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12.05.2001
This is Writing Writing/Practice Naked (I'm not really naked). I choose a topic and write on that topic for no more than ten minutes. The only editing I do is for typos (I won't fix grammar, and sometimes, I won't even fix typos. As a matter of fact, you may occasionally come across unfinished sentences). This "non-editing" function does indeed have a purpose. I believe that raw writing is telling about the person writing. If I wrote in my practice notebooks at home with a pen, it isn't likely I'd go back to edit the text. So it is here. I may have a computer--but I'm trying to...shall we say..."keep it real." If you find the topic inspirational, I would love to post a link to your own rendition. Please email me your link. I think it'd be fantastic. Enjoy!
This exercise is based on the first line of a novel. I'm choosing (of course) Grendel.
"The old ram stands looking down over rockslides, stupidly triumphant."
He reminds me of high school boyfriends who have just announced to their wrestling friends that he finally broke her cherry. The goofy look, the flexing muscles, the wink and nods and satisfaction coating his barely-changed voice. Really, from the distance, from my distance, he looks like a wanker. A loser. Lost the appreciation and the experience by boiling it down to an announcement. "I did it," he says, a stupid ram on the edge of a rockslide, about to fall...he doesn't even know yet what will happen. But I've watched Discovery and Animal Planet. I read La Mettrie, and his theory of the child and the animal on the edge of a cliff. Who will fall, who will not? What will happen? The child falls. The stupid child who has no instinct, no survival, only breasts to suck and balls to play with. The vegetarian credo: give a child an apple and a fish. Guaranteed he'll eat the apple. Or play with it. Or do something with it.
I watch my husband, the stupid ram, on the top of the stone wall we've been building all summer long. I remember the treks in our land to collect as many colored stones as possible, large enough to make a difference, wall us into our own space. I thought we had our own space. I thought we were closed in enough. Wake every day, drink our coffee and tea, read the paper while I write in my journal. Writing about my wall, my empty life, the places I wanted to go, the people I would like to meet, the life I would like to experience. He sips loud, he slurps. I want to get up from my stiff wooden chair, unfinished: "It looks more humble," remarked my obnoxious "white house with picket fence" husband. I want to get up from my stiff wooden chair, throw it through the beautifully framed window, look at my husbands's shocked expression, one that struggles to look "i've known this was coming." He knows nothing, I write hurriedly. He knows nothing.
"Let's build a stone wall around the house; give us an idea of our space." I remember the day. I was kneeling next to the mail box pulling weeds. He planted the box and the flowers as a gift for me. What gift is pulling weeds? If I let it go, if I tell him, "I didn't want weeds," I'm ungrateful. I'm trying to start something. They're beautiful, why wouldn't I want some flowers by my mail? Or even: "You aren't proud of what we've made." I've made nothing.
"Why? Stone walls are pretty and all, but I like having the open space."
"But wouldn't it be great to look out at our back yard and see rocks on the horizon, a mountain range we made?"
I wanted to roll my eyes. Stop performing, I wanted to say. Nobody is watching! But he does it always. I can see it isn't him. I heard him be himself once, when he was talking to his brother in our living room, watching hockey. The tone in his voice: it was tense-less. It was normal. It was happy and free. Had I ever heard that voice directed at me? When we were dating? When we were lovers? When I was happy?
"I guess. But I don't think it's necessary."
He sighed. A loud sigh. Too loud. What does it matter what I say? He'll build the wall. I'll help him. I have no way to fill my days. He won't let me work. He looks sorrowful when I mention that I saw a bookstore was hiring. He hangs his head, he laughs, he says, "There there. I'll buy you books. You don't have to work somewhere to get the discount." And my voice freezes up. How can I tell him? I want freedom! I want out!
You stupid ram on our rockslide. Slide, why don't you. Slide! I've slid and bumped...I'm waiting for the rain to make the rocks slippery again.
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currently reading:
Grendel, by John Gardner
mood of the day:
I'm incredibly tired, but feeling great
I have a wish list
Sappho #42
I wish to say something to you, but shame prevents me.
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