| The following are the writing exercises I did over a couple days where I had my daughter write on folded slips of paper a word or a phrase and I just pulled them out of a box one at a time (without peeking) and wrote a little essay containing whatever she had written. There was no forethought in these at all -- just dove right in and did 'free-writing' which I am very unfamiliar with and had never heard of before until "Pen on Fire."
I must say, some went in some very unusual directions. The titles are the exact words I found on the slips of paper. Here goes...... Running - Lap 1 John tried to fix the drip in the bathtub again. We all shuddered as he gathered his tools and headed down the hall. It was a noisy endeavor. Clanks, taps, brittle sounds of things falling intertwined with expletives. But that was to be expected. As far as we knew, he had done a good job with the kitchen sink. I only had to make three more trips to the store for him after he first came home with that big bag of parts that held �everything he needed�� but given past experiences with his plumbing expertise, we held our breath and hoped for the best. Anyway, like I said, "Good job on the kitchen sink!" so I had high hopes for once. It took awhile before he packed up his tools and put them away and I asked if he had fixed it. "Yeah, but the handles are a little hard to turn,� he said. That was the understatement of the year. King Kong couldn't have turned that bathtub on after John had �fixed� it. His repairman mode obviously at an end, he good-naturedly explained to me how I could fix that. I gathered up my tools. It took me about five minutes, and I was pleasantly surprised plumbing was so easy. Later that night, I entered the bathroom again, and the water was running hot and hard from the tub faucet, which was turned to �off.� Hot moisture hung thickly in the air. My plumbing expertise had turned the room into a sauna. It ran hot and hard like that for the next four days as I ticked off the rising hot water bill in my mind. Finally, overhearing me preparing to call a real plumber, John picked up his huge plumber's wrench and other important looking tools and marched into the bath to spend five more minutes clanking around. When he was finished, the tub ran PERFECTLY. WHY DIDN'T HE DO THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE?????? (I was really surprised to find what came out around this word, and found I was compelled to write one more using the same word) Running - Lap 2 When the Doheny Family sold the property behind us to a developer, and after all the buildings had been demolished and the bee hives evacuated, a procession of enormous yellow tractors and dump trucks began their march onto this now barren acre of land behind our house, to make an unexpected deposit. When at last they retreated, they left in their wake a field of magnificent dirt mountains that could challenge the imagination of even the most borish child. boorish? bored? Once these mountains appeared, they seemed to be forgotten by whoever had bestowed them, for there they sat for months, even a year maybe, not to be visited again in our time by another man or machine. But while ignored by their maker, as if by magic or some other grand design, quite like an intoxicating scent had lifted up onto a breeze and sought out the noses of every child living or wandering withing within reach, these earthen hills soon began to alter. First, small tracks leading nowhere - 'curiosity paths' I called them - as one by one, neighborhood children appeared and began to climb. Up and down, winding around and around, in and out, their feet sinking to the ankle in the powdery dust. Then little excavations began. Interesting rocks came to the surface and were stacked in piles for various uses. Little walls were in various stages of construction. Sticks of assorted lengths wandered in from other sites. Small metal cars soon parked in tiny dirt garages and kicked up dust as they were steered by hand along pint-sized dusty roads. Plastic, dappled horses waited in corrals for the next day�s adventures. Army men lined up in force and guarded whatever boundaries were drawn that day. Soon, the paths became wider and more defined, as the dirt became more solid, more firmly packed, leading to interesting places in this emerging dirt universe. A fort, a cave, a deep mineshaft, a gully with a plank drawbridge, an old tablecloth or bit of sheet configured into a lean-to, all scattered about the emerging terrain. Tall bamboo spears poked their heads heavenward - sometimes hung with a homemade flag. Every day, neighborhood children would go about their business of enhancing their very own of these creations that had begun as a huge pile of dirt. Some were secretive about what their small territory housed. Some welcomed others with open arms and smiled at those who wished to share and make additions to their particular fantasy. Now, hard, solid, dirt paths wound and weaved, up and down, connecting the whole into a sort of great dirt city. And I? I, when not engaging in some industriousness of my own or others, survey it all from my special vantage point behind the chicken coop. And when the land is finally spread out before me deserted and quiet, all children called home for supper, I become the mighty mountain goat, cantering at a bounding gait down from the summit. I am fleet and strong, running head into the wind, maneuvering those paths without a trip or a stumble. Tickled by my nimbleness, emboldened by my swift and graceful negotiation of those often narrow, sometimes treacherous twists and turns, dips and moguls, I leap deftly over gullies and trenches. Toes pointed, leg muscles stretched taut with intention, I gallop over the land - keenly satisfied by the strength and skill I possess, enabling me to traverse my alps in such surefooted fashion. Teresa Belardes Topanga Cyn, California 6/10/05 Home Email Taree Next |
| Taree's Poetry summer, 2005 |
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