long words

Saturday I spent time preparing for a lesson I gave today. I pulled out boxes from under my bed and old journals off the shelves with doodles in the margins and notes tucked inside. I spent a good hour reading. Much of what I read were records of college days when life was fairly routine and academic: français, color theory boards. An observational drawing class taught by a German professor I could barely understand, save his finger movements above my drawing pad indicating more shading here, more detail there. American History in the most historic building on campus, which seems only fitting.

Then there were the things between academics: Sunday dinners on the ping pong table in the basement by the fireplace we weren't allowed to use; nights we talked at the kitchen table until 3 in the morning, after which we miraculously made it to 8 am class; cupboards full of sugar cereal and six loaves of bread (we were somewhat territorial, but brownies were fair game); calls on the apartment phone, the cord stretched out into the laundry room for long calls and attempted privacy. Taking turns being rolled in the laundry cart down the hall between the storage cages, crashing haphazardly by the computers at the other end.

I read about the time we drove to Vegas on a whim. The time we "borrowed" a bright green E from a shake shop in Heber. The time we were locked in our own apartment by the boys in the next building -- a morning none of us made it to 8 am class. The weekend we played multi-level Spoons and nearly died running flights of stairs when someone got four of the same card.

I came across weekly emails sent by Grandma and Grandpa to the college-age cousins, full of love and support, encouragement to keep at it and a reminder that they prayed for each of us individually every day. I shared one such email in my lesson. The point of all of this being, I'm glad I kept record of it. Even the bad days. In one of my journals I found the following quote:

We don't choose our stories. Our stories choose us, and if we don't write them, if we ignore them, we are somehow diminished.

Write it out. Jot it down. Doodle in the margins. You'll be glad you did.

I Remember the First Time I Drove Through Indiana**

My favorite day this week could have been the day we followed the GPS and exited right off the freeway which took us to Gary, Indiana, a place I've only heard about in a song. It isn't much of a town, but it brings to mind the song, which is from a movie that makes me think of a city in Iowa, which reminds me of my family (specifically my grandparents) and I'm most certain they're two of the greatest people that ever lived. I snapped a photo of this sign that says, "The People of Gary Welcome You" at the stoplight, but as you can see, it didn't turn out so well. Sorry, Mom.

It could have been the night we ate at Lulu's Dim Sum and Then Sum. The name alone is reason for happiness. Their Pad Thai, same story.

Or the night I sat in a crowded house and listened to some dudes sing Led Zeppelin while I ate Cadburry Mini Eggs (three at a time) next to a boy in scarf the same shade as his eyes. When I upturned my cup (which I thought was empty) and spilled on the wood floors, I looked around to see if anyone noticed. He smiled a smile worth one million dollars.* Then he helped me locate the napkins.

My favorite day this week could have been the day we discovered an extra package of Thin Mints.

Or the day I arrived home to find a map of New York City in a yellow envelope with a secret message.

But my favorite day this week was the day I sat in the basement in the early evening and listened to a small piece of writing about anchovies. Yes, anchovies. The piece on anchovies was followed by a small recitation of "The Song of Cool Things" which led to a discussion on writing and then love, which is how I feel about the person who brought up the anchovies, which started the whole discussion in the first place.

Indiana was pretty cool though. I mean, just look at that picture.
Talk about happenin'.

*Also worth one million dollars: knowing my friend was plotting a reason to walk across the room and talk to the same dude with the million dollar smile.

**Lyrics to another really great song about Indiana by a band from Colorado.

in the works

I've been working on a project for my creative writing class (Did I mention I'm in a writing class? I needed some words to balance out all the numbers from calculus and physics class.) I'm not sure what the project will to turn into, but I've been on the hunt for abandoned houses. This weekend I think we found a diamond in the rough. We were afraid to go inside. As soon as we did we knew why. There were dishes still in the kitchen, a computer on the desk, and a bright red chair in the hallway. This place is begging for someone to tell its story. We'll see how far I get. For now, a picture (or two) is worth a thousand words.

60 seconds

go here. try this.

{image}

portrait of a young girl

We've been reading a story, a long story. Over a period of days. Because we can only read under certain conditions. Outside. At night. Under a porch light. Or with a flash light. Or by the light of a single candle, which is how we finished reading tonight.

Is it possible, do you think, that someone on the other side of the world, someone you've never met, can look at your face in a photograph and know whole parts of you? By separating pieces of your very visage into something resembling a Picaso, (eyes here, nose there, smile all willy-nilly) they create a composition. They study the wrinkles around your eyes, or how you like pink polish on your fingernails, or the way your hair falls across your face and fill in the blanks to make up the story of your life. Then, there you are on a piece of paper. A written version of a person you should know everything about.

* * *

Even if she wrote it out from beginning to end, it still wouldn't make sense. There would be giant gaping holes in the plot, like craters on the moon. Miles wide. She thought she'd been careful about it. Collecting moments one by one and adding them in like ingredients to a favorite recipe.

Sometimes she went days without adding anything to the story. The picture didn't seem to speak to her. She felt uninspired. Lost. Other times she wrote pages and pages. Words came flowing out like endless rain, like the song by the Beatles. Some days all she could manage were lists of words. Like, "forté" or "dream catcher." Or a phrase. Like, "In celebration of our country."

The girl played Salut d'Amour on her violin at night when no one could hear. She liked pink nail polish the very best, the kind that came as close to red on the color wheel as possible. But not red. She was partial to orange poppies but ate all the red Starbursts first. She favored crushed ice instead of cubed because it was easier to chew once the water was gone. In the summer, she sipped lemonade and dreamed of sailing the seven seas. She was afraid of odd numbers when doing math, but preferred them to even when making an arrangement of some sort. She ate handfuls of Swedish fish and chocolate covered peanuts at the movies because she loved the combination of salty-sweet. If she could live in an art museum, she would, and secretly she wished she could golf.

But none of that was in the story. Because those things can't be discovered in a photograph. They were left out, along with so many other details that didn't seem important. So the story was unfinished. Incomplete. It sounded like someone was playing a violin solo without an A string, (although she heard that Itzhak Perlman did that very thing in Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center once. And she loved Lincoln Center.) It was a song without a chorus, and everyone knows the chorus is the very best part, or why would they sing it so many times?

Like a picture without a caption, or a face without a name, the story sat open-ended, a choose-your-own adventure with nothing to choose from. She hoped someone would pick up where she had left off. That someone would look at her smile or the way she squared her shoulders in the photograph and pick up the pieces. That they would put pen to paper and finish what she could not. Because you really can't tell everything about a person from a single snapshot or even a photo album, especially if you've never met them and especially if they live halfway around the world. It's what happens between the frames of film that makes up the portrait of a life, not the portrait itself. And one day, when all the details have been scribbled down, someone, somewhere is going to read the story aloud, perhaps at night under a porch light, and the listeners will hang on every word.

on my desk

This is the creative space of one of my favorite writers.

My roommate took a class from Louise in college. (I don't really know why I just called her Louise. We've never met, but in my brain we are bosom buddies.) I used to go with Lindsay to hear her lectures because she is so entertaining. If you've never read "The Apron Stage," you'll love it. These ladies are talented, not to mention hilarious.

The Lot: a History

Each Christmas I'm excited by the amount of new good literature I get to add to my bookshelves. This year mom commented we're nearly out of room in the house, book bindings on colorful display in nearly every room. Late last night I rearranged a few things to make room for the books which now belong to my personal library. A big red-spined art book took its place prominently on the shelves in my bedroom. I'm pleased with its position alongside the thick green Robert A.M. Stern book that I received in 2004.

Perhaps of greatest literary treasure of late though, is the nine page piece penned by Grandpa some 22 years ago this Christmas simply titled, "The Lot." It outlines in greater detail than any other account (written or audible of which I'm aware) the acquisition and construction of one of my favorite places on the earth, a 3/4 acre of land up Weber Canyon. I've read it three times now, going over and over certain spots where Grandpa's writing seems to sing, his lyrics matching the mood of mornings spent in those mountains. I can still hear him whistle to the grandchildren down in the meadow by the swings, ushering us back up the hill for supper around the campfire. Of this spot he wrote:

"The carved wooden sign hangs on an inside wall of our cabin, in the canyon of the Upper Weber River in Summit County, Utah. In 'Spencerian Script,' or 'cursive' as the kids say, it reads simply, The Lot. You might think that such a sign should be on a tree or a post somewhere outside the cabin. But there it is, on the wall above the old green desk, under the open stairs to the lower loft. It reminds us that once there wasn't any cabin -- only The Lot.

"The ground there lies in a gentle slope, covered with a hundred or so quaking aspen, whose green, heart-shaped leaves tremble in the spring and summer breezes, until the autumn chill turns them to shimmering gold. Under the low winter sun, the tall, slender, gray-green trunks cast silent shadows across deepening snow. A few spruce and fir trees provide contrasting greenery during the shorter daylight hours from November 'til March. The night falls early; the darkness dispersed only when the sky is clear and the moon is up, or if one gazes upward to the myriad stars. April and springtime bring back the green of the trees and meadow and the longer hours of the sunshine, and the cycle of the seasons stars all over again...

"It is The Lot that stimulates the mind and refreshes the spirit. Sitting inside, it is the view to the outside that makes the sitting pleasurable. A fire in the evening and a good bed for sleeping afford comfort through the night. But in the morning, dawn brings the beautiful, graceful deer, quietly moving through the mountains and hillsides over across the valley, then the windows and walls on the north side of the cabin and finally floods The Lot with warmth and light.

There are from time to time mornings, both in summer and in
winter, when especially the world seems to begin anew...
The world has been visibly recreated in the night. Mornings
of creation I call them. (Henry David Thoreau, January 26, 1853)

"To experience the delight and the wonder of such a morning at The Lot is to know a special kind of personal re-creation. It is justification for ownership of such a place and vindication of all the work of fifteen years past -- and others yet to come."

Richard Forsberg Haglund, December 1987
photo by RCF, November 2009

a blue book beginning

With the beginning of another November comes the arrival of another National Blog Posting Month, something which brings with it equal amounts of dread and delight. Last night as I tried to fall asleep I felt it coming on. I felt the pressure building. The thoughts piling up in front of an empty blue book eager to be filled with thoughts. I wanted to slip my fingers between the seal. To break it. To begin. Making mental notes on mental paper, I hoped something would stick. Ideas flooded in and out. In the end, weariness claimed the victory as my mind bought up real estate in Dream Land. The thought of one more day a soothing lullaby, I drifted off.

Just like last year, my dear E (fellow lover of words, fellow participant, and the one who got me into this mess three years ago) is a world away. She won't be participating this year because she's spreading The Word in a much more important way. Regardless of the fact that I won't have her daily thoughts as inspiration to keep going, I shall trudge on, knowing I'm one of thousands who'll sit at a computer to write every day for a month. I'm certainly not promising greatness, but I will promise to try. All of these thoughts have to land somewhere.

the creative un-genius

In attempt to tackle a Larger-Than-Martha's-Life project for work, I've been reading, watching and researching creativity this week. I've read about photographers setting their foot on never-before-seen islands going camera-cuckoo, their shutter snapping every millisecond. Writers who have holed themselves up in houses for months on end in a last-stitch effort to finish a project, finally able to unleash that writer's block-beast. TED has been my creativity cohort today. I've listened to lectures on the creative process, the creative genius, and why we creative people tend to put so much pressure on themselves. (Pressure?! Ahem.)

While I've been unusually inspired the past several days (for work and non-work, i.e. this blog), this creativity expedition has landed me on my own Writer's Block Island, of sorts. Instead of not being able to write, it's that I've done so much writing, I don't quite know where to stop and start.* So, if I write solely on creativity for the next two weeks, that's why. It's bound to be a jumbled mess, too. However, consider yourself warned. Until I decide where to go from here...signing off from somewhere in Creativity Wonderland,
M

{illustration from here}

*This is by no means an announcement that I'm halfway to a novel, nor that what I have to say will be novel, itself. It is, however, an announcement that I haven't been ignoring this corner of the web all week long.

thursday

routine |rou-tine| (noun): a sequence of events regularly followed.

Thursday |Thurs-day| (noun): the day of the week before Friday and following Wednesday.

sunshine. window. teeth. face. book. knees. pear. yogurt. laptop. email. let's go sailing. water. hair. clip. elastic. sweater. orange. buttons. boots. color box. lily allen. a falling through. car. pump. quarters. wash. clean. white. natalie. smile. baby. sounds. macadamia nut. store. paint. red. green. yellow. blue. house beautiful. car. phone call. roommate. plans. office. store. zoey deschanel. office. cut. samples. paper. pen. envelope. car. ingrid. mom. grey house. stephanie. red sweater. orange sweater. curb. colors. paint. stripes. mudroom. spring. sunglasses. boy. house. sale. sign. music. car. katie. nook. maren. hulu. andy. justin. sloth. laugh. brother. cafe rio. table. yellow. fork. knife. city park. joggers. jetta. nook. steph. bowling?. toast. table. visitor. james. papers. mission. kasi. guesses. white board. croatia. virginia. japan. puerto rico. thailand. iowa. text message. dark. lamp. plan. curtains. laugh. peek. ann frank. quote. car. ice cream. almond. hot. milk. boy. smile. sit. talk. laugh. text message. world record. broken. rich. park. car. corner. red chair. idol. norman. seinfeld. olympics. swimmer. laugh. steph. floor. oat bag. phone call. anne. baby. car. leigh. house. anne. elizabeth. grandpa. cinnamon bears. binky. little legs. blue shoe. pearls. pictures. envelope. home. stairs. boots. orange sweater. pjs. slippers. drink. faucet. face. teeth. email. elizabeth. felicity. noel. knees. book. nephi. journey. journal. doodle. list. switch. pillow. covers. sleep.

challenge |chal-lenge| (noun): a task or situation that tests someone's abilities.
Taking m.writes to heart.

Observation 1

She would ask me to write what I saw. To show her; not tell her. The colors in the sky. The way sunlight hit the crab apple tree. "Observations," she'd call them. The sky is blue, I thought. Blue with white clouds. I'd sit and wonder how on earth I was supposed to pontificate upon that for fifteen minutes; how many different ways I could say blue and white. Then I'd stare out the window pretending to create a composition in my mind to later transfer to the page. My mind would drift to which pair of soccer shorts were clean enough to wear (blue? white?) to practice that afternoon or what K and I were going to do that weekend. Or I'd look at the way my A's slanted on the page and how my T's and H's were almost the same height. I'd sluggishly scrawl a few lines of this or that before we moved on to grammar, then art. The next day I'd be back at the kitchen table with four more "Observations" to write, alone, without her to guide me, to prod me along. Sitting idly by, I let the world happen all around me as I stared at the way I had written Observation across the top of the paper, pious at the placement of the dot dead-center above my "I" or the roundness of my "O."

Little did I know that those afternoons spent gazing out at the light as it sifted through the leaves in the backyard would shape the way I felt about the world. The way I felt about recording events in my life. That her instructions to exactly and absorbedly (with dreamy attention) stare out the window for fifteen minutes at a time would change the way I processed every flicker of golden light around me. That years later I'd read what others have written about light and shadow and know exactly what they were seeing because I've used similar words to describe similar things.

Two nights ago, I opened up my journal for the first time in over two months. The desire to write had vanished back in June with 80 degree afternoons and nights when the cooler could be left off. I've been wary to fill its lines. Worried my words wouldn't be sufficient. Unsure of my ability to correctly capture what has been going through my mind. The same has been true with blogging. I'm never sure who reads what I've written. I have learned this is much more for me than anyone else, but suddenly I became afraid of what everyone around me thought. This feeling of inability to record recent happenings created a critic -- one inside my head and perhaps one outside of it -- one who was always measuring, comparing. Throwing anxious doubts my way. I lost sight of my true self, the one who was trying to free what I really thought from what I thought I ought to think. All creativity had been killed. Drafts sat in my post box, all unfinished. Unpublished. I left all unsaid. Unrecorded. Idle.

It wasn't until today -- this afternoon -- when I pulled a book from the shelf, that the desire came back; that I cornered the critic and stared him in the face. Thanks to wise words from m. and Ueland's book, I've been able to harvest my thoughts and kick the critic out of the corner for good. Well, at least for now.

Tonight as I gazed out at the warm evening light that bathed marble columns in Memory Grove, I let go. I left the conversation. My thoughts drowned out the music and the voices. I was present. Now, a few hours later, I sit by the soft glow of the computer screen, fingers to keyboard, ideas flooding in. Suddenly I'm back at the kitchen table. She's there. My notebook is open in front of me; empty pages full of possibility and vistas of "Observations" ready to be recorded. My words won't be perfect. Some readers might not understand exactly what I'm feeling, but at least I'm writing. Ueland is right: (At times of) creative idleness...you are being slowly filled with warm imagination, with wonderful living thoughts...For what we write today slipped into our souls some other day when we were alone and doing nothing.

For anyone else suffering from blogger's block or for any of you who have contemplated starting a blog but haven't (I can think of a few of you in particular), follow m's encouragement: open up and let it out. you won't regret it. speak from the gut and be brave. and if you're nervous, then follow this advice:

"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
- Eleanor Roosevelt

Happy writing!