Like Bruce Banner buried under beakers of gamma experiments, I too found myself buried under academic duties. Also like the BB of comic book legend, I felt something stirring inside, something I felt forced to hide and contain. I did everything in my power today to hold back the force that began somewhere in my diaphragm and threatened to work its way outward with a manic fury.
In an effort to contain it, I redoubled my focus on my assignments, clearing two sets of student work off my desk by around lunch. I buried myself in a wall of music, using my earphones to stream music from my computer, it didn't work. I was like a victim of restless leg syndrome, but it spread quickly to my hands as I drummed atop my desk, using my wedding ring as the occasional cymbal stroke on the Formica top of my desk.
I began to worry about the other people in my building. I didn't know what form this force would take if it was allowed to burst free from its containment. I plugged my headphones into my phone and streamed music there. Music is supposed to tame the savage beast, but it wasn't working. It was exacerbating the problem. I found myself walking in time, faster to the hip hop beats, slower to the bluegrass. It didn't matter what song it was, it felt like an incantation meant to draw forth this unstoppable inner force.
I fled the building. I fled campus. I took myself on a walk around the neighborhoods of Forest Grove. I snapped and whistled to the music, anything to stop myself from succumbing to the monster inside me who threatened the very sanity and safety of those around me, but I inevitably failed.
Like Bruce Banner morphing into his alter-ego the Hulk, the inner force broke free. Instead of bubbling my flesh in monstrous transformation of my physical self, a single bubble rose in my chest, up my throat, and out through my mouth. I found myself singing out loud in the rain in the tricycle ridden neighborhoods surrounding campus. I was transformed into Singing Idiot, hero of the mundane and defender of the ridiculous. I belted my tunes through the snow mixed with rain and traced my way through suburbia, ever glancing at the buttoned down windows of the surrounding houses.
It has yet to be determined if there were any eyewitnesses to verify Singing Idiot's appearance, or if he might simply vanish into the tomes of urban myth. The beast was set free today, but eventually I reigned him under control. Who knows when he will strike next?
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Nietzsche, Incoming Freshmen, and Me
I've been grading Pacesetters essays for days on end now. It's an essay contest for incoming freshmen at Pacific. It's a scholarship contest and the students are quite diligent in their responses. It's been interesting reading these last responses because many of the students remind me of myself when I was that age.
The prompt is, "The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." As a result, I've been reading essays that are all about peer pressure, individual identity, and that overwhelming feeling of difference, both positive and negative.
The contradiction of difference at that age is something I remember vividly. It was the thing I treasured most about myself and the thing I hated the most. I wanted to be different from those people I didn't like, but I wanted people to see me as a unique individual and to treasure that difference.
Reading through these essays has taken me back to that time and place. It's rekindled some of those feelings for a fleeting moment and I am glad for it. The rose-colored glasses have been in effect this afternoon. I'm sure I will return to my curmudgeonly ways after about fifteen more of these handwritten numbers.
The prompt is, "The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself." As a result, I've been reading essays that are all about peer pressure, individual identity, and that overwhelming feeling of difference, both positive and negative.
The contradiction of difference at that age is something I remember vividly. It was the thing I treasured most about myself and the thing I hated the most. I wanted to be different from those people I didn't like, but I wanted people to see me as a unique individual and to treasure that difference.
Reading through these essays has taken me back to that time and place. It's rekindled some of those feelings for a fleeting moment and I am glad for it. The rose-colored glasses have been in effect this afternoon. I'm sure I will return to my curmudgeonly ways after about fifteen more of these handwritten numbers.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
A Dirty Flash
I worked from home today. I have stacks of essays piled up around me and I'm swimming in undergraduate writing. So, naturally, I took time off to write a piece of flash fiction today. It was Diiiiiiiirty. I don't know what came over me, but the character in that story was having a quickie with a guy at the bar in a stanky bathroom in a dirty part of Old Town.
The main character electrified me and was a ton of fun to write because she was so unrepentant of her sexuality in the beginning. Of course, the ending took a turn and everything got flipped on its head, but those dirty bathroom moments blew that guy's (and this guy's) hair back.
Sex scenes are hard to write. They need to have just enough and not too much. They need to reinvent sex via language in a way so as to not sound like a Harlequin romance or a letter in Penthouse. I'm not saying I was able to accomplish any of that, but it was a hell of ride trying to give it a try. I almost needed a cigarette after that one.
The main character electrified me and was a ton of fun to write because she was so unrepentant of her sexuality in the beginning. Of course, the ending took a turn and everything got flipped on its head, but those dirty bathroom moments blew that guy's (and this guy's) hair back.
Sex scenes are hard to write. They need to have just enough and not too much. They need to reinvent sex via language in a way so as to not sound like a Harlequin romance or a letter in Penthouse. I'm not saying I was able to accomplish any of that, but it was a hell of ride trying to give it a try. I almost needed a cigarette after that one.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Prompts
"The Truth That Tells a Lie
The Lie a Truth Tells
The Lie That Tells Truth The
The Truth the Lie That Tells
The That Lie Tells a Truth
The That Lie Tells Truth
The Lie That Tells the Truth
The Lie That Tells a Truth"
This is the front cover of John Dufresne's book on writing. It is a fantastic sequence of motivational material and prompts. It sits directly to the right of my computer screen at home and I use it often. I say this because I've been thinking about prompts lately.
A Pacific MFA student, Hannah Pass, passed (not an intentional repetition) along a link to Tin House's Plotto competition, which provides a prompt for flash fiction. I followed the link casually. I like to know what people are doing out there in the writing world, but I didn't really expect to enter. After reading the prompt for the flash fiction piece (500 words or less), I decided I wanted to respond.
I sat down with the prompt in mind and hammered out two different versions of a story that fit the contest's criteria. The whole process maybe took an hour. At the end, I felt great. I had a whole story in front of me and the hour was probably one of the best I've spent all week in terms of honing my own craft.
This is the beauty of prompts. They can be short, immediate, and, even, disposable. I didn't put a lot of pressure on myself. It didn't feel like the novel project; it felt like play. The result, after a quick peer review and a dose of revision, was a quirky little compressed piece that I'm actually quite proud to have finished. I've sent off the piece to the contest and will probably hear by next week if I won or not.
I need to remember prompts. They are a good palette cleanser. They are a great reinvigorater. I get a little too big for my britches sometimes and forget to practice my craft in the most sincere form of that word "practice." There is nothing wrong with taken a few cuts at the batting cage and there is definitely nothing wrong with making a few strokes on the keyboard.
The Lie a Truth Tells
The Lie That Tells Truth The
The Truth the Lie That Tells
The That Lie Tells a Truth
The That Lie Tells Truth
The Lie That Tells the Truth
The Lie That Tells a Truth"
This is the front cover of John Dufresne's book on writing. It is a fantastic sequence of motivational material and prompts. It sits directly to the right of my computer screen at home and I use it often. I say this because I've been thinking about prompts lately.
A Pacific MFA student, Hannah Pass, passed (not an intentional repetition) along a link to Tin House's Plotto competition, which provides a prompt for flash fiction. I followed the link casually. I like to know what people are doing out there in the writing world, but I didn't really expect to enter. After reading the prompt for the flash fiction piece (500 words or less), I decided I wanted to respond.
I sat down with the prompt in mind and hammered out two different versions of a story that fit the contest's criteria. The whole process maybe took an hour. At the end, I felt great. I had a whole story in front of me and the hour was probably one of the best I've spent all week in terms of honing my own craft.
This is the beauty of prompts. They can be short, immediate, and, even, disposable. I didn't put a lot of pressure on myself. It didn't feel like the novel project; it felt like play. The result, after a quick peer review and a dose of revision, was a quirky little compressed piece that I'm actually quite proud to have finished. I've sent off the piece to the contest and will probably hear by next week if I won or not.
I need to remember prompts. They are a good palette cleanser. They are a great reinvigorater. I get a little too big for my britches sometimes and forget to practice my craft in the most sincere form of that word "practice." There is nothing wrong with taken a few cuts at the batting cage and there is definitely nothing wrong with making a few strokes on the keyboard.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Farewell to Doctoring
Here is an un-posted post from earlier in the month. I don't know why I held onto it and didn't post it, but here it is. I think I wasn't ready to tell the world and to have people want to discuss this with me.
Today is Shea's birthday. As such, I've been to her preschool to hang out and help out. We've done lunch, presents, and all of the other birthday madness we could fit into the first part of the day. The reason for this is because the second half of the day was dedicated to doctoring. My mother uses that word sometimes, and I like the sound of it. "I gotta do some doctoring," she'd say.
Well, this doctor's appointment has been a year in the making. Shea had surgery last year and today was the day where we found out if it "took." The answer is yes. Sort of. The best case scenario, the one that I have, of course, been playing in my head for the last year while all the while denying the fact that it was my secret hope against hope, isn't the scenario that played out today. But, the news we got today was the second best news we could get. I am grateful for it. I am. Truly.
My daughter is healthy and happy. She may encounter some issues when she is older when it comes to her kidneys, but there is nothing in the present that can, or should, be done. She'll grow and develop normally, but will only have a partial "spare tire" in that one of her kidneys won't be fully formed. It is a blessing, and something she may never have to consider or worry about. So, the pediatric urology specialist told us we are done with him. We no longer will have to worry about surgeries, ultrasounds, scans, or infections. We can say goodbye to that phase of Shea's young life. Happy Birthday, Shea.
Today is Shea's birthday. As such, I've been to her preschool to hang out and help out. We've done lunch, presents, and all of the other birthday madness we could fit into the first part of the day. The reason for this is because the second half of the day was dedicated to doctoring. My mother uses that word sometimes, and I like the sound of it. "I gotta do some doctoring," she'd say.
Well, this doctor's appointment has been a year in the making. Shea had surgery last year and today was the day where we found out if it "took." The answer is yes. Sort of. The best case scenario, the one that I have, of course, been playing in my head for the last year while all the while denying the fact that it was my secret hope against hope, isn't the scenario that played out today. But, the news we got today was the second best news we could get. I am grateful for it. I am. Truly.
My daughter is healthy and happy. She may encounter some issues when she is older when it comes to her kidneys, but there is nothing in the present that can, or should, be done. She'll grow and develop normally, but will only have a partial "spare tire" in that one of her kidneys won't be fully formed. It is a blessing, and something she may never have to consider or worry about. So, the pediatric urology specialist told us we are done with him. We no longer will have to worry about surgeries, ultrasounds, scans, or infections. We can say goodbye to that phase of Shea's young life. Happy Birthday, Shea.
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