class exercises

antonymic translation

The moon set. A colorless sea had drained away from the cliffs, far from the soft drifts of seaweed, highlighting a deep sliver of darkness. A bright white scrim covered the water. The sand which had been hard-edged became soft in mists, hiding its features.

Soft expanses of light glowed from the glass and concrete, and the dry edges of metal shapes in the junkyard appeared like a single creature that could not be distinguished into its parts. The silent black and rust-colored machinery came to life gradually, then formed a regular heartbeat, like marching armies in a grim parade.

The moon’s weak rays retreated away from the warehouse, pulled away from the rusting objects deep in the windowless expanses.

(From The Waves, I think.)

Rewriting a chunk of my own work in the style of Gertrude Stein

The two ravens sat on the long branch. Together they sat. It was a long branch and they sat side by side talking. They were not actual ravens, but sentient creatures, and all sentient creatures like to talk because talking is how we share our sentience. One raven was younger than the other and her name was Arkawa. Arkawa was young and a raven and sitting on a long branch talking. She was talking to another raven-like thing, a sentient creature also, who was like a raven and not like a raven and definitely not at all like a writing desk. His name was Skawkra. He was older than Arkawa and that meant he had lived longer and had more experience looking for things. His eyes were always out watching for things even while he was talking to Arkawa, that was why he spotted the eagle first.

reworking a graphic novel scene as text

[assignment: take a page or two – a scene – of Fun Home and rework it as narrative; I chose pg 27.]

At reception after the funeral — “such a good man”, everyone kept saying, and they were all so kind, so tender. They walked past, shook our hands. The flowers and the casket were nearly as meticulous as if he’d been there, but without him, and with the way he died, the casket had to be closed. That too seemed like a perfect bit of artifice, since he wasn’t there to provide his own usual artifice. They filed past one at a time, townspeople whom I knew didn’t know any better, didn’t know that my mother looking stone-faced, not weepy, just…tired; they didn’t know that she’d asked him for a divorce two weeks before. They didn’t know about the copy of A Happy Death left in conspicuous places around the house. All they knew was what they read in the paper, what they heard from each other at the usual local spots: Man Dies After Being Hit By Truck. Which meant that once again we were just a tableaux arranged by him, even if this time it was in front of his casket, rather than on the porch or around the Christmas tree.

writing about nature

[I’m at an all-day workshop for the writing class I’m taking, and I figure I might as well post my freewrites, as long as they don’t get too weird.]

We did in fact walk in silence for long stretches, and it was nourishing. I don’t often get to be silent around other people, or to be around people who are silent. But it was never entirely quiet. The trail was fairly crowded, especially close to the trailhead, because it is August, and dry, and everyone in the world is on vacation, or at least everyone in the northern hemisphere. In the lodge restaurant, after the hike, I heard two different tables speaking in French (I think). It must be nice to have a long mandated vacation, and enough money to travel to an entirely different continent. So there were fragments of other people’s conversations, because most people don’t walk in silence. But sometimes it was just the three of us, walking in the woods, with no one in earshot, and even then it certainly wasn’t silent. Closer to the river — well, a river is its own source of noise — and farther from the river the air was full of bugs. (Good grief, so many bugs. I was grateful to have brought my bug spray, and to be able to share it with others.) So there was a constant hum.

I do think quite a bit about pieces I’m writing while I’m out and about, and I’m trying to get my head back in to the D&D story, so I found myself capturing little details to try to remember to use later. Perhaps a scene when they’re going through the winter — ah, never mind, that’s in winter. But fantasy bugs can be even huger and more terrifying than real-world ones, so the idea of stirges in the forest? Makes my skin crawl. Would make a pretty decent scene to have the ranger fighting them, and how would Bessamere behave.

“I can’t tell if that’s an actual animal, or someone making fun of one.” (weird goat-like sound while we’re writing)

I’ve been in a lot of forests, it occurs to me, having lived in Washington for more than 20 years. Mount Elinor, when I’d only been here a few weeks (the first time I lost my big toenail!); various spots around Rainier, around St Helens. Lots and lots of trips to Bagby, walking the mile and a half up to the hot springs. Even to the Hoh once before, literally 20 years ago. Plus all the close-by places: Point Defiance, Swan Creek, out on the bike trail, the woods here. There’s plenty of similarities and differences. This felt “easy”, like walking in Point Defiance, or much like the Bagby trail, especially compared to when Chad, Justin, & I went up to Rainier, which was so recent. That was such a challenging experience, physically: the walk up to Lake George, THAT is the level of difficulty of going over the mountains (or was it down the mtns?) that I’ve imagined for that scene or set of scenes. I honestly was not sure I was going to make it, and I felt so small and weak having to stop all the time. But it was so beautiful, both the up-close-ness of the plants right near us, and then rounding a bend or pausing on a log and THE MOUNTAIN right there. And at the same time, I didn’t want to be weak in front of them. I am NOT READY to be someone who can’t.

Which makes me feel strange about what happened yesterday. We didn’t make it to the place that we’d planned on, and while some of that was because of a long detour, and some of it was from knowing there was a long drive ahead of us, it was still an uneasy feeling, stopping, unsure of whether the destination was around Just One More Bend or whether it was a mile or more away, and turning around. Not just keeping going.

Even walking in silence, one is aware of the others who are there being silent. One is aware of the others who have been on this path, and how well-traveled it is: the shiny spots on the roots where so many others have walked, the deep footprints from when the trail was muddy, the dust coating the plants closest to the trail.

Maybe I was also disappointed because it was so dry. It’s almost the middle of August, nearing the exact driest point, and even though it rained Friday night, it was obvious it hadn’t rained much in a long time. I noticed this morning biking to the Organic Farm that the trails here are actually more damp than those were yesterday. Even the spots where the moss was still bright green, it was stiff and crisp to the touch; the ferns had that same contrast between looking lush and feeling stiff or sharp.

The last time we went to Bagby, I think it was still June, and on the way down from the tubs, we decided to jump in the river. He scrambled to the top of the little waterfall and just jumped, the way that he does, while I hesitated at the foot, thinking about how to slip in cautiously. The rocks were slippery, and really my sandals don’t have all that much traction. (Though at least they’re better than flip-flops.) As I edged towards the pool near the bottom of the waterfall, my feet slid out from under me, and with a whoomph I was in the water. Like the Hoh, it comes off the top of the mountain, out of ice and snow, and in the early summer (late spring?) it’s so cold it could kill. I was jolted, terrified, totally awake; I couldn’t get back to the spot where I’d fallen in, and reached frantically for some other spot on the slippery rocks. He was out by then, and helped me get up out of the water. Freezing wet, and frightened, and yet exhilarated. I’m glad I did it, almost even wish I’d just DONE the thing and not tried to half-ass it. (obvious metaphor alert!)

I couldn’t get in the river yesterday, only just got to dip my hand in it. And it was cold, but not that much colder than the Deschutes was a month ago.

We stopped at “Beach 1” on the way home, and that actually felt like something new and different for me. (Am I jaded now? Heaven forfend. But there is a certain rubric in my head about wanting to spend more time enjoying a thing than I have to spend getting there, and the trip to the Hoh ran afoul of that rule.) Salmonberry hedges (brambles?) taller than my head. A sort of labrynth down to the beach. The weird tumors on the spruce trees. And the ocean itself, which time has made unfamiliar, and the Northwest beach which has always felt strange and improbable. Wanting to touch the ocean, and so playing tag with it, getting my shoes wet instead of my fingertips.

(There might be a poem or an essay in here about familiar/unfamiliar settings? Or the layering of other people and places, and what that does to experience? Not sure. Sadly, not as much that I can use for the thing I actually want to be working on.)

Postscript: while discussing this, remembered the camping trip Labor Day weekend 1996 — raining all weekend, first time I’d been camping in years. Being with Greyson & his boss from the little theater. Coming back to the news of Becca’s accident.

writing class

So in the last post, I mentioned being in a writing class….

As an employee, I can take up to 8 credits a quarter for $30. I’ve been meaning to take something; even got most of the way towards registering for a GIS (geographical information systems) class in the spring, but it was full and even the waitlist was full. As a “special student”, I’m basically at the end of the line for registration, so that was a no-go.

But then the middle of last month I got this email about a writing class that had spots in it for the 2nd summer session, and figured: why not?

I sat in on a class, decided it sounded interesting, got all the paperwork bits done, and started at the end of July. The first night (it’s two nights a week) I realized that the last time I was in a college class was 17 years ago. For reals. Bleh. And it’s both easier than it was then — which is partially about my interest, partially about summer classes — and harder, mostly because I’m not used to doing homework anymore.

I’m in a critique group, about which all I feel appropriate in saying is that I missed having a writers’ group but also it’s really frustrating to be in wildly divergent places with writing & critiquing. I’m learning some InDesign to do layout on a book, which is pretty cool. This weekend we have a two-day retreat thing: one day of hiking in the Hoh rainforest (the topic of my first freewrite today), and one day of workshop-type activities. So far that’s been a freewrite based on yesterday’s hike, an exercise turning a scene in a graphic novel into a narrative, and turning a tiny bit of our own writing into a page of a graphic novel. (Note: I am a terrible drawer.)

The whole thing is only 5 weeks, which is a bit whirlwind/overwhelming. But as always, for me it’s good to have deadlines. We have three writing assignments in those five weeks: the first, which I turned in last week, is my first attempt at actually writing the bindweed essay I’ve had in my head for at least five years. For the second, I’m hoping to do something related to my most recent NaNoWriMo attempt, although it’s been so long that I’m not sure I can just pick up where I left off; I may need to write a sketch or a story in that world, but not in the main plot. The third will be a refinement of one of the first two, intended for reading aloud in front of the class. I have no idea which one I’ll use; we’ll see when we get there!

In any case, I’m glad I’m taking it; both for myself as a writer and also as an employee of the college. It’s good to be in the student side of things once in a while.

bike poem

"In my late 20s I learned..."

    something I could have
                should have
                      might have wanted to learn
                      when I was a small child

except that Dad died.

The bike came the year
I stopped believing in Santa
which was because of the bike
which could not have possibly
fit down the chimney.

The bike: I couldn't quite
      get the hang of it
despite his efforts

and then he died.
He died and Mom couldn't
      help me learn either.

So the bike went in the garage
until it was too small.

Besides, no one bikes in LA in the 80s anyway.

All through my middle 20s
C. wanted me to learn
        how to ride a bicycle.

When we met he had the
         John Deere tractor green bike
that he rode on those steep
         Tacoma hills.

Except when 
         I came through the park
         to his apartment
         and we walked to work together.

That was how everyone knew
         we were a thing, us walking
together, him with the hand-painted green bike.

He tried to take me bike shopping.
I was terrified of being 
that far off the ground
         and of moving at a speed
          faster than walking.

Looking out the window
of my first office, first real 
grown-up profession,
and he's on the phone
explaining how, no -- really--
I have to see this bike
               it's totally different
       from all the other times --
       five -- six -- seven years of
               "you should get a bike."

But really -- it is different.

The bike is different,
        the shape of it isn't so scary
                and maybe by then
        I'm different too.

Because I get on and after
a wobbly how-do-I-start-this moment
I'm moving and pedaling
         and somehow the whole thing 
       stays up and is a sort of 
           miracle not unlike flying.