Exercises for 3.30.10: Part Two

Exercise 20: Psychic Distance

When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody. - 5

After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life. 3

While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet. - 3

The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning. 5

Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unswervingly into disaster. 5

The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria. 3

“Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile. 4

It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms. 5

Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.

Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable. 5

Five times:

At a McDonalds just off the freeway, the little blonde boy hovered at the edge of the slide.

Joey Anwar stood poised at the edge of the playland slide, ready to leap forward in a fit of courage.

Joey felt excitement and fear warring inside his chest as he wobbled on the edge of the slide, the playland around him echoing with the screams of children.

He didn’t know if he was going to jump off or slide to the bottom as he stood there at the top of the slide.

Slides make me want to do crazy things like leap off and fly.

New story:

Mrs. Arlington quietly entered the room, and slipped off her dark glasses. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw a tall, stooped man standing in the corner. His loose, wrinkled skin hung down on his face slightly, like a wax figure just beginning to melt. Their gazes met and she was jolted with a strange feeling that her head had turned and her eyes hadn’t yet caught up. In his ancient, bony form, the eyes shone forth with youthful playfulness. “No,” she thought to herself wonderingly. “They don’t look merely young to me; they are young eyes.” The man raised his brow inquiringly and gestured Mary over. She walked forward, feeling excited for the first time in days. She had been overwhelmed with a feeling of nothingness, a sense that her potential had dwindled to nothing and she was sick of it. She tripped forward with a lightness in her feel and a smile on her lips. She thought happily to herself that this time everything was finally going to change.
Exercise 22: An Early Memory, Part One: The Child as Narrator

Exercises for 3.30.10

Exercise 4: Where were you last night?

“Where were you last night?” is a question I never wanted to ask myself again. When I awoke on the floor of a dim, subterranean studio apartment, a thick arm thrown across my stomach, contact-less, panty-less and confused, I swore I wouldn’t do this again.

Crouched in the backseat of some ugly 70s sedan, parked in an alley I don’t recognize, wearing a red leather mini and white lacy top that I am certain I never would have purchased, my ankles sore from being bent below me for who knows how long, I have to do it. Where was I last night? I have no clear answer, and shame burns in the back of my throat. I feel guilty already, though I’m not even sure what for. I make my usual vow: “Never again.” It rings empty.

The car door wrenches open with a shriek and I stumble out of the alley to the street where dawn and the halogen street lamps are vying to light the sidewalks. It’s too early for most commuters, though I can’t remember if it is a weekday or not. I squint at the buildings and realize I am downtown—the Warehouse District. I walk further down the street to look at the signpost, and my red-stiletto clad foot slips, throwing me forward. I catch myself on the wall of the building before my knee hits ground and the spray of vomit that caused me to slip. Feeling my own stomach heave at the sight, I hurry on. The hammering in my skull and the taste of whiskey repeating in my esophagus tells me that this time it was booze. Surprising, really. I don’t usually lose a whole night from just liquor. I reach the corner, look up and head right, down Second Ave. There are always cabs down by light rail, day or night.

Safe in a cab, I give the driver an address near my house. As I bend down to remove the not-my-shoes, a telling ache between my legs tells me that I broke another promise to myself last night. I ask the driver what day it is, and he responds shortly, “Wednesday.” I sigh with relief that I have not lost a whole day, and prepare myself for an unwelcome run. As the cabbie stops just blocks away from the address I gave him, I throw open the door and run down the street and between two houses. I can hear the cabbie screaming at me in something that sounds like grunting. I feel bad, but I don’t have any money to pay him. I add it to my list: Things To Feel Crappy About On A Wednesday.

Gasping for breath, my left foot bleeding from a tiny cut, I limp my way back to my house. I walk in the back door (I always keep it unlocked). The clock tells me I have two hours to make it to work. I climb the stairs, wishing I was dead, and crawl into the shower. I sit with my arms wrapped around my bent knees, let scalding water pour over my neck and sob quietly into my elbow.



Exercise 1: Beginning in the Middle
1. The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria.
2. When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody.
3. After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life.
4. While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet.
5. The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning.
6. Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unfailingly into disaster.
7. “Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile.
8. It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms.
9. Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
10. Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable.
 
Exercise 10: Oh! … That Sort of Person

Lily
She was the kind of girl who fell in love in a moment, and spent a life time justifying it.

She was the kind of girl who wore the perfect dress, with boy’s underwear on below.

She was the kind of girl who could pummel you in fury, then hug you five minutes later and forget it ever happened.

She was the sort of person whose stubbornness would lead her to cut off her hair on a dare, just to prove she wasn’t vain, then spend a day alone crying over it.

She was the sort of sister who would fight constantly with her brother, but knock anyone down who dared to insult him.

Emily

Emily was the kind of person who bought everything brand name, just to make you forget she grew up in a trailer park.

She was the sort of woman who could walk into a coffee shop where she knew no one, and walk out with three lifelong friends

She was the sort of person who deliberately started smoking American Spirits as an adult, simply to feel more comfortable at the coffee shop.

She was the sort of woman who married a silent man, so she would be able to monopolize every conversation.

She was the kind of person who felt threatened when people near her argued.

 
Exercise 12: Props

Character: Where were you last night girl

Refrigerator: Premium Beer, mustard, moldy cheese, plain wheat bread, olives, leftover pizza from davannis, two Slim-Fast shakes, Brita water pitcher with no filter, half-eaten take-out salad.

Medicine cabinet: birth control pills, super minty toothpaste, few loose q-tips, empty vicodin pill bottle with someone else’s name on it, a tampon, silver watch, a toothbrush that isn’t hers, expensive face cream, calamine lotion.

Clothes closet: A contradiction of well-pressed, hung suits and silk blouses, and trashier hood rat clothes, some hung hastily on hangers, others crumpled on the floor. There is very little lounging clothes. No workout clothes. No practical shoes, but lots of them. A strangely conservative black dress that doesn’t fit into the work clothes or the trashy clothes. A box of letters. A shoe box that contains random receipts. A large picture, framed, turned around and facing the wall.

Reflections of the 3 Poems Assignment

The three poems for this latest assignment were all generated by ideas from In the Palm of Your Hand. First, the August 5, 1977 poem: It is a (partially) found poem, all pulling phrases or words from the Oxford Dictionary I have at home, based on the numbers of my birthdate. I didn’t have a feeling for the poem in mind when I started it; I just wanted to see where it went. A lot of my poems, lately, have seemed to be going to a really dark place full of self-loathing. I am not sure that is really where I exist, I only know that I spend a lot of time not wanting to trouble anyone with my stupid concerns or bore them with the same old complaints. I try to make myself small, because … well, I am not totally sure why. Because I got tired of being on the radar and because some things happened that really made me doubt myself and hurt me deeply and while I think I am mostly over them, they changed who I was fundamentally.

The second poem is about the engagement photo of my mother that I have hanging in my hallway. I have always loved this photo, thought she was so beautiful. I have a really hard time reconciling this lovely young woman with the terrible marriage that was to follow. I feel sad when I think of the disappointments she was going to face. Anyway, I used as my writing prompt the exercise that asks you to take a family photo and use some photo-sounding words to create a poem. I went with the prose format because I have never tried it.

Finally, my last poem was a political rant I was inspired to write after seeing another gay-hating politician admit that he is gay. I feel strongly about gay rights (a.k.a. human rights), and as you can see it is important in my life. I keep my head down and try to ignore politics because they make me so mad. But for this poem, I allowed myself a crabby moment to tell people what I really think. I feel more comfortable doing this because my blog is anonymous, to a point. I wanted to convey in tone my derision, frustration, mockery and anger about this (FREQUENTLY REOCCURRING) situation.

Poem and a Rant

California State Sen. Roy Ashburn, you are just another son of a bitch hypocrite
in a long line of son of a bitch hypocrites.

You say being gay is wrong.
That marriage is for a man and a woman.
(Did you forget the P.S.? P.S. I reserve the right to include my gay fuck buddy, too.)
You use your political power
your self-righteous indignation
your surety
to convince the folks listening to your crap
that my family doesn’t deserve to be a family.

You don’t hate gay people.
Nah.
And Hitler didn’t hate Jews.
And they didn’t kill Matthew Shepard because he was gay.
Nope.
You love the sinner, hate the sin.
(BOY, do you LOVE the sinner. Twice on a Saturday night, huh?)

All I know is my mom, and my other mom
They don’t go out cruising at a bar of any persuasion on a Tuesday night.
Or even on a Saturday.
They stay home, raise their kids, tend their gardens.
They create love in the circle of their arms.
They fashion a happy family.
They demonstrate commitment, joy and fortitude as partners.
They be married, without even the papers to prove it.
Oh yeah … You know what else they do?
THEY VOTE.

Prose poem ... A Family Snapshot

My mother’s soft smile captivates me every day when I descend my stairs. The focus is crisp, but the clarity of the grays and whites has worn with the years. She is younger than me now, when the lens of that photographer captured her image, her engagement photo, her last moments of possibility. Is there a hint of walk-the-plank dread in the slight shifting of her eyes? Is her tightly wound hair disguising the compulsion to run that was thwarted by a failed drivers examination? Is that a light crinkle of worry across her forehead, the precursor of a deep crack that will develop, printing years of worry and sadness and disappointment right on her face? But that will be another image, not this one. In this one, her skin is flawless, smooth. Her mouth turns up sweetly, helpless to not against the tide of hope I believe I see in her eyes. In this photo, she tilts her head with all the beauty of youth and the promise of love.

August 5, 1977

The following pages illustrate and explain all the features and conventions of me.
My Grammar & Style took root early, with a chirpy “hi” at a mere 4 months.
The selection of images has been governed by their usefulness, and
I wish to present a more sharply refined picture of the language of today.
I have been blind to how I have hurt people
Bear baiting them to get a reaction, or generate some heat.
I know not why I never engaged in a beau gest or other act of kindness.
My wit like shards of terra cotta raining down from above.
Terror-stricken people running from me
Their looks of horror tessellated across my vision.
I have come to be the ostracized.
The outcast.
The other.
The Oxford Dictionary in a room full of Websters.