W R I T E O N ! WRITING
Often the W R I T E O N ! writers are given a sentence to complete as a way of utilizing their imagination which often accesses their own life material. Following are three examples of this exercise.
Example 1
Holding under his arm an object wrapped in newspaper, he walks nervously into the hospital room. A young man, twenty four--pale of face, slight of build, he’s discernibly shaking as he approaches the old man laying in the bed. He barely recognizes his father, a usually stocky, muscular man with thick gray hair. Since the radiation therapy, his hair is a few wisps from his temples curling around his ears. Feeling nauseous most of the time, he doesn’t eat much; his skin hangs in sad folds from his shoulders, arms and legs. His face is faintly yellow, eyes dull, mouth slack.
Though his focus is more inner than outer, he notices the son’s entrance into the room, curious as to why this son whom he loves in a perfunctory way, has arrived at this time. In his confused bewilderment, the old man—George—lets out an audible sigh. Jacob, his son takes the sigh as an expression of dissatisfaction at the young man’s arrival. Jacob’s mother has told him that his father is not long for this world and if he wants to say goodbye, he’d better go…now.
Jacob extends the newspaper wrapped object toward George, saying “It’s eggplant parmigian, your favorite; mom made it this morning.”
“Keep it,” snorts George.
Rejection kicks his son in the solar plexus and the wind is knocked out of him.
“Dad, Mom made it special for you.”
“I said keep it and get the hell outta here.”
Not having a close relationship with his father, Jacob never the less wants an experience of closeness in which to say goodbye.
“Dad…”
“Shut yer hole Jake and get outa here. Don’t come back. Tell yer Mom to stay the hell away. I don’t know either one of ya and I’m not about to start.” He watches the back of his son melt through the doorway as the door softly clicks closed.
MOH BREATH
June 24, 2010
Example 2
Holding under his arm, an object wrapped in newspaper, he walks nervously into his wife’s bedroom. Martha is sitting up in bed, staring into space, her body cold and still. Paul pauses at the door, taking in his wife’s condition. The room is also cold; they haven’t paid the PG &E for two months. Paul fired from his job as maintenance man at the nearby elementary school. He and Martha have fantasized about what it would be like to accompany their new son to his first day of school; and how comforting it would be for him—Ben—to have his father so near.
The light is fading at four in the afternoon in October. Paul gently lays the package on the bed. Martha’s eyes flick to it and then away, her head and body stiffening. Paul lights the candles on both night tables and a couple more on the dresser. He glances over at the bed, noticing his wife slightly leaning away from the newspaper wrapped bundle, as if an inner wind is blowing her away from it.
“Martha…” he begins, and is stopped by the expression on his wife’s face. All her resources are employed to hold the force of her feeling back in a place where she believes it will disappear.
He picks up the dead infant to bury it in the yard. As he closes the back door, an exulted high pitched scream of grief from her bedroom breaks the silence into hundreds of sharp, icy pieces.
MOH BREATH
June 25, 2010
Example 3
Holding under his arm an object wrapped in newspaper, he walked nervously into his son’s daycare center. There was a smell of melted cheese and soiled diapers. Ms. Tannenbaum, the proprietor was nowhere to be seen. He could hear the piping cries and jubilant yells of the children outside in the playground. The warm summer afternoon announced itself anew through the open back door. George walked slowly toward it, not being sure of what he would find. Ms. Tannenbaum had called his office half an hour earlier, imploring him to come to the center as quickly as possible. Sam, his six year old son was in dire need of his father.
He spied Sam in the far corner of the playground, sitting under the jungle gym; his dark blond hair hanging over his face as he sat hunched over, grasping his knees. George practically sprinted over to the boy and squatted down beside his son.
“Hey Sam,” his father softly intoned.
Sam looked up, exposing his puffy, tearstained face to his father’s gaze.
George tenderly wiped his son’s tears with his handkerchief and drew the boy close to his side under his arm.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“I hurt, Daddy.”
“What hurts, son?”
“Me. All over.”
“What can I do to help?”
“I dunno. Sumpin’!”
“Well, how about this, Sam?”
And George unwrapped the newspaper clad bundle to reveal a chirping black and white guinea pig.
“Jingles!” the boy exclaimed.
George opened the cage door, reached in a grasped the guinea pig and put him on to his son’s lap. Sam petted the now very happy Jingles and gently lifted the warm, fuzzy animal next to his chest. The harmony between Sam, George and Jingles radiated throughout the playground.
MOH BREATH
July 26, 2010
Hello Spring 2010
Flow of Clarity
Anna suffers from hives and excruciating back pain and yet she is able to summon her energies and concentration to articulate images that express pain, fear and relief with a poetic sensibility.
I used to be terrified of silence…it meant he could come and I had to be so still…like a stone, no breathing. If I play dead it won’t happen.
A deep resonating stillness full of rustling pine needle sounds…..the shivery slither of lizards …the soulful soughing of the breeze.
When in the woods, or by the ocean or lake, silence is richly deepened by the aliveness of the critters, be they visible or so tiny we can’t see them or identify them, or know them by name.
Sliding through the grasses in eight inches of water…letting the movement of my hips be the propeller of my kayak….floating,… directed by the tidal pulls and pushes. Oh so quietly …I can rest my fear in this gently rocking water/mud/reed world.
Sliding easily into a thicket of vertical greenness. Just there, the eyes of a baby seal surface….we gaze into each other – Saudade…..[ portuguese word] … tender sadness held by joy.
In the cozy bed , on Lake Winnepasake…..the little gently lapping of waves quietly becomes me. At the far shore…eww-who-ww-www…wwo.. a loon calls out her haunting song. And many wave laps later is responded to by er mate...eww-eeww-whoow-w-w-w.
Safety and life cavort in these being-filled worlds; when being is buoyed by the distinct and delineated orchestra of otter, woodchuck ,waves.
Silky, the water caresses this dear body as I slip skinny dipping into dark star-filled lake. No more playing dead….only playing, floating, dolphinning, caressed by moon and loon.
Anna
Monday Night Opportunity
Richard arrived at the workshop feeling exhausted and deficient in many ways. After the free write exercise all the participants were asked to locate a dream that had meaning for them and from that dream to choose one image, focus on it and then write from that experience. The following is what Richard wrote:
One of the very first dreams that I had as a kid had such an impact that I grew up that day. Well, should I say I knew that was the day I understood that even a little boy could receive deep grown up awakening.
“This day is where you will start your teaching on how to become a good, whole and intelligent man. No matter what obstacles and adversity come up, I will give you dreams to teach you and to help you understand your way. I will communicate to you to unfold all your questions.”
Thank God He loves me enough to take out time for just me. Right then I didn’t know that I was so important or thought of. I watched a lot of TV as a kid and in most of the movies the good–looking men and the heroes were white. And they would always win and in the end, get the girl. They were my idols because in my mind they were the winners, and who didn’t want to win?
So that one very important, special night (I must have been four or five) I fell asleep and had a dream. I was one of the leading men, but I looked like Tony Curtis or Rock Hudson; and the dream was fine until I woke up smiling and ran to the mirror. I was petrified of what I saw. I cried. I will never look like Tony Curtis or Rock Hudson, so I will never be the hero; so my dreams will never become a reality. That’s what TV and America did to a five-year-old kid.
But soon after that, without me sharing the dream with anyone, I went to a party the Black Panthers were giving for the kids in the neighborhood. They gave out comic books of black heroes—like Frederick Douglas was the one I got. And I read it over and over.
How could he do all those things in such impossible circumstances? He was just a man like me and wasn’t a movie star. His heroism was based on strength, persistence and a strong will coupled with faith.
I don’t have to be Elvis to be a hero or get the girl. I have hope through my dream. I stopped crying and got to work. I’m still working on it.
First Entry of 2009
LeESTER VS. KATRINA
Who was Katrina? Was she a figment of my imagination? What was her purpose for showing up in a rural way? Katrina, was it something that displeased you? So many lives were taken away as you traveled, passing the along edge of borders. Was it somethng in my life that needed changing?
Why did you spare me? As I watched the destruction, as your breath passed by my home, Katrina, what were you trying to say? As I arrived to the South, two months later you arrived with such force and anger! You pulled my attention toward self-awareness, showing me how valuable life can be. So many souls were taken away. You walked with great fear, no sympathy for the weak! No sympathy for the children, but yet you showed me consideration. What is my purpose here? Why was I spared? What you showed me is how important life really is,
Katrina, I hope to never see you again; but thank you for opening my selfish, ungrateful, high maintenance, self centered, and very unworthy of this second chance eyes. How could you have been so cruel? If there is anything else that you need to tell me in the near future, just send me a letter.
P.S. Thanks. And by the way, at least you could have given me a warning.
After reading the piece to the group, LeEster's face was wet with tears and she reported feeling as though a weight had lifted and she was clean of the unexamined misery from Louisiana. At present LeEster is homeless and attempting to return home. She would welcome any assistance in accomplishing that goal. Contributions or any other forms of assistance may be sent to
W R I T E O N ! through PayPal or to P.O. Box 452 Fairfax, CA 94978 and they will be passed on to LeEster.
Happy New Year!
The writing exercise was to choose from a pile of cards, each of which had a word on it. The cards were turned over so the words were not visible. Each writer chose five cards and was to utilize the words in a poem, story, essay, letter or stream-of-consciousness writing. Barbara's words were analogue, appliance, breadfruit, columbine, logjam.
PRUNE JUICE: A STUPID POEM
This is an analogue.
What the hell is an analogue?
I don't know.
It's a word Robert-Harry gave me to write a poem.
The next is appliance.
The next is breadfruit.
The next is columbine.
The next is logjam--five meaningless words.
I'm supposed to make a poem out of this?
Let's see. I sat on my analogue
on top of the appliance--the washing machine--
to keep it from rocking, while I ate my lunch of breadfruit
which was a prune and apricot sandwich
made by Columbine Bakeries,
which is located in lumber country
by a big logjam, where they produce breadfruit sandwiches
made out of sawdust and prune juice
which give you diarrhea.
I eat these every day while I do my wash...oops...
the machine just vibrated out the laundramat door.
I had overstuffed the washing machine
and it became a huge blanket logjam
of my sleeping bag and clothes,
as I'm homeless.
Sitting on top didn't stop it from moving;
I just got hemorrhoids in my analogue.
After reading the poem to the group, Barbara reported feeing lighter and warmer.
ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT
1 2 3 snore, altogether now!
1 2 3 snore, altogether now!
As my hands move like an orchestra conductor
I sit, royally frustrated, in my bed
listening to the rumbling snoring of my roommates.
I don’t want to be awake now.
I would much rather be lost in dreamland
just as my roommates are.
This is why sometimes morning greetings
are not quite as friendly as one would hope.
Bark, bark, bark,
bark, bark, bark!
Now we have a new addition to our homeless orchestra.
The once adorable cuddly dog
is receiving many evil eyes
just as the rumbling snorers do in the morning.
It’s hard to fully get mad at the dog,
for he is only expressing his sorrow
in the only way he knows how.
In some respects I think that’s more the reason
we get frustrated with a barking dog.
They are able to express their sorrows freely
for hours on end.
We are jealous of that freedom
because we as humans would be thrown in jail
and more than likely sent for a psych review
within the first hour or so
of our rambling tirade of sorrow.
For this I am not jealous of the dog.
In fact, I commend the dog
for his ability to express his sorrow so freely and extendedly.
Although I understand the need
to feel jealous and even angry at the dog.
However, I choose to see and respect
the other side of the matter.
Aaaah…well another writing release has commenced.
Uncontrollable drowsiness has set in.
Let’s try this sleep thing one more time.
Earplugs help.
Wish the radio worked.
It’s OK…pure exhaustion…has…set…in…
night…night…sleep…tight.
Roxanne Keller
Extended Focus
Ruth, our childcare specialist came to class tonight. She was initially challenged by having to focus over the time period of an hour and a half. The meditative music relaxed her, which facilitated her maintaining her attention span. Her initial contracted state began to open as she wrote more and more. What was most gratifying for her was writing a letter of appreciation and admiration to herself, which showed her that she needed to be more self-encouraging. Reading the letter and receiving positive feedback from the group solidified the warm expansion she experienced from expressing herself in such a positive way. Monday, September 17th 2007 at Brown House
They responded with a vigorous openness that suggests that the hunger for positive regard is just waiting to be tapped, for an appropriate trusting context to be provided into which the consciousness can open. Tuesday, September 18th 2007
WRITE ON! NEWS
What Nora (not her real name) had written was evocative of a past that was gentler and more nourishing than her present life. The sweetness of that time and the absence of that quality from her life brought tears and a dropping down from a mental orientation into a more embodied, feelingful experience. Nora was able to bring that softer, more whole experience of herself to her child after the session was over. Not only was the experience beneficial to mother and child in the moment but it modeled a future possibility for them both.