Blather · Life · people · Writing

Blather about cracks and light and the writing process

Sally12 Comments

It’s been a week.

I drove to Roanoke and back, stopping overnight in DC where we visited an amazing new museum called Planet Word. I delivered my middle daughter to school and drove home yesterday.

In the meantime, I fell behind in the minimal writing I’ve been doing. Tanka Tuesday and W3 — you’re on my list for today. Readers, stay tuned.

For this post, though, my Stream of Consciousness writing exercise, I want to try to unravel the writing process a little more. I’ve been wrestling with the W3 prompt for this week which is to use line or lines from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem” as part of a new poem.

I had Anthem on repeat for a good year at one point not so long ago. It’s a great song.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in

Leonard Cohen, Anthem

So… process… I reread the words to the song, and immediately, the whole thing was playing in my head.

How can I take something so epic, so classic, and craft it into something new?

Enter Doctor Who. Remember the episode when the Doctor meets young Amy. For the record, it’s called “The Eleventh Hour,” S31 E1. My favorite line: “Must be a hell of a scary crack in your wall.”

Process — continued — Suddenly I have two sets of background singers in my head. One is singing, “Must be a hell of a scary crack,” and the other responds, “That’s how the light gets in, that’s how the light gets in.”

Seriously, I even hear a tune to their words. I can hear them going back and forth. And it’s like I’m just waiting for that lead singer to step up to the main mic and start singing the verses.

That’s what I have to write. The verses that go with the background vocals.

In the meantime, all I can think about is this homeless man that came in to eat the hotel breakfast at 6 AM of my day in DC.

I was drinking my coffee and doing my morning reading down in the breakfast area while my daughter was still sleeping in our room. He walked past me, and the first thing I noticed was the worn grocery store bag he was carrying filled with recyclables — bottles, mostly.

He wore a dirty army green jacket — and that was noteworthy to me because it was hot out, even at 6 AM. His hair was unkempt. He was unshaven. All this was one quick impression as he passed me.

I had my back to the food, so I didn’t see what was happening. I was reading, so I didn’t even really pay attention to it at all. There were a few other patrons there plus the woman who was keeping the food stocked and the area clean.

Suddenly, four men went past me in a hurry. They were big and wore vests with the word “SECURITY” emblazoned on them.

I heard the scuffle behind me, but didn’t turn to look.

They literally dragged the homeless man out. He cried, “Where is the humanity?! Where is the humanity?!” all the way out the door.

Then silence.

I sipped my coffee and pondered his question.

The woman who worked the breakfast came over to me. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He can’t just come in here like that.”

“I understand,” I replied. “It’s sad, though, isn’t it?”

“If he came back at 10, I would give him the leftover food,” she said. “I have to throw it away. I’d rather it be eaten.”

We co-existed in silence for a bit, each lost in our own thoughts.

“Thank you,” I finally said. “You do a lovely job here.”

But that story, I knew later, was the fodder for the verses to go with my insistent background vocals.

Because, really, where is the humanity? It’s masked by a scary crack. And that’s where the light gets in.

fiction

Through the Portal

Sally16 Comments

The two women walked along amiably chatting when Dahlia froze.

“What’s wrong?” asked Cami, stopping too.

“That’s it,” Dahlia said, pointing to floral arch creating a doorway on the path.

“That’s what?” Cami asked.

“That’s the portal that I came through when I got here,” Dahlia replied.

“The doorway to 2023?”

“Yes! I’m sure of it!” Dahlia said. “Now I can go back home!”

Cami put her hand on Dahlia’s arm. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“I’m sure it’s the arbor! I remember seeing it and being surprised that it had just suddenly appeared! Yes! This is the portal!” Dahlia said, her excitement growing with every word.

“No,” said Cami. “I mean, are you sure you want to go back?”

Oh, goodness, yes! I’ve met my grandmother. I’ve got my great-grandmother’s journal here in my bag. I’ve got so much to tell them back home.”

“How do you know that the journal will survive the trip?” Cami asked. “You haven’t even had a chance to read it yet!”

“Why wouldn’t it survive?” Dahlia asked.

Cami frowned. “We don’t know the rules of time travel, do we? You don’t even remember what happened when you came through before.”

Now Dahlia frowned. “I wish I could remember what happened before that breakfast at the Jackson farm. It’s like one moment I’m seeing a floral arbor and heading for it, and the next I’m at breakfast on a farm seventy years ago.”

“You mean a few weeks ago,”Cami said.

“Yes,” said Dahlia, puzzled.

The Unicorn Challenge is to write a 250 word story based on the photograph.

First, I’m not a fiction writer.

Second, the only idea I had when I saw the arbor was time travel.

Third, I kind of hate that that was my first thought, especially because the parent blog for the challenge is called Tales from Glasgow and clearly from Scotland.

Fourth, for the record, I have NOT read or watched Outlander. Just sayin’. But because of Outlander, time travel in Scotland just sounds cliche.

Fifth, as I thought about the whole idea, I realized that I don’t know the rules for time travel. Would a journal travel unscathed through a portal?

Grief · Life

Some Years Ago

Sally13 Comments

“Some years ago” — the first three words of the first full sentence on page 146 of Brian Doyle’s book, Hoop. That was the prompt for this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday — to choose the first three words of the first full sentence of a randomly chosen book near you. Here’s the shelf within reach:

In the words of David (ben Alexander) — Okie dokie ~ Let’s do this thing!

Some years ago I made choices. I mean, don’t we all? We make choices that seem right at the time — and then we go with them.

And they take us all sorts of places — up hills and down, around sharp bends with unexpected trials and encounters.

They take us through dark valleys.

They take us on hikes up steep hills where bramble scratch at our legs and bugs bite leaving itchy welts. But the view at the top can be amazing.

Or disappointing.

We don’t know until we get there, right?

And we can’t change the decision, we can only press on.

Some years ago I made a decision, or rather, a series of decisions — and those decisions impacted my family.

I became the primary caregiver for my father in his final years.

Last weekend, almost four years after his passing, we finally placed his ashes in the columbarium niche next to my mother’s ashes. Both of them were in the plastic boxes, provided for free by the funeral home or the crematory. They would have been pleased with that — no frivolous expenditure there.

I still wish I had saved a Cool Whip container to put my mom in. She would have loved that.

We were raised in the most unfrivolous way, but with a great sense of humor, if that makes sense. The Cool Whip container would have encapsulated that. That — and my mother’s thriftiness.

The Columbarium

Each of their surviving children went forward to the columbarium to spend a private moment or two with the ashes before they sealed up the niche. A bagpiper played Amazing Grace while we did that.

I went forward alone — a consequence of my choices — and placed my father’s college ring in with him.

He always wore it. After he passed, I carried it in my pocket every day, as a reminder of all the life lessons he had taught me. He was a good man.

Now I’m ready to move on.

Alone in some ways, but not alone in so many others.

Some years ago I made choices — and I continue to make choices.

Honestly, I don’t make frivolous choices.

But…. some years ago brought me to today.

And now there’s tomorrow.

collage · poetry

Sunflowers

Sally22 Comments

A photograph of a sunflower was the prompt for Tanka Tuesday. I immediately thought of the sunflower field near us. People constantly stop to photograph it — it’s so lovely. Recently, on Facebook however, there were a number of nasty comments about the people stopping to look at the sunflowers. It’s dangerous, they said — and they were probably right.

But doggone-it, the sunflowers are so pretty.

I wrote a poem about the controversy (kind of) and shaped each stanza like a petal, using syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Then I cut them out and put them in a collage.

Below, the poem in text form. Below that is my collage.

some
people
see the field
of sunflowers
and are in awe of
their beauty but
others see
the cars
that

pull 
over
to the side
haphazardly
because somebody
in the car caught
sight of the
flowers
and

could
not help
but to slam
on the brakes and
climb out of their car
to draw closer
to the gold-
en beaut-
y

they
are drawn
by flowers
and more flowers.
they’re intoxicated
by the beauty
and don’t see
danger
to 

self
or to
others – the
ones who are just
on their way to work
and don’t have time
for flowers
or they
are

weighed
down by
too many
cares — so they don’t
care or remember 
to care, to see.
this world is
so so
rich

rich,
I say,
in beauty
golden yellow
living miracles
that came from seeds
and grew taller
than even
you or
me

poetry

Olaf the Cat

Sally21 Comments

I
Don’t sing.
My cat of
many years, Olaf,
Is always glad
To sing, to meow and yowl and
act like he is big

The W3 prompt for the week is to write a poem based on the piece of artwork show above, and, if possible, make it a Golden Shovel poem.

In a “Golden Shovel” poem, the last words in each line are, in order, words from a line of another poem. I chose an e.e. cummings poem. And struggled. Or should I say, i struggled

be-
causeif
ever
there was a poet
whos(tyl)e
set him
a- – – -part
it
was

eecummings

I wrote about an entirely fictional cat. I’m not really happy with it –the poem, that is. About as happy as I would be if I had a cat that yowled all the time. But I wanted to participate. [sigh]

The poetry form is called a Cadence. The rules are that it be written in 7 lines, that the lines follow this syllabic pattern 1-2-3-4-4-8-5, and that the end words be strong (no articles or prepositions). Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?

poetry

Emotions

Sally10 Comments

Door half-open
Door half-closed
Shadow – light
All transposed

Cup half-full
Cup half-empty
Is it lacking?
Is there plenty?

It’s too hot
It’s just right
It’s too cold
What a plight!

Close one door
New one opens
Toying with
My emotions

Happy, sad
Frightened, brave
Peaceful, mad
Giddy, grave

Rarely I
Am only one
I’m a mix
Shadow-sun

This is my response to Sadje’s “What Do You See?” photo (above)

I spend way too much time with my counselor talking about emotions. At one point, she gave me a list of emotion words to help me identify what I’m feeling. It’s not that I don’t have feelings — it’s that I have trouble naming them. Well, I take that back — when I was going through a particularly challenging time, I shut down my feelings, and, as they have come back, they’ve sometimes re-emerge in a tangle.



poetry

Bagpipes — A Love Story

Sally26 Comments

The bagpipes loved the little girl
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklirl
He hoped that he could catch her eye
As she went traipsing merrily by
She barely slowed, and so he sighed,
O skirly, whirly, sklirl

’twas lonely waiting to be seen
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleen
The blue-eyed girl was now long gone
Off in the distance he could hear the song
Of bagpipes playing nrrrnn nrrrnn nhawn
O skirly, whirly, skleen

But who should now come into view?
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklooo
The little girl tugging her mother’s hand,
“Mama, I want to be in the band!
To play these pipes would be so grand!”
O skirly, whirly, skloo0

She picked him up, nestling him dear
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleeer
“Please, can I take this home with me?”
Mom started to say, “Let’s wait. We’ll see.”
But didn’t. She heard the lassie’s plea.
O skirly, whirly, skleeer

And now the rest is history
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleee
Each is the other’s sole desire
Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre
Making music all day — a girl-bagpipe choir
O skirly, whirly, skleee


This is in response to the W3 prompt this week: Write a nonsense poem with at least one invented word of your own.

poetry

Tyger…………………………………….. Tyger

Sally24 Comments

Tigers don’t like groups, you know

Company isn’t something they seek
It may seem strange, but it’s not unique

Most animals draw strength from their pack or crew
Being alone is strength that only a few
Understand. For loneliness does not ensue
When aloneness is simply a part of you

Groups of tigers are called Streaks
Or Ambushes. Silly names — and weak

Tigers don’t like groups, you know

This is in response to the Tanka Tuesday prompt to: Select an animal collective noun and write your syllabic poem using the collective noun.

The poetry form that I used is the Symetrelle.

  • It begins and ends with a single subject line that is 7 syllables.
  • It has two mono-rhymed couplets that lead you into and out of the subject with a 9 syllable count.
  • In the middle is a mono-rhymed 4 line quatrain with an 11 syllable count.
Life

Three Dog Night

Sally8 Comments

“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do
Two can be as bad as one
it’s the loneliest number since the number one…”

written by Henry Nilsson

“Pick a number” — the prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.

Immediately, Three Dog Night was playing in my mind.

But here’s the thing:

  • One is strong. Okay, two is stronger — collaboration and all that. But one is okay. One stands.
  • One is responsible for one, and isn’t pointing fingers of blame at anyone else.
  • One is decisive.
  • One makes progress. One doesn’t get bogged down wondering what two or three would want or do. One moves forward.

Honestly, two can be far lonelier than one.

And crowds can be downright desolate.

Other notable ones this week:

One bottle of Chardonnay purchased this week. Today, actually. Chilled. The glass I had tonight — alone — was so good.

One dinner out — with one son. One of my children invited me out to dinner with him last night. AND he picked up the tab. So nice!

One Otto the Orange appearance — for my one granddaughter’s birthday. My granddaughter is quite smitten with Otto the Orange, so when my son mentioned that they were going to be attending a semi-local Otto the Orange appearance, of course I went.

One really good night’s sleep — I woke up this morning at 5:30am. Unheard of! I’m typically at work at this hour.

A few more numbers:

Two workouts in the Fitness Center this week.

Two days driving down to the house we’re selling so I can pack things ups and get them out.

Three mini-ciabatta rolls with sprouts and tomato that became my dinner tonight.

One disappointment.

One unsettling conversation.

One delightful conversation setting up a talk called “Farming With Dynamite.”

Seven days of goodness.

I think that pretty much sums up my week. In numbers.