Creative Endeavors

I haven't written much in a long, long time. I did a small piece, entitled Suckered, for Meat for Tea: The Valley Review. It wasn't exactly a short story... more of a vignette. Suckered was a little heavy handed and the dialogue was... well, the dialogue was not its strong point. Dialogue is something I've always struggled to write. So I decided to make it almost all dialogue as an exercise... for the most part, just a couple speaking over dinner. You can find it in Vol. 5, Issue 2 if you're really interested.

I recently decided to do something to spur me to write more. I enrolled in a creative writing workshop at Flying Object in Hadley, MA with Rachel B. Glaser. I figured if I paid money, that I would be compelled to actually write something. It will be good to get some feedback from other writers... good, honest feedback.

That said, I'm a little concerned as well. I'm concerned that my writing won't be that good. I'm concerned I'll be "that guy" in the class that is hopelessly clueless and the other students mentally groan over when having to read or hear his work.

I've decided to follow the class here on the blog. If anything, it will just give me some material and you something to laugh at, whether intended or not, I suppose.

The first writing assignment was "Bad Writing". Well HO-leee hell. That should be a no-brainer. Except when you actually try to write badly... on purpose... it's not that easy.

I took a couple of days to think about it after getting the assignment. It was to be no more than a page, in any form. I tried to think about what makes writing bad. For me, I hate repetition of words or phrases. I try to avoid writing which adds nothing to the story. Run on sentences and bad metaphor are always a sure sign of terrible prose. Finally, a single image came into my mind... that of a sunset. I figured I would start with a cliché and would make it as over the top as I could. I would take all of those things that I normally avoid and lay it on thick... like peanut butter... and jelly.

So here it is:

The sunset looked like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not the outside, but the inside, once it’s been squished together and then pulled apart again. It met the ocean and was reflected in its imperfect mirror. Being low tide, the air smelled of dead, salty things from the ocean.

“I love walking on the beach at sunset,” she said.

“I know. That’s what you said in your online profile,” he grinned.

He loved the way her lips moved when she talked. They were the first thing he noticed about her. Well, actually the second, but in his defense, she was wearing a rather low cut blouse.

There was an electricity in the air. He could feel the sparks between them. It was like humming electric lines or his old Lionel train set that was always short circuiting and leaving scorch marks in the carpet of his room growing up. Mom used to always yell at him for that.

“Stop leaving scorch marks on the carpet in your room!” she’d yell.

But Andrea didn’t yell like his mother, and his mother didn’t particularly look like her and never wore low cut blouses, which tended to reassure him that there was nothing Oedipal about his interest at all.

They walked in silence for a while, neither of them saying anything. It was nice. They walked a bit on the sand and then they walked a bit in the water, which lapped their feet, like a puppy with sweaty feet. Not that puppies’ feet sweat. Neither puppies nor dogs sweat. That’s why they pant, because they can’t sweat. But puppies will sometimes lick your feet when you take your socks off and they are sweaty. I mean, your feet, not the socks. The socks are sweaty too, but the puppies don’t lick the socks, they lick your feet. They sometimes do eat socks, though. Probably because they are sweaty. The water was nice lapping at their feet and not at all ticklish like a puppy licking your feet.

“I love the way the waves lap at your feet when you walk in the water,” she said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he laughed.

She smiled at him. Her smile reminded him of his mother. Wait. No it didn’t. That would be weird. No, it was his sister’s smile that it reminded him of and for a moment a frown crossed his face as he wondered which was worse; Andrea reminding him of his mother or his sister. His sister’s hair was just about the same color auburn as Andrea’s, although he was pretty certain that his sister’s color came from a bottle.

“You know what the sky reminds me of?” asked Andrea?

“No, what?”

“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not the sandwich exactly, but when you pull it apart and everything is all squished together.”

Marjory Stoneman Douglas

"There are no other Everglades in the world. They are, they have always been, one of the unique regions of the earth; remote, never wholly known. Nothing anywhere else is like them."

If we consider Henry Flagler, the railroad tycoon and real estate developer, as the father of Florida, Marjory Stoneman Douglas must surely be her mother. Where Flagler sought to subdue Florida and civilize her, Douglas protected and nurtured her. She fought Big Sugar and the Big Cypress Jetport. Her book, The Everglades: River of Grass, changed the perception of many Floridians about the Everglades from being a useless swamp to that of the literal and metaphorical heart of the state.

She was seen by many, mostly those intent on using Florida for their own financial gain, as a troublemaker... an old woman with nothing better to do than throw a monkey wrench into their plans. As the population of south Florida grew, the Army Corps of Engineers sought to drain flood prone areas. Douglas was often the lone voice of dissent, speaking up on behalf of the Everglades, whose voice was the croak of bullfrogs, the bellow of gators and the scolding of the red winged blackbirds. Developers, the Army Corps and politicians don't speak their languages, so she translated.

Mrs. Douglas died in 1998 at the age of 108. Without her, the Everglades would most likely be many more thousand square miles of ticky-tacky homes and strip malls. One could not ask for a better mother.

Opening Doors, Reprise

Over the past year I've come to this blog several times with the intention of writing. Each time i would find the dust thicker and more cobwebs in the corners. I would read back a bit, remembering posts that I'd deleted, and close without writing anything.

At first I stopped writing because I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't depressing as hell. I'd gone through a divorce and then a breakup with the Rebound Girl. I lost close friends. Then, when things started improving, I didn't want to write. I was afraid that if I wrote about my life, that would just fuck things up. I didn't want anyone to see me in that shape again. It became the elephant in the room. The Rebound's face still resided in the "Followers" box and it bothered me to the point that I emailed her and asked if she would remove it.

It just didn't seem like home any more. Or maybe that was just an excuse. I didn't want the blog to be an open window on my life again.

I started an anonymous blog, but couldn't find the motivation to write there either. It languished with a few posts and I orphaned it.

So I've come back. I'm not sure what this will turn out to be or the direction it may take. I may not even continue here, but I've promised myself to do more writing. I recently completed a short piece for Meat for Tea that will be published in the next issue. I'm hoping to take a creative writing course at Flying Object in Hadley, MA this summer.

It's good to be back... and don't lurk. I need some feedback to tell me what's working and what isn't.

Thanks,

J

Kamp for Kids

Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up feeling pretty good about yourself? Have you experienced a morning where the conversation you had with someone the night before makes you feel just that much more alive?

That was this morning.

Then I went to the appointment that I nearly forgot last night. Fletcher's camp was putting on a presentation for parents, community leaders and State and local government. Because Fletcher's camp is not your run of the mill summer camp. At Kamp for Kids in Westfield you'll find kids and young adults, some with disabilities, some without. They play together... do crafts... watch movies... spend time in an environment of inclusion.

Fletcher occupies the opposite end of the spectrum from Blythe. Where she is outgoing, he is shy. Where she will speak in front of anyone, he has a deadly case of stage fright.

But where Fletcher shines is one on one and in his refusal to see people as different. He is perhaps the most empathetic child I have ever seen. When the camp was described to me it was my understanding that he would assist one or more of the kids with disabilities. But when I asked him about it, he looked at me like I was nuts.

"We just all play together," he said.

And there it is.

In his mind it was a place to be with other kids. They are kids that are at once different and the same as him. They are children with disabilities that he would help just like he picked up the kids on opposing soccer teams when they fell down.

To Fletcher, the color of one's skin is as irrelevant as their preference of ice cream flavor. A wheelchair is just one of those things that some kids need to get around. He makes me proud of myself and Britton.

The kids put on their skits. They acted out short performances based on some of the movies that they watched in the last two weeks. And as Fletcher more or less hid behind the sign that he'd created for his group, I thought how brave he was for getting up there. Because even though it terrified him, he wanted to be a part of this thing. He wanted to be up there with his new friends.

And I realized that I will never be as good a person as he is right now. But I can live with that... He sets the bar pretty high.

Simplicity of design

There is a certain satisfaction in it.

Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

Billy Collins

The Eight Ball

The One Million Liter Test Sphere

Operation Whitecoat

Papillon

Dega: [the plan] It seems so desperate. You think it will work?
Papillon: Does it matter?

Sometimes I wish life was a little more L.A. Story...



...and a little less The Usual Suspects.

Harry

Quarter to two this morning I woke to a text from my friend Andrew. I suppose friend isn't exactly the right word. We became acquainted online making dueling photoshops of Mitch English. Somewhere along the line he became the closest thing to a little brother I've ever known.

He told me that Harry had died. He'd come home and found him, still warm.

And all at once it was a Friday back in 2006 in a vet's office, rubbing Arthur's head and scratching his ears for the last time. Because of that moment, because it comes back so easily to me, I know there's nothing I can tell him to make it better.

I wish there was. All he's going to hear is people telling him that they're sorry, and that it will get easier. Maybe for some people and some dogs, it does.

Then again, sometimes we are paired with our better selves. When they leave us, a little bit of our soul dies.

Change of Time

I had a dream last night
And rusting far below me
Battered hulls and broken hardships
Leviathan and lonely
I was thirsty so I drank
And though it was salt water
There was something about the way
It tasted so familiar

Josh Ritter - Change of Time

She makes me laugh

The Zig Zag Girl

The illusion was that your head and your heart had gone in different directions, but only I fell for that. Everyone else looking on had seen your trick before and knew that you'd just contorted yourself up inside the boxes. I was really only an audience of one.

My anxiety at the sight of the blades, at the violent separation of the compartments slamming apart, was all part of the show. It goes on four days a week with matinees on Saturday and Sunday.

But the ironic part was that me being a skeptic, I should have seen through it. But I chose to believe. I wanted to believe it... to believe you. Just once I wanted it to be something other than smoke and mirrors; just once to see a bit of real magic.

The Zig Zag Girl illusion

Double Self Portrait with "Reflecting Back"

Double Self Portrait with "Reflecting Back", originally uploaded by The Joey B.

Opening, Opening, Opening...

Avant le déluge... l'art.

The proverbial calm before the storm, last night's balmy weather was a perfect counterpoint to today's miserable, cold damp of unusual thunder and rain. I blame Rick Sluben for ruining my weekend.  I had planned on catching Britton and the kids shortly after 6pm at the first opening. I stopped in Easthampton to meet up with Mo and a couple of her friends. Mo was moving a little slowly due to her back problems and a recent injury and overslept a bit. To kill time, I went downstairs and had a great new flavor of ice cream at Mt. Tom Ice Cream... Secret Breakfast, vanilla ice cream with bourbon and corn flakes.

One could not have hoped for better weather for last night's exhibits. I'm rather irritated that I didn't bring my Canon, but I'm realizing more and more that the best camera is the one you have with you. The trusty iPhone has been documenting a lot of my life lately, and doing a great job.

My first stop was Open Square to see my friend, Denis Luzuriaga's exhibit SYSTEM. I got there later than I'd anticipated and just got to catch Britton and the kids for a few minutes. Blythe gave a critique of several of the paintings; quite lucid and unadulterated by art theory, just emotion and gut instinct.

 

I headed over to Parsons Hall Project Space, a new place to me. I was introduced to one of the owners, Kari Gatzke, at Mo's the other night. Parsons Hall defines itself as an experimental art, research and residency hub. There is exhibition space and artist studios on the first floor and live/work space on the second. I've been promised a tour of the building soon and Denis will be moving his studio here soon.

The 800 pound gorilla in the room was Chris Nelson's "Reflecting Back" a 28' x 10' shallow pool with water dripping from above and light reflecting off it onto the wall. 

The water and light form constructive and destructive interference patterns on the wall. Coupled with the shadows of those viewing the exhibit, a rather haunting image is formed... a visible representation of those conscious and unconscious interactions one has with those around them.

Outside is its counterpart, "Between Space" where light is reflected off the canal onto The Canal Gallery and Studios.

From there we move to "Shelved Animals" by Deborah Simon, an installation piece of highly realistic animals. Scale is ignored, finding a giant panda, marmoset and hyena arranged together on a shelf. 

An opossum hangs from a perch above and several fur seals appear to swim above.

From the website:

The animals, shown with no regard for eco-systems or taxonomy, are the fallout of man’s tendency to cherry pick what’s desirable and convenient and then quickly discarded it when it’s not. The confusion of scale and species seems to be exploding from the shelves along the walls with each species commanding the viewers’ attention in hopes of not being ignored and forgotten.

Another unusual piece was Mantis + Auto by Noah Stout, a five minute looped video of a... you guessed it, preying mantis. It sounds rather creepy and weird, but it was truly fascinating to watch. Then again, I take photos of bugs.

On the corner across the street was the first Bring Your Own Restaurant of the year. I saw most of the usual suspects.

Just down the street is Paper City Studios, four floors of open studios. Time was limited and I pretty much ran through, but hopefully I'll get a chance to go back and take a longer look. One piece that stood out for me was this:

I didn't even catch the title or name of the artist, nor does the Paper City Studios website have any info on the current exhibits.

It was an amazing night that made me want to get back in the studio. Soon enough.

Cinco de Mayo

I had dinner with Mo at La Casita Azteca, a restaurant next door to our apartment building. The owner put on a great Cinco de Mayo celebration including live music. I get the impression that he'll take any excuse to put on a sombrero, grab a microphone and sing his heart out.

This guy busted out his twelve string and played a little while for us.

 I don't have a clue who this lady was, but she went all out and even brought a piñata to the party.

Then these two beautiful birds danced for us.

Do yourself a favor... next time you are in Easthampton, stop at La Casita Azteca. The food was delicious and the staff couldn't be friendlier. In fact, it was like eating at home, except with better food.

Tragic Flaw

Some people reach a place in time where they've gone as far as they can. A place where wives and jobs collide with desire. That which is unknowable and those who remain out of sight. See what is invisible and you will see what to write. That's how Bobby used to put it. It was the invisible people he wanted to live with. The ones that we walk past every day, the ones we sometimes become. The ones in books who live only in someones mind's eye. He was a man who was destined to go through life and not around it. A man who was sure the shortest path to Heaven was straight through Hell. But the truth of his handicap lay only in a mind both exalted and crippled by too many stories and the path he chose to become one. Bobby Long's tragic flaw was his romance with all that he saw. And I guess if people want to believe in some form of justice, then Bobby Long got his for a song.

Dad's Wallet

When my dad died, I went through his wallet and found two photographs... only two.

My half brother and sister from his first marriage, Jeff and Jennifer.

Dom

 

The kind of girl that could make you an hour late to a Van Morrison concert and not be angry with her.

The kind of girl who could make you laugh with just a look.

The kind of girl that never forgot what it was like to be a goofy kid.

The kind of girl that could fly just by wishing it.

Dominique once told me that she was proud of me for my messy car, because when I opened the door and something fell out, it was inevitably a book. We met through a mutual friend and she came to be like a sister to me in a rough part of my life. When love fled, she was there to talk. When dad had his stroke, she put her arms around me.

I don't remember much from my wedding, but I recall scanning the church before Britton walked up the aisle and seeing Dom's face with that million dollar smile beaming at me. And that was the last time I ever saw her.

So when I found a box of old pictures today and started going through them, I was amazed to think that I'd let such a beautiful person get away. And she was truly beautiful, inside and out.

Oh the ways we laughed.

Then and Now

1974

2010