…waters the seeds of thought.
"The first flowers on the young peach were scattered, not having experience nor the confidence to bloom in the proud, full abandon of the others."
"The pain in my gut was pulsing now, as if each heartbeat gave courage to its voice."
I love the violets; grape jelly smiles bid me good morning. Johnny-jump-ups on green pogo sticks because they’re really short, you know. The lavendar and white lilac trees I could close my eyes and find by following my nose around the house. But dandelions, persistent yellow puffs so strong and sturdy, lie decapitated by the mower’s blades.
In keeping with a previous plan of action, and disciplined by the setting down in stone of weblogging, I am into:
Suttree, The Portable Dorothy Parker, Fiction Writers Workshop, and Still Life.
All are listed in the right sidebar from Amazon, and will change as I finish each step of my journey.
The cardinal is chirping his fool head off in the dark morning rain.
I don’t know why; the dawn will come regardless.
"Playing solitaire till dawn,
with a deck of fifty-one,
smokin’ cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo,
now don’t tell me,
I’ve nothing to do…"
Not no more, you can’t. The lyrics above come from a 70’s song when songs told stories. Its meaning is fast becoming obsolete–because you cannot lose that fifty-second card on a computer. And nothing to do? The world is open to anyone with internet access. Lonely? There’s e-mail, weblogs, chatrooms. Captain Kangaroo no longer is the only option at six a.m.
Life is no longer as we once knew it to be. But then, it never is.
One of the neatest things about my job as a picture framer is that I frame stories. Each photo, print, painting, is of course a story in itself, but sometimes there’s more of the story than what’s just in the image.
I just finished putting together a piece that included a photo of my customers standing with the President and the First Lady, along with the invitation that I split and displayed in separate windows of the mat. All well and good, normal frame job. On the back I put the envelope of the invitation in a plastic sleeve affixed to the back of the piece. "The White House" in gold letters on the return address. It was torn open–telling of the excitement the recipients must have felt pulling this one out of the mail pile. They didn’t expect me to save it, I’m sure, but I think they’ll be glad that I did.
It reminded me of another collage I put together once, of a WWII soldier who had died in service. A photo, a couple medals, the telegram, and the envelope. This time, I talked them into displaying the envelope along with the other items. The envelope was raggy, practically torn in half; the telegram nicked by the frantic, scared woman who knew, yet needed to see it in text, that her son was dead. That piece was exceptionally hard for me to put together without thinking about the story within it.
There are so many joys in my job, sometimes. And sorrow as well. A child’s "Aw, gee," when I make him sign his name, and his beaming face when he sees his crayoned masterpiece off the refrigerator newly framed for the den. The reframing of wedding pictures with the groom exacto-knifed out. A brick, a pizza box, an Olympic torch; I’ve framed them all. Stories.
Someone just wandered onto the site and made a nice comment about painting pictures with words. It dawned on me (metaphor right there, although on the verge of being cliche) that it is also very much like double exposing a photograph (simile here).
We see something, say, a puffy cumulus cloud. It reminds us of something that’s instantly pulled from our image files in memory–a cotton ball. Thus, it becomes a giant cotton ball in the blue, blue sky. I watch and learn much from nature; the backyard has provided me with a wealth of metaphor. Can’t think of one g.d. example right now, since I’m locked in my barn and supposedly working.
But the idea of this post is putting one and one together and coming up with something new, an amalgamate made up of images that more clearly depict what one sees, hears, feels.
It is amazing that once you are used to writing directly into a weblog, you depend upon it as one of the tools to produce.
I had a feeling this morning when I drove by the fish hatchery and looked for the eagle but saw the crane sitting in the old tree, that I was a crane, not an eagle, but cranes too have their purpose in this world, and it was turning into the voice of the Master to my Grasshopper. Rushed home to the computer, and Typepad was shut down. Three hours later, the lyrical quality of the entry is, well, gone.
Why not just put it in Word the way I used to? Because Word is for stories and poems (such as they are). Odd how creative movements, so exploratory and free-wheeling in themselves, are often dependent upon the routine and familiar to be born.
The humming of the mower, a sign of civilizing nature; musn’t let the grass grow past the collar of the curb.
Certainly Mother would appreciate the trimming of the branches of the maples that reach out brotherly to each other, for the wires of human communication are more important to be sure.
And the peaches reaching skyward are not for angels’ picking, but for man, ground-bound and not thinking of the heavens but of jam.
But shall I sow the seeds in fresh turned soil, my own opinions what should grow, lettuce yes, but chickweeds, no; patrol the pathways in between for man is master of the earth, no?
Okay. I’m going to my graduation. Only cause I hafta. My big sister, Neha, and Gus laid a guilt trip on me because Jim wants me to go. Hell’s bells–I had to dress up in a wedding gown for him fifteen years ago, you’d think that would have been enough. (I was planning on going to the wedding, I just wasn’t planning on wearing a traditional gown. Then he laughed at my headpiece. Then he broke a tooth on prime rib and left the reception for three hours.)
Unless it rains. I’m not going if it rains. And, I made him promise that if I get lost coming back off the stage he’ll come rescue me. Don’t laugh–this is a very good possibility.
…sailor take warning.
It’s happening. Now. Had started a long time ago, but I forgot to stay alert. I see the sky.
Third time I’ve rewritten this single post. Second, third thoughts abound. Triple-think it through and hang back. Delete.
Strongly feel the urge to get into some kind of trouble just to make me feel alive.
Hmmm.
Okay, the post grad plan for now is: Read three four books at a time: 1/fiction or non-fiction (starting w/getting back into Suttree) 2/one short story or poem anthology (getting back on track w/subscription lit journals) 3/one how-to book on either writing or graphics software, and 4/video game (yes, it is TOO a narrative work, so Still Life is about to be entered again).
Write a short story and a poem a week. Though I’ll always have a few pieces in the works via rewrites and editing, I’d like to start a new one weekly.
(Will get back–Neha must have smelled the cupcakes I just made.)
I’m back. There’s so much I need to learn, and yet I have the feeling that the Wesleyan Conference week in June will be a make or break decision for me in writing. I’ve just put a lot of time and money into this direction, and while I’ll most likely never completely stop, I need to know if it’s worth the effort. If I’m worth the effort. There’s psychology at play here as well, and time’s getting short.
The wise parent acknowledges the difference in his children, and guides them on different paths taking the individualism into consideration.
While my own parents couldn’t see me growing up to be a wild Indian living off berries in the woods, they recognized my tendency to be a loner and a bit dramatic. In talking with my sisters, I find that one particular poem that my mother often repeated to me was pretty much dedicated to me, since they don’t remember it as a major memory from their own childhoods.
"There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. And when she was good, she was very, very good. And when she was bad, she was horrid."
A little strange, picking women’s pictures on the internet. He needs someone, I know, and this is not uncomfortable. Chris knew it, we had talked about it. If she were here, she’d help.
Jim tells me to be careful. Someone’s putting too much trust into my words. I back off, just tell him not to get in touch with those with flying hair.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology