I spent last Saturday afternoon back at Eanlai's for prompted writing using the Amherst Writers and Artists method. The first prompt was to write about something that happened behind a wall.
What I really want to say is that sometimes I feel like I'm behind a wall from everybody and everything else already. I feel distant and other and unworthy, and like I'm observing people who are speaking an unknown language. There must be meaning to what they're saying, but I don't get it.
That said, sometimes I do have some empathy, and can sense how other folk are feeling, and I wish them well and want to help them or let them know that I share their feelings.
Things that happen behind a wall from others are meant to be private, not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but something meant only for the participants -- drawing so much meaning from their relationship that even in the absence of the literal wall, a metaphorical wall keeps the observer from appreciating how much of the interaction already happened. How much of the hidden iceberg consists of past adventures and arguments, pet names and in jokes, unexpressed judgments or compliments about each other's actions, attire, or attitude. Together, a couple or family, or pair of friends create a separate life, that arises from and between them, a life that is mysterious and hidden.
In a more literal frame of mind, I watch a lot of TV shows about factories that make various items, including food. And I am endlessly fascinated by the machinery, the ingredients, how the parts of the process fit together and produce the final result. Often the workers have to open a cover or slow down the mechanism to reveal the process.
In these shows, they take us behind the walls and inside the machines. And I start to wonder why I would want to eat anything that was made in a factory.
____________
The next prompt was to write a story where the weather plays a role. Ever the over-achiever, I wrote two:
Somebody left the outside door open at the end of the hall where my bedroom was. I wanted to close it, but feared I would lock someone outside, in the cold.
But I was astoundingly cold that night. Changing into pajamas for sleep was as unthinkable as wearing a bikini in a blizzard. I wore two pair of socks, two pair of pants, five layers of T-shirts, shirts, overshirts, and coat, and still shivered.
Now this was Northern California; the temperature could not have been below freezing, but I was chilled to the bone, through the bone, into some bony dimension of being hitherto unexplored.
The night was endless. I curled up on one side, and the other side chilled. I turned over and the chill shifted accordingly. The very air burned inside my nose unless it had been warmed by passing through the blanket. But then it seemed to lack oxygen, so I cycled between the burning air and the burned out air.
Then post-nasal slime choked its way down the back of my throat, and I began to suspect that the chill was not so much in the room as in myself. And when I finally reached daylight, my lack of a voice confirmed that I was sick, not just cold.
___
The still warmth of that day in '89 has always struck me since as earthquake weather.
After the BART train shuddered to a halt at Embarcadero Station, we mystified travelers made our way through the partly lit station and stationary escalators up to the slightly crumpled sidewalk. The air was a pleasantly warm temperature, but the unavailability of public transportation had me walking uphill towards my home, and I gradually overheated, removing layers of clothing and tying them around my waist.
The power was out most places, but I found one store still doing business, with an ancient manual cash register, and bought a bottle of water and a snack.
Time passed, the sky grew dark (except for the glow of fire over the Marina), and I finally spotted a light at the home of a friend, who gave me a ride the rest of the way back to my own home.
_______________
The next prompt was a poem by Noel Coward claiming that all the notes we ever heard and all the phrases those we loved have spoken to us lie deep in our minds waiting to be recalled:
All the notes I ever heard linger in my mind much more clearly than words spoken by loved ones, tho' I do remember some of them as well. Or do I remember remembering them?
My memories pale and shift with the recalling. I remember trying to remember a particularly sweet moment with a dear friend, and the sweetness ebbed every time I remembered it - like the fading clarity of a xerox of a xerox of a xerox. The juice gets pressed out and worn down with each visit.
But how does that compare with how well a memory retains its sweetness while unopened? If years pass before the event comes to mind, is there going to be any juice left at all? Or will I even be able to remember the event? Or even to believe that such events once happened to me?
If the risk in leaving the book of memories closed is total erasure, then I really should savor any sweet memory while it lasts, and write it down in as much detail as possible, both to cement it more firmly in my present recollection, and to have enough of a prompt in the writing to perhaps ignite the embers of the memory's lingering warmth.
I think I almost deliberately wiped my memory of people, places, and events when I was plucked out of Harrisburg at the age of 11 and dropped in Berkeley to live with a different relative, and again when he died four years later and I was moved to Southern California. My emotional survival in each new situation seemed to require letting go of what came before, to minimize the pain of looking backward, and to motivate me to become rooted in my new home.
But I've lived in the same city for 40 years now, and there is no value to me in washing away my past. So, can I hope that Mr. Coward is correct, and that all of those memories lie hidden somewhere in the subbasement of my consciousness? Maybe with practice I can get more of them to come swimming up, perhaps in response to writing prompts, bits of what I read or see on a screen, or my dreams.
Music seems to linger more securely in my mind than words. I've always been a singer, and music that I've learned and performed sticks pretty well in my mind. And I studied music in college, so a lot of orchestral music came into my consciousness then and lingers there, helped by the LPs I bought so I could enjoy them again. I seldom play those LPs, though, in part because I seem to lack the patience to just sit there and listen, but if I read or do other things, the music goes by unheard. It's a puzzlement, and a growth opportunity.
_______
And, finally, we wrote four minutes to the prompt "What I meant to tell you." This piece should be read after rereading the one about the last time I talked to my mother, from the previous post.
What I meant to tell you is that I now realize you intended that core dump of wisdom as a gift, since you had nothing else of value to leave me. You intended me to profit from your mistakes and experience, and to avoid some of the pain you felt. I meant to tell you that I realize you did the best for us that you could, that your own upbringing did not equip you to raise healthy children, so you passed us on to relatives that you believed would do a better job than you could.
I meant to tell you that I enjoyed Santa Monica summers and Christmases at Disneyland. That I realize how you must have scrimped and saved all year to pay for those trips and provide us with the season's best toys. I meant to tell you that I forgive you for your failings and thank you for what you were able to give us.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Writing at Kathy's
We're trying a writing method that involves listening to Baroque music in the presence of a lit candle, and writing on unlined paper, without prompts. So here's what came out:
Writing to Baroque music may produce the Mozart effect in people who don't have music degrees. But I know that this piece is from the classical period and is Albinoni's Adagio. I seem to recall it being used in the soundtrack of the movie The Elephant Man, at the end, when he decided to kill himself by sleeping lying down. So the piece is inexpressibly sad to me, although also quite beautiful, and of the sort of music I would really enjoy playing on recorders with some friends.
Which leads me to wonder why I've pretty much dropped out of recorder playing since I retired. I stopped going to the week-long workshops in Oakland and Carmel Valley, and to the monthly chapter meetings in San Francisco. I have trouble with stairs and roommates that may account for some of my unwillingness to go out of town, and needing to find a ride or a parking spot late at night is a disincentive concerning the chapter meetings. But that doesn't seem to be enough reason to quit.
Maybe I'm just not enjoying playing as much as I did before. I don't work at it enough to get any better at playing fast notes or long phrases. I don't know. Maybe something about taking early retirement makes me feel more apart from the gang than I usually do? I do know that getting chastised by a teacher for trying to help another player in her class really hurt my feelings. Maybe I feel bad when others seem to expect me to play better than I actually do?
P.S., this piano piece is not Baroque, I think. Maybe it's by Chopin or Liszt.
I really prefer writing to a prompt. Lacking one makes me think of my mother's saying: "When I'm alone, I'm in bad company." I tend to wind up thinking about things I don't understand or don't like about myself, and feel powerless and unwilling to change.
For example, I probably would get more accomplished if I spent less time checking email, playing Sudoku, etc. But I know how unhappy and conflicted I get when trying to give up an unedifying habit. And how could I limit the time I spend doing anything in particular without keeping track of my time, which is really repellent?
Maybe consciously substituting something equally gratifying (if I can figure out what that might be) for that activity maybe half the time would be doable.
Maybe I should get back into some carefully crafted affirmations, like: "I'm awake, alert, alive, enthusiastic." Something not so far removed from reality as to be a joke, but with a decent amount of aspiration. Maybe including my old standby: "I love myself unconditionally." or a more moderate: "I regard myself with humor and compassion."
The third musical selection was baroque, and the fourth as well.
What do I get from the candle flame? It reminds me of Shabbat candles, also of the candle I lit at bedtime for company in the depths of depression. It made me feel less alone, and almost relaxed enough to fall asleep.
One of my favorite aspects of music is how crunchy harmonies resolve. The contraction and release of tension in the music is very fulfilling and relaxing.
Another growth opportunity I have is the many records and tapes I don't listen to. The closest I get to music is turning on the classical radio station when I'm driving in the car or paying bills in the kitchen. Which provides some nourishment, but leaves me feeling like I'm hiding from the memories and feelings attached to the music I chose to acquire: classical, Broadway shows, women's music, the records we cut at Cazadero Music Camp.
____________
Then we wrote to a prompt about someone I once knew well but haven't seen for several years, beginning as follows:
The last time I talked to my mother may have been the time she phoned me and, with no fanfare or time to get a notebook, stated every piece of wisdom that she had acquired in her sixty-something years of life and twenty-something years in A.A.
At the time, I wondered what had prompted her to lay it all on me, and was a bit irritated that she had intruded on what I was doing at the time (whatever it might have been) and proceeded to talk my ear off for much longer than I was interested in listening. I basically kept making little noises to falsely suggest that I was listening, and waited for her to finish.
Now, of course, I wish I had paid closer attention, taken notes, and responded somehow to her attempted gift. But I didn't, and, probably not too long thereafter, I got a call from her neighbor informing me of her death.
I suspect that her angina was getting worse, and she began to feel mortal. I deeply regret not having paid more attention at the time.
On the other hand, I still remember maybe a dozen sayings and pearls of wisdom that she had repeatedly shared with me and my brother, so I've received some of her wisdom. And I don't know how helpful would have been ideas that she divulged only under fear of approaching death, without other context.
___________
Our final prompt was, would I like to write a book, about what?
I've always wanted, maybe not so much to write a book as to have written a book. Seeing my name and words in print is intensely gratifying to me.
With a career in legal writing under my belt, many words of mine about various legal subjects exist in print. Several of my prayers appear in the synagogue prayerbook, and a few of my poems have been published in a pamphlet.
But what would I fill a book with? Musings about my mental blocks, economic justice, and spirituality? Memoirish little bits about this and that, in no particular order?
There should be some way to piece together some of my hard-won wisdom and quirky foibles into a form that one or two folks might find of interest.
Unless Blogger is lying to me, the blog where I post my scraps of thought has fans as far away as France. And if I self-publish, nobody has to be sold on the value of my stuff but me. And convincing me of that value would be half of the barrier to publishing my words. And I expect the other half of the barrier would be to stop editing them and let them go.
And if I publish an e-book, no trees will be felled in the dissemination of my thoughts, which are worthy at least to rearrange some electrons on sand.
Writing to Baroque music may produce the Mozart effect in people who don't have music degrees. But I know that this piece is from the classical period and is Albinoni's Adagio. I seem to recall it being used in the soundtrack of the movie The Elephant Man, at the end, when he decided to kill himself by sleeping lying down. So the piece is inexpressibly sad to me, although also quite beautiful, and of the sort of music I would really enjoy playing on recorders with some friends.
Which leads me to wonder why I've pretty much dropped out of recorder playing since I retired. I stopped going to the week-long workshops in Oakland and Carmel Valley, and to the monthly chapter meetings in San Francisco. I have trouble with stairs and roommates that may account for some of my unwillingness to go out of town, and needing to find a ride or a parking spot late at night is a disincentive concerning the chapter meetings. But that doesn't seem to be enough reason to quit.
Maybe I'm just not enjoying playing as much as I did before. I don't work at it enough to get any better at playing fast notes or long phrases. I don't know. Maybe something about taking early retirement makes me feel more apart from the gang than I usually do? I do know that getting chastised by a teacher for trying to help another player in her class really hurt my feelings. Maybe I feel bad when others seem to expect me to play better than I actually do?
P.S., this piano piece is not Baroque, I think. Maybe it's by Chopin or Liszt.
I really prefer writing to a prompt. Lacking one makes me think of my mother's saying: "When I'm alone, I'm in bad company." I tend to wind up thinking about things I don't understand or don't like about myself, and feel powerless and unwilling to change.
For example, I probably would get more accomplished if I spent less time checking email, playing Sudoku, etc. But I know how unhappy and conflicted I get when trying to give up an unedifying habit. And how could I limit the time I spend doing anything in particular without keeping track of my time, which is really repellent?
Maybe consciously substituting something equally gratifying (if I can figure out what that might be) for that activity maybe half the time would be doable.
Maybe I should get back into some carefully crafted affirmations, like: "I'm awake, alert, alive, enthusiastic." Something not so far removed from reality as to be a joke, but with a decent amount of aspiration. Maybe including my old standby: "I love myself unconditionally." or a more moderate: "I regard myself with humor and compassion."
The third musical selection was baroque, and the fourth as well.
What do I get from the candle flame? It reminds me of Shabbat candles, also of the candle I lit at bedtime for company in the depths of depression. It made me feel less alone, and almost relaxed enough to fall asleep.
One of my favorite aspects of music is how crunchy harmonies resolve. The contraction and release of tension in the music is very fulfilling and relaxing.
Another growth opportunity I have is the many records and tapes I don't listen to. The closest I get to music is turning on the classical radio station when I'm driving in the car or paying bills in the kitchen. Which provides some nourishment, but leaves me feeling like I'm hiding from the memories and feelings attached to the music I chose to acquire: classical, Broadway shows, women's music, the records we cut at Cazadero Music Camp.
____________
Then we wrote to a prompt about someone I once knew well but haven't seen for several years, beginning as follows:
The last time I talked to my mother may have been the time she phoned me and, with no fanfare or time to get a notebook, stated every piece of wisdom that she had acquired in her sixty-something years of life and twenty-something years in A.A.
At the time, I wondered what had prompted her to lay it all on me, and was a bit irritated that she had intruded on what I was doing at the time (whatever it might have been) and proceeded to talk my ear off for much longer than I was interested in listening. I basically kept making little noises to falsely suggest that I was listening, and waited for her to finish.
Now, of course, I wish I had paid closer attention, taken notes, and responded somehow to her attempted gift. But I didn't, and, probably not too long thereafter, I got a call from her neighbor informing me of her death.
I suspect that her angina was getting worse, and she began to feel mortal. I deeply regret not having paid more attention at the time.
On the other hand, I still remember maybe a dozen sayings and pearls of wisdom that she had repeatedly shared with me and my brother, so I've received some of her wisdom. And I don't know how helpful would have been ideas that she divulged only under fear of approaching death, without other context.
___________
Our final prompt was, would I like to write a book, about what?
I've always wanted, maybe not so much to write a book as to have written a book. Seeing my name and words in print is intensely gratifying to me.
With a career in legal writing under my belt, many words of mine about various legal subjects exist in print. Several of my prayers appear in the synagogue prayerbook, and a few of my poems have been published in a pamphlet.
But what would I fill a book with? Musings about my mental blocks, economic justice, and spirituality? Memoirish little bits about this and that, in no particular order?
There should be some way to piece together some of my hard-won wisdom and quirky foibles into a form that one or two folks might find of interest.
Unless Blogger is lying to me, the blog where I post my scraps of thought has fans as far away as France. And if I self-publish, nobody has to be sold on the value of my stuff but me. And convincing me of that value would be half of the barrier to publishing my words. And I expect the other half of the barrier would be to stop editing them and let them go.
And if I publish an e-book, no trees will be felled in the dissemination of my thoughts, which are worthy at least to rearrange some electrons on sand.
Today's Harvest
Two pieces written without prompt, waiting at a table with one or two others for the teacher to arrive:
It wasn't supposed to rain today, and I dressed accordingly. But it rained while I was stuffing envelopes at the SPCA this afternoon. My first clue was that the patio was wet when I left the building. Then the water drops on my car and the dry area underneath it confirmed the diagnosis.
It's odd that I didn't notice the rain while inside the building, since there were windows near where we sat, and the room was fairly quiet. But none of us heard the rain - or at least commented on it aloud.
It sure snuck up on me. And then the rain came again, only for a minute or two, as I parked the car at home. But then it very kindly stopped so I could stay dry on my way into the house. Most obliging of it.
___________
The clock ticks steadily. It sounds like a tin soldier marching. Melodies form in my mind to keep time with it. My teeth try to tap in time with it. I think of meditation and the passage of time. Raindrops and tick-tocks blend together in my mind, and I wonder if there's a leak in the building. Chinese water torture comes to mind, but so far the sound is inoffensive.
I'm sitting here with Beth, and, although neither of us was able to write at home, here we are putting pen to paper - in the absence of our teacher - because this is the time and place for our writing class, and because two of us together have many times the creative energy of one.
______________________
Then we came up with our own prompt about the relationship between sleeping with women and being a lesbian:
Being a lesbian does not require an active love life. Being with a man is never going to be a possibility for me, no matter how long I go without a woman in my life. Being a lesbian is who I am, not what I'm doing.
Not only is it the fact that women turn me on and men don't, but it's also that I've turned my back on the whole female mystique - dresses and make-up and high heels, and seeking to please the male gaze and to generally be subordinate and dependent.
Now I know that there is such a thing as a straight feminist, so the terms lesbian and feminist, although they overlap considerably, are not synonymous. But for me, a lot of my feminism preceded becoming aware of my lesbianism, which then made a lot of sense once I knew. And for me, feminism implies having no need for men, even for sex. On the other hand, men come in handy when I have something heavy to move.
So, anyway, my current lack of a sexual partner does not undermine my lesbian identity at all.
____________
Then the teacher arrived, and gave us the prompt to write something dangerous.
What would be very dangerous would be to reverse the tilt in the playing field that causes money to flow towards the wealthy few and away from everyone else. We need to change the tax law so that investment income is taxed at twice the rate of wages. We need to shrink the amount that is exempt from estate tax and level at least a 50% tax on the first tier of estates, and higher rates as they get bigger.
And we need to put those tax revenues back into the social safety net: universal healthcare, social security, highways and bridges, day care, free public education through grad school, all the stuff that made this country great.
Even the oligarchs are starting to realize that they can't make money from selling products if no one else has money to spend on them. Honestly, folks, student loans that can't be discharged in bankruptcy? It's a formula to create a permanent underclass. Everybody who works full time deserves a living wage. Everybody.
Walmart would still be profitable if it paid a living wage to full-time employees. The family should be ashamed of having employees who qualify for food stamps. Are they some kind of royalty, to be lording over serfs by divine right? Something is very wrong with America.
It wasn't supposed to rain today, and I dressed accordingly. But it rained while I was stuffing envelopes at the SPCA this afternoon. My first clue was that the patio was wet when I left the building. Then the water drops on my car and the dry area underneath it confirmed the diagnosis.
It's odd that I didn't notice the rain while inside the building, since there were windows near where we sat, and the room was fairly quiet. But none of us heard the rain - or at least commented on it aloud.
It sure snuck up on me. And then the rain came again, only for a minute or two, as I parked the car at home. But then it very kindly stopped so I could stay dry on my way into the house. Most obliging of it.
___________
The clock ticks steadily. It sounds like a tin soldier marching. Melodies form in my mind to keep time with it. My teeth try to tap in time with it. I think of meditation and the passage of time. Raindrops and tick-tocks blend together in my mind, and I wonder if there's a leak in the building. Chinese water torture comes to mind, but so far the sound is inoffensive.
I'm sitting here with Beth, and, although neither of us was able to write at home, here we are putting pen to paper - in the absence of our teacher - because this is the time and place for our writing class, and because two of us together have many times the creative energy of one.
______________________
Then we came up with our own prompt about the relationship between sleeping with women and being a lesbian:
Being a lesbian does not require an active love life. Being with a man is never going to be a possibility for me, no matter how long I go without a woman in my life. Being a lesbian is who I am, not what I'm doing.
Not only is it the fact that women turn me on and men don't, but it's also that I've turned my back on the whole female mystique - dresses and make-up and high heels, and seeking to please the male gaze and to generally be subordinate and dependent.
Now I know that there is such a thing as a straight feminist, so the terms lesbian and feminist, although they overlap considerably, are not synonymous. But for me, a lot of my feminism preceded becoming aware of my lesbianism, which then made a lot of sense once I knew. And for me, feminism implies having no need for men, even for sex. On the other hand, men come in handy when I have something heavy to move.
So, anyway, my current lack of a sexual partner does not undermine my lesbian identity at all.
____________
Then the teacher arrived, and gave us the prompt to write something dangerous.
What would be very dangerous would be to reverse the tilt in the playing field that causes money to flow towards the wealthy few and away from everyone else. We need to change the tax law so that investment income is taxed at twice the rate of wages. We need to shrink the amount that is exempt from estate tax and level at least a 50% tax on the first tier of estates, and higher rates as they get bigger.
And we need to put those tax revenues back into the social safety net: universal healthcare, social security, highways and bridges, day care, free public education through grad school, all the stuff that made this country great.
Even the oligarchs are starting to realize that they can't make money from selling products if no one else has money to spend on them. Honestly, folks, student loans that can't be discharged in bankruptcy? It's a formula to create a permanent underclass. Everybody who works full time deserves a living wage. Everybody.
Walmart would still be profitable if it paid a living wage to full-time employees. The family should be ashamed of having employees who qualify for food stamps. Are they some kind of royalty, to be lording over serfs by divine right? Something is very wrong with America.
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