Sooo...10 minutes a day is all Pat allows. It's an exercise, he says, to learn to dive fast and, ultimately, deep. Supposed to be "sense-driven", too. But I've been reading too much Amy Hempel, I should think. We'll see if it flies.
I think I like Pat, though it's hard to say. Too early to tell...only 12 pages in or so. But I like what I hear about him, and I like those 12 pages. A lot.
I like what I hear about Amy's teacher, too, Gordon Lish. And Chuck's teacher, Tom Spanbauer. I like Chuck & Amy's writing, and of course William Gibson, and many others.
Since one of my goals for the year was more literary essays (and blogs), and one of my goals forever has been to write better lyrics (not to mention assist students with exercises & info to help them write better music & lyrics), I thought it was time to get down to it the way I've always gotten down to guitar and music and other things that I presumably do well. Soooo....to that end, I'll write mostly every day for only 10 minutes, non-lyric format, sense-driven, based on one object. This from Pat's book, though it reminds me of the writing exercise for Pirsig's class (even though it wasn't). I recall the building that became the wall that became the brick....then the ideas flowed....
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"Pepper"
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16.
Yes, 16.
I'm not sure why that should come to me. Now.
16-5-16-16-5-18....Why should it be that I'd count, like this? Like this? It burns the mouth - nay, the tongue. Perhaps the eyes, as the pan sizzles hot awaiting the strip to sear. But not the nose - it only forces a sneeze.
16, and the muscles move. Feeling my tongue press against the roof of my mouth, saying the words with no sound.
But why should I count? It just happened. By surprise. Unexpectedly. Out of the blue. Like the devil beating his wife on a warm summer day. Like the snow in April. Like car trouble. Like Scott's suicide, running into the street and then...pulling the trigger.
Why would this come to me now? After all, it's just an exercise. No rules, but I 'm guessing it's bad form to break the 4th wall. But there it is. Just an exercise in writing, kicked off by the word "pepper".
Puddle"
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Squishy, seething, murky, and cool. The chill morning....mist...vertigo....scattered thoughts and alien sensation.
Where are my shoes and how did I come to be here?
Colors whirl as I pull my foot back, the mud sliding between my toes like a brown slug quivering, falling. Chill runs down my spine and up my back. I straighten and hear the air. Slight hum and a whisper. The whisper turning to a chorus of voices, so very far away. Vertigo. Dizzy. Colors flashing. A rainbow washing.
Rut in the ground filled with rain turned dark. Is this a foot print? A fallen hollow? Intention or accident? New or ancient?
Who was here before me?
"Clock"
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Tck. Tck. Tck. Tck....
Slight electric hum beneath the transient spikes of sound. Eyes closed...I can see the movement, closer, see the morning light reflected off the edge....closer, I can almost taste the metal gears, clicking from slot to slot...closer, smell the polycarbons of the shell, fine steel dust of entropy...closer, feel the hum of harmonic oscillation.
Time. What's the quote? "Time is the fire in which we burn."
"Time is not bought ready-made at the watchmaker's."
"O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled—"
"Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives. I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey and reminds us to cherish every moment, because it will never come again."
"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me."
Not to get too heavy: "Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana."
You, dear reader, name the quotes. I will melt dreamily into the tck, tck, tck.....
I've been sick, but I'll be back at it soon.......
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