, and I just wanted him to leave me the hell alone.
The doorbell rang. My exasperated mother went to see who else was coming to pay her daughter a visit, probably irritated that she would have one more annoying young adult under her feet.
"Annmarie," she called out. "Someone is at the door for you."
Really, mom? You can't show them in? But, then I thought better. This would be a short reprieve from D's (I really cannot remember this dude's name) beady eyes and sweaty everything, so I pulled myself up off the couch, and gingerly walked my drugged-up self to the door.
And there he stood. Bill. With a single red rose. Be still my beating heart.
More background: Bill was my much-sought-after co-worker at Ponderosa. To say this guy was hot is an understatement. He even made the vile brown and green striped polyester work uniform look good. We had been playing a weird cat and mouse game. He was the cat; I was the mouse. I liked him; he liked me. But, I wasn't his brand of girl. In other words, I didn't put out, and so we settled into a flirtatious friendship, me always wishing he'd see I was worth the wait.
So, you can imagine how weak in the knees I was when I saw him there with that rose. Then, reality hit me: I had Christian Stalker inside, preventing me from inviting the Dream Machine in.
GAAAAAH!
As I explained the fact that I had another visitor to Bill, I watched his face contort into an expression I had never thought I'd see from the cool-as-a-cucumber casanova. He looked rejected, sad even.
Double GAAAAAH!
As he left, head hanging, I closed the door and headed back into the family room, feeling quite irritated with the whole damn situation. I firmly kicked D out of my house and out of my life, despite the repeated desperate phone calls from him (and my grandmother). Again, can you say, "stalker?"
Bill and I worked together for a little while longer after that, but we never talked about that day.
And the rose sits pressed in my yearbook from 1987, a reminder that everything relies on timing, and our timing just wasn't good. On one hand, dangerous because it makes me fantasize about what could have been with Bill, a reminder of love not quite lost because it was never truly discovered. On the other hand, not dangerous because I'm sure the reality would not have lived up to the fantasy.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Peace
Peace
By Laurie J. Kemp
I don't remember when, but several years back my sister gave me a necklace. She often gives me unique things for my birthday or Chanukah, or even a trivial holiday such as Valentine's day. Whether it's a handmade soap from the farmer's market, or a piece of jewelry she bought from an eclectic Etsy site, she is exceptionally thoughtful about the gifts she picks out for others.
This gift was no exception. It's an unassuming, thin black twine with a terra-cotta clay disk about the size of a half dollar dangling from it. There are no connectors or clasps, nothing silvery or gold. Just a hole punched into the clay, and the twine looped through the hole so the clay hangs as a necklace. Very plain, sort of natural and earthy. But the disk, now that's what makes this necklace special. On one side, textured into the clay is a series of dots in lines reaching from the center out towards the circumference, resembling a sand dollar. The other side, a single word: שׁלוֹם.
***
For this writing exercise, we were asked to write about an object that feels dangerous or is emotionally charged. It came at a time when I was already contemplating the role this necklace had come to play in my life. I have had it for years, and I don't think I have ever worn it. It has been tied around the neck of a lamp I have on the night table at the side of my bed. When I roll over in the morning, I see it. When I turn the light out at night, I see it. שׁלוֹם.
I realize many won't recognize these letters, after all they are clearly not English. They are in fact Hebrew, and they spell out the Hebrew word Shalom. Almost any Jewish person raised with connection to a synagogue and Jewish study would recognize this word, even if they are not literate in Hebrew. שׁלוֹם looks strange amidst a paragraph of words in English because Hebrew is read from right to left. The ש which is the letter "shin" in Hebrew is actually the first letter of the word. Though probably spoken in most any encounter between speakers of Hebrew, the word itself is unique. It has three meanings. שׁלוֹם means hello, goodbye, and peace. It is also used in Hebrew phrases, like שׁבּת שׁלוֹם or Shabat Shalom, meaning Good Sabbath.
***
About two weeks ago, I was getting ready for work in the morning, and I stopped at my night table to put on a ring I had taken off and left there the night before. I looked at the necklace wrapped around my lamp and wondered why I never wear it. I tried it on though I knew it didn't really coordinate well with my outfit. I decided I didn't like how it hung on my chest with what I was wearing, so I took it off. Just holding it gave me a subtle feeling of peace, like running my fingers over the word שׁלוֹם and thinking about my sister gave me strength and calm. I wanted to wear it, but I put it in my pocket and decided to carry it around with me as a physical cuing object throughout my day. If I felt stressed, upset, or angry, I'd put my hand in my pocket and rub my finger over it. שׁלוֹם. Peace.
As I walked around throughout the day with the black twine hanging from my pocket, I also couldn't help but think of tzitzit, another Hebrew word for the fringes that hang from the traditional Jewish prayer shawl. I felt what I can describe only as a sense of comfort. Every time I touched my necklace throughout the day, the necklace that was hiding in my pocket, I started to think more and more about my life as a Jewish person. And this, is why my שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object- an emotionally charged object. I realized in my contemplation, maybe not wearing it had less to do with how it looked on my neck, and more to do with my fear of being outwardly Jewish in public. There I said it. I'm relieved, yet ashamed it's out there.
As a young child I never experienced such feelings, not because of youthful naïveté but because in New York, Jewish people are everywhere- especially Long Island, where I grew up. I was surrounded by many Jewish people, and most of my friends and our family friends were Jewish. There were multiple synagogues around the area, and schools were even closed for the major Jewish holidays! Later, when my parents split, we moved to Southeast Florida- Ft. Lauderdale area. In Hollywood, there were plenty of Jewish people. I had friends who were and plenty of friends who weren't (my boyfriend among them) but I never encountered anyone who didn't know what Jewish meant, and I didn't have any friends who questioned my faith or my family's culture. Broward County schools didn't close on all the Jewish holidays, but we always had off on the high holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I went to college in Miami and things were similar there. Friends who were, friends who weren't. Professors who were, professors who weren't. I never really gave it much thought.
Then one day, soon after graduation from the U, when my boyfriend-turned- husband and I were living in Orlando, I encountered my first in-person Jew joke. I was waiting tables at a seafood restaurant, getting ready to start graduate school. A redneck waiter came running back to the kitchen complaining about his table of guests who didn't order any alcoholic beverages. All they wanted was a round of "Jewish cocktails," he said. By this he meant water with lemon, which bothered him because they wouldn't be running a bar tab which theoretically would make his tip bigger. I had no idea what he meant until I asked another waiter who laughed while explaining it to me. I was shocked, no horrified. And while I wanted to tell him off and explain how insulting he was, I didn't. I cringed inside and turned away, afraid if he knew I was Jewish, if any of them did, they wouldn't like me anymore. That's right. A confident, more educated than any of them adult, I was embarrassed. Hard to believe I was the one embarrassed in this scenario.
Fast forward almost 20 years later. After moving to Palm Beach County, then back to Broward again, we landed here in Southwest Florida. A little less metropolitan, a little more country, and a lot less Jewish. I wouldn't have noticed really. It wasn't even that important to me. My husband isn't Jewish, and as long as there was a synagogue close by where my son could go to religious school and have a bar-mitzvah, the rest didn't matter so much. At least that's what I thought. That's what I thought until I started encountering more and more people who asked me (and my son) things like, What is Jewish? To which I thought, really? Why didn't you tell me you were Jewish? or If you're Jewish, does that mean you don't believe in G-d? And of course, So you're Kosher? What exactly is Kosher?
The list of questions goes on. But I think what's been most upsetting is I have encountered people who treat me like I haven't yet found G-d, just because I don't accept their version of what G-d is. They placate me, nod at me, claim to understand and even say they'll pray for me, all because they think I'm a child who just doesn't get it yet. I can't explain how insulting and infuriating it is. It's as though I haven't arrived yet. Poor me, I haven't been saved yet.
And this closed mindedness, this need to believe all people have to believe the same things, is what has me living quietly. I won't go so far as to call it hiding, as people who I know well, my friends and even my co-workers know my faith. And please, don't you dare mistake my hidden שׁלוֹם for shame. I am not ashamed of my beliefs, of my family's rich history and Jewish roots. It's self preservation. If I tell my students I don't celebrate Christmas, they want to know why. If I have to explain why, I have to explain my faith. If I have to explain my faith, I must immediately be on guard. For simply mentioning my faith, I may be accused of denouncing their beliefs. It's as though as soon as someone knows you are Jewish, everything you do or don't do, is because you're Jewish.
Try going to a birthday party with your 3rd grade son whose friends know you're Jewish, because you taught your kid to be proud of who he is and thankfully he is, and have another child ask you if it's true that Jewish people are the chosen people. How's that for a loaded question for a token Jew at a kid's birthday party? Yup, that happened. I was dumfounded. I didn't know what to say. Heck I didn't even know what I believed was the right answer. All I could think to say is people believe different things. It all depends on what you and your family believe. Crisis averted. Can we go home now? Now my son is 17 and I'm glad I don't have to explain anything for him. He handles it on his own.
My שׁלוֹם necklace is a dangerous object because it challenges me to face my fears, to be proud of who I am, and to find a way to navigate my faith in the world I inhabit. It represents peace, literally. It's up to me to find peace with who I am and what I believe.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Prompt #5 Dream Girl
David absently checks his morning emails, listening for his dream girl. She passes his desk each morning. He never looks at her; he sees her later in the day, but it's this morning ritual makes his heart stop. Despite the large staff at Harpo, they really are a family; in that they know intimate, embarrassing details about each other, but talk instead about the weather. Not that he's ever really talked to her. Occasionally bumping elbows while making coffee doesn't count. They haven't ever really talked. Not together, at least. He has imaginary conversations with her all the time: in the shower, on the drive to work, at lunch. But it always ends the same way: horrendously. He puts his foot in his mouth every time.
Their pasts are just a huge elephant in the room. There is no room for the present, which makes a future with her impossible. He's certain Claudia doesn't even know his name, although they eat lunch together every day. He wolfs down his ham sandwich in the amount of time it takes her to heat up her Marie Callender's, managing to mutter a "have a good day" just as the microwave dings. He's considered eating at a different time, but he can't give up those two and a half glorious minutes of being alone with her. Each day, he swears anew that this will be the day to break the ice, memorizing jokes or factoids that he thinks she'd like, but then he realizes he has no idea what she'd find funny.
She's such a gentle creature. Delicate, really. She must be self-conscious about her story; everyone is, and hers is more tragic than most. She's a bit of a celebrity, really; admired for her tenacity and gentle demeanor, considering the horrors of her early childhood. She's so quiet and seems so reserved, in her signature headband and matching skirt suit. The lavender is his favorite. He loves that she wears skirts. She could hide her leg with slacks, but she doesn't. He marvels at how well she matches her shoes too, considering she has to buy them two at a time. His heart breaks for all the unworn left heels and right flats. He wonders if her hips hurt. He'd love to massage them. He wonders if she has nightmares from the foster homes, or if she hates the heat. Just thinking about that day, imagining her lying helpless in that car, close to death, snot and tears sticking to her face, her chin bleeding, her poor leg twisted and tangled mercilessly. It sickens him, really. He thinks of his own mother, and imagines living without her, imagines knowing she was in prison.
Last season, when Dr. Phil had on the mother who left her baby in the car for a job interview, Claudia did all the prep notes herself. He marvels at that. He marvels at her. So much of his love for her is wrapped up, though, in her story. He worries that she'd be offended by the way he longs to protect her, that she'd see his concern as pity; his admiration would always be clouded by the taint of how different she is. She is, truly, different. But how could he ever convince her that it is that difference that draws him to her without her thinking he was a freak, or that he thought she was.
9:18. He catches a whiff of her perfume, three glorious steps after he heard her down the hall. click, click, clomp. His heart catches. Click, click, clomp. He sucks in a breath. Click, click, clomp. He lets out a long breath, brought almost to tears by her perfect, uneven gait.
If only he could tell her how beautiful she is. If only she could know how many nights her face was the only image that allowed him to fall asleep; that when the smell of burning flesh in his childhood home woke him up in a heavy sweat, it was that adorable little question mark of a scar, hugging her cute little cleft chin, that allowed his chest to rise and fall, slower, slower, into sweet slumber.
Prompt #6
from the workshop given by Leslie Jamison on Flash Memoir
This exercise takes its inspiration from the tradition of wunderkammer, or cabinet of curiosities -- also known as cabinet of wonder, or wonder-rooms. These are collections of wondrous objects -- some crafted by hand, others taken from the natural world: polished stones, stuffed crocodiles, bits of coral, bits of human tooth, wooly ferns, tusks of narwhals. Cabinets of curiosity often held items that remained somewhat mysterious, whose categories hadn't yet been determined. I saw several of these cabinets at a museum in Atlanta -- they are a fascination. You can see many more images to help you get ideas by using Google Images.
For this exercise, I'd like you to explore the idea of a "memory theater" full of objects from your own past. You can draw these objects or list them. But the idea is that you remember objects that feel charged with some kind of emotional electricity -- ideally objects whose significance you haven't figured out, objects whose categories haven't yet been determined. In particular, I'd like you to focus on objects that feel dangerous -- that hold some kind of pain or explosive charge, that feel as if they might erupt at any moment. (Please don't get too hung up on the last part. I struggled with this during the workshop because I focused on that too much.)
List five of these objects (or more) and jot down a few sentences about the memories and emotional charge that attach to each one. Then choose one and write more about the story in any format you choose.
Due date: December 8
Sunday, November 8, 2015
One Day
Not gonna lie. This was a really tough one for me. I have never waited this long to complete one of our writing prompts, and I even considered not doing it or just writing whatever I felt like instead. As I pondered over it, I even felt physically uncomfortable, like almost a little anxious or panic stricken and nauseated. I had my husband give me all of the parts and pieces and then I randomly selected them from the piles in each category. I still sat and stared at the screen for awhile and thought once again about not doing it. Clearly, I am not a fiction writer. Here is the start to my story. Not sure where it's headed next.
Place: Hollywood Memorial Hospital
Plot: Rags to Riches
Strange Element: election
Tone: Morose (seems like it's a plant with hospital, but I assure you it was not)
One Day
By Laurie J. Kemp
It was time to make the rounds through the east wing of 9th floor, both Mike's favorite and least favorite time of the day. His work day was just beginning, but he always started his shift with a visit to his favorite person. He wheeled his utility cart into the elevator and hit the 9 button. He was relieved to have the elevator to himself. These brief quiet rides in the elevator throughout the evening gave him time to think. There's nothing glamorous about emptying trash and mopping floors in a hospital. But it was a good job. Consistent. It helped him pay rent and one of the benefits to full time employees was tuition assistance, something he needed desperately.
The elevator reached the ninth floor with a familiar ding, and the doors opened to the nurse's station. "Hey Mike." The day nurse smiled and waved. He held the elevator door open until she got on, and he hit the Lobby button for her.
"How's my girl?" he asked before letting go of the door.
"Not much has changed," the nurse replied. They exchanged concerned smiles and said goodnight, and he let the elevator go. Every night as Mike arrived for the evening shift he asked the same question. Every night he got the same answer. Jane Doe in room 9210 was still in a coma, and no one had been by to see her. At least until 7 when Mike arrived. He always started his shift in 9210. Maybe it was because he knew she couldn't judge him or respond to him, or maybe it was because he had no one else in his life either. But talking to Jane became a daily ritual.
In a way, he could identify with her, alone and hanging on the edge. Sure, he wasn't hanging on the edge of life or death, but sometimes it felt like it. Jane was probably alone because her family was unaware of the accident and where she was. Mike's family on the other hand, had chosen to cut him off. Whatever the circumstances, he found great comfort in visiting with her, and heck it beat paying for therapy.
"How are you feeling today, beautiful?" He always called her that. And she was. Never mind the tubes and contraptions, her face was angelic. Chestnut brown hair framed a peaches and cream complexion. Last week, Mike caught a look at her glassy green eyes for the first time when the doctor pulled them open and flashed his pen light for a look. Gemstones. "Can I get a look at those beautiful green eyes?" One day, he thought to himself. One day.
He emptied the trash bins in her room, mostly just rubber gloves and tube caps from new saline pouches. She didn't get up and she didn't have company, so there was little change in her room from day to day. He thought often about bringing her flowers, but talked himself out of it every time. Instead, he gave her what everyone really wants- time. It was the perfect opportunity for him to stop awhile. Most of the patients were finishing up visits with their loved ones who stopped by on the way home from work. It made it easy for him to tuck away in Jane's room and stay out of every one else's way. He would attend to their rooms later.
Once he finished up, he sat in the chair by the window next to her bed. In the beginning, he would ask her who she was, where she was from. He would assure her that her loved ones would be there as soon as they heard. But now those words seemed empty. She had been there almost a month, and as far as Mike knew, he had been her only visitor. Instead, he began telling her about his own life. He had some secrets, and he knew she was the one person he could trust not to tell.
"I made a choice, ya know, " he told her. "I wanted to make something of myself first, so they didn't think I was just after their money. It would be easy to make that assumption, and it couldn't be further from the truth." He could see the movement of her eyes beneath the lids. He knew enough to understand it wasn't a reaction to him, but it sort of made him feel like she was listening. "Look at them." He motioned over to the TV that hung from the corner of the room. The nursing staff would put it on from time to time throughout the day to break the silence. It was the evening news, and there in a press conference talking about his campaign for governor was Charles Dobson, the frontrunner. "That's right beautiful. That son-of-a-bitch is my dad."
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Room 2023
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html
By random pick, these were my elements:
Place -- Nashville
Plot -- Overcoming a monster
Strange Element -- rose quartz crystal mala beads
Tone -- grief-stricken
The Weeping Willow by Annmarie Ferry
http://trailbrazin.blogspot.com/2015/10/prompt-5.html
Here I stand, firmly rooted in the backyard of a modest suburban Michigan home. The large yard slopes from the deep red siding ranch toward my spot and flattens out toward the small patch of woods that separates the property from the neighbor’s domain. I have the distinct honor of being the main attraction of the yard, and I cherish that privilege. Yet, I cannot help but feel alone, long forgotten by the family who left the frigid winters for sunnier skies in Florida.
"One…two…three! Ready or not, here I come!" The curly haired girl pushed off of my trunk, leaving the canopy of shade to begin the seek part of the game with her two little sisters. I watched her shield her eyes against the glare of the summer sun as she began her search. She’d have to venture to the front part of the yard, for there were no real hiding spaces in the backyard. The jungle gym provided no shelter with its slim metal bars, and the small vegetable garden didn’t yield anything tall enough to crouch behind. Besides, their mother would be furious if they trampled through her well-tended rows of tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, squash, and peppers.
“Ha! I found you!” I heard her giggly shout as she discovered the youngest sister. She always went to the same place: the giant trio of pine trees that grew oddly together in the right corner of the front yard.
The two held hands as they combed the rest of the yard for the middle sister. She was the sneaky one, always elusive. They knew she wouldn’t be in the house. Once they were out for the day, out is where they stayed until their mother called them in for lunch, and then again for dinner.
The modest porch leading up to the front door wasn’t a good spot to hide since its steps were made of cement and butted right up to the house. But, the full shrubs on either side offered some shelter. They looked at each other as if to say, “We got her now!” and took off running, splitting up to ambush their victim.
“Got ya!!!” I heard them yell out in unison.
They stood on the outskirts, watching anxiously as he installed their very first tire swing. The jungle gym swing had lost its appeal long ago, so this was a welcome addition.
Before he could complete the words, “It’s ready,” the girls were pushing and shoving to get first dibs on the wheel of fun. He reminded them to be nice as he put the smallest on top and let the middle one climb through to take her seat in the center. The oldest puffed out her cheeks in disappointment as tears welled up in her eyes. Seeing this, he gave her the special job of helping him push her little sisters. She, he assured her, would get to ride solo on the next round. Suddenly, having to wait didn’t seem so bad.
As they were pushed and twirled in all directions, the girls squealed in delight, their heads flung back, wispy hair flying into their faces, stomachs doing flip flops as they spun at dizzying speeds until they begged to stop.
Later, the older one snuck out to the backyard swing on her own. She didn’t really enjoy the rush of flying and spinning, preferring instead to push off with her own two feet, gently rocking as she enjoyed the sunlight filtering through the slender leaves dressing my ground-sweeping branches.
They rush through the sliding glass door of the sunken family room, backpacks shed, school dresses abandoned for play clothes, running toward me to have their after-school “tea” party. As they slurp down the Kool-Aid flavor de jour, they play grown up, sharing secret hopes and dreams for the future. Not once does it dawn on any of them that those futures will create rifts among them, some merely logistical, others philosophical. I won’t interrupt their optimistic musings with this knowledge. I will allow them to be little girls, to delight in their fantasies.
In winter, I am forgotten for the comfort of hot cider, warm cocoa, and the burning fire indoors. When they do venture outdoors at the insistence of their mother, they don’t even glance my way. Instead they play house in the igloo their father built for them or build snow people families until the tiny bit of exposed flesh begins to sting from the cold wind.
I watch over them, hoping they will sense my longing for their company, silently calling out to them to run circles around my large trunk. But, the journey through the deep snow in their heavy boots and constricting snowsuits must be too tedious.
I feel isolated, as gloomy as the sunless sky, dulling the mood with its constant grayness.
The new owners have grown children and haven’t yet been blessed with grandchildren. The jungle gym was torn out the day after they moved in, the weakening rope of the tire swing cut, the whole lot tossed out with the trash.They have replaced it with a small wrought iron table and chairs where they enjoy their coffee on pleasant mornings and on occasion, a light mid-day meal.
There is no infectious giggling, no talk of what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up. Instead, they reminisce, never tiring of re-living past memories and wallowing in nostalgia. Begrudgingly, I bless them with my shade and try to delight in their willingness to tolerate their mundance existence, lives winding down into an acceptance of what will be.
But, the wind carries the whispers of past laughter and drums up the memories of those three little sisters sharing secret wishes, making me long for the past.
And I weep.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Prompt #5
Story bingo-ish.
Make a grid, like a bingo sheet.
List vertically: people, place, plot, strange element, tone.
Horizontally: me, family/friend, movie/book, news.
Write in the grid basic information that corresponds with the x and y axis.
Cut the squares.
Pick one of each piece.
You have the bones for four stories.
Flesh out one story and post it.
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
My Home is in my Head
I spent years hating that saying. My self-possessed ex-husband had a T-shirt bearing that quote and Bob Marley's mug. I resented him every time he wore it. I was so jealous.
In college, I had to write a paper on Loren Eisley's essay, The Brown Wasps, linked below:
http://members.tripod.com/nature_writer/Naturalist/eiseley.htm
My mom had just died, and the idea of home haunted me. My home was where my mom was. I struggled for the next 16 years to create a home for myself, in marriage where I never really felt accepted being myself. I often felt like an alien species, living with my husband and sons. I blamed my femaleness, but I felt like a fish our of water with my female friends, too.
This summer, I got an apartment. While I was waiting for it, I moved in temporarily with my boyfriend, and I never really moved out. I live in both places, enjoying my time and role in both homes, feeling completely centered and at peace. I think I should feel transient, but I don't. I think the tshirt wouldn't bother me anymore. Maybe I'll get myself one.
Ruminating on this prompt, one song stayed with me, Simon and Garfunkel's Home:
Home, where my thoughts escape me,
Home, where the music's playing,
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me.
Mama, I'm home.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
The Song Goes On
But the moon is slowly rising
And this old world must still be spinning 'round
And I still love you
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
But I can sing this song
And you can sing this song
When I'm gone
We're gonna have a good time
And no one's gonna take that time away
You can stay as long as you like
You can close your eyes, it's all right
I don't know no love songs
And I can't sing the blues anymore
And you can sing this song
When I’m gone