Still nothing

 

Using pictures as prompts

Too much?

When much becomes too much? and the need to relay ideas and information muddies the clarity of the message.
Looking at my MG I wonder.
It is clear in my head,true, but I keep worrying about the readers. Do they get it?
So I find myself adding things,than taking them off,adding other things, taking them off. If I do it enough there comes a moment when I manage to confuse myself too.
Was the first version the best? often it is.
But the revision so important, the second look, the one I try to do thought the eyes of the readers.

And so this is how my head looks at the end of the first one or two revisions, and now I have to resort the main ideas, the important points, those that are important to me and leave the rest behind.
So hard, so painfull.

But the reward I know is somewhere at the end of the process, when the piece re-emerge, maybe shorter, minus some great thoughts, I believed where absolutely necessary but so much better.
And I can take a deep breath and walk away. Until tomorrow when I look at it again and think, maybe...

White Canvas syndrome

Talking to my student writer we discussed the differences between different mediums of artistic expression comparing the visual arts to writing and the specific obstacles each one of them pose.

"For a writer there is nothing worse than white paper syndrome; for an artist there is indeed an equal frustration - White Canvas Syndrome! It is a malady we artists all suffer on occasion and when it strikes it surely puts one at a complete and disheartening loss. Motivation flies south for the winter, swiftly ensued by any wisp of desire left in one to do anything at all, let alone begin a new artwork! For this reason alone it is best to never even ponder an attempt at working cold onto a blank canvas."
http://tahala.wordpress.com/2010/07/13/got-white-canvas-syndrome/

This conversation brought back some of my old writings on the same topic;

A story teller,  is like a painter. He needs to patiently lay the background, add the right colors to set the mood and place. He needs to introduce the heroes, for every good story needs a hero, or two.  And so a fine story is about the right balance between background and participants.  It is about setting the tone by using the right colors. It is about weaving a plot with the utmost respect, stringing all the threads without losing any, to create a beautiful fabric.

And another time

"Creating something out of nothing is filling a void. Where there was nothing just a minute ago a building is now standing with all its grandeur. Where there was quiet, a song is now filling the emptiness, the picture on the empty wall, the story to capture our imagination in a long winter night. "

The reward though when finishing, any art work, a writing, a drawing, a sculpture...so big, so fulfilling

 

Multi -genre

Almost done with the project. At the end I had a lot that I wanted to say but it became way too long. Also it was hard to make each entry different so it will stand on its own and will have a clear statement.

Some issues regarding pulling out some older stuff (after all it all happened few years ago) using external information and the biggest issue to my surprise was the flash fiction component.

I am not a fiction writer, I knew that for awhile so no surprise there, but now facing it again as a requirement I felt resentment. Forced to do something I knew I was not good at.

That was also a double or even triple edge hurdle. The project being autobiographical in nature was calling for non-fiction material and I had lots of that to offer. When I picked homeschooling as my MG I did so because I thought that it will be interesting to put the experience in a nicely organized package. Also because it is such a rich subject. I did not think at the time that I am venturing into a group of teachers and that I might find myself treading carefully, choosing my words with care.

Well I guess I was facing what every writing student has to deal with;

Finding my own voice.

Identifying the right tone, length, color.

Dealing with the restrictions the material was posing.

Forcing myself, or being forced, into an assignment that I preferred not do.

Being true to myself yet trying not to hurt anyone.


On the bright side I had a lot of fun trying to put this project together.

The organization aspect of how to present such a large and complex issue with clarity was challenging. The visual aspects intriguing.

Collecting the material and going down memory lane was exciting and rewarding.

Knowing that at the end of the road there will be an interested audience, kept me treading along.

Seeing the final product was immensely satisfying.

And beyond

 

From the outside back in

 

 

To infinity and back

 



My other backyard

Unused laundry lines, open grass, wood pile and an old stone fence and beyond it the tree line; this is what I see from my dining room window. I stand there every morning pouring hot water and fresh brewed coffee, while watching the familiar scenery. For a split second I think of other backyards I watched, in the early morning hours, with my mind drifting aimlessly.  These moments when the daily activities have not yet fully capture my mind often bring forward pictures of times and places I already forgot.

It’s still early and everything out there seems completely motionless yet there is a feeling of anticipation, or maybe it is just me waiting for something to move, and shatter the idle scene. I am so utterly engrossed I forget everything behind me.

And then a movement, I catch it in the corner of my eye and all of a sudden I feel awake and alert. My eyes are scanning the scenery, nothing. Was there someone or something moving in the woods? Everything looks uninterrupted and deserted as before. I remember reading that in order to really see you need to let your eyes wonder and not focus on any specific point. Often the best place to hide is in plain sight, and the eye movement, without directly focusing, will do the trick. I discovered this brainy bead in a science fiction book. It is a great tool to locate aliens but who knows, it might work in my backyard too. So I try this technique and move my eyes ever so slowly, from side to side. Its’ a good practice I notice. I pinpoint details I never noticed before. The huge branches of the old pine tree in the back are sagging, almost touching the ground they will need to be trimmed.  The red roof over the small shade looks broken in some spots and will have to be fixed. The wood pile is dwindling …

And then that movement again, it is so fast I don’t really see it, just an impression of a motion in the quiet morning air. I feel a bud of stubbornness growing inside me, I sense there is something there and I want to see it. I turn back to the coffee pretending I don’t care but throw quick glances over my shoulder every few seconds. I realize, as I am doing it, that this elaborate psychological approach is geared mostly towards me. Its’ based on another outside wisdom I acquired somewhere. It stated that like the pendulum move, if you push too hard you lose the needed equilibrium. If, on the other hand, you stop pushing, the other side will be forced to make a move. Anyways, it’s time to pour the coffee before it’ll become ice cold.

A movement behind the wood pile, I freeze with the coffee pitcher in my hand. Without moving my body I turn my head slowly and immediately stop breathing. There is big deer standing there looking straight at me. Even though I am hundreds of feet away, and inside, the feeling that he can see me is overwhelming.  And then the animal does what I least expect, almost as if finishing a thorough assessment and finding me harmless it shrugs its shoulders and steppes into the open.

I can’t believe it; this huge animal who managed to blend so well into the trees chooses to reveal itself. I walk slowly towards the window afraid it will evaporate into the air like a mirage but no, it’s as real as the trees, the red shed and the wood pile. This beautiful animal is just standing there and completely unfazed by me, behind the window; chews on some yellow blades of last year’s grass.

Every once in awhile for no apparent reason its skin ripples and his ears perk up and turn as if to hear far away sounds. It picks his head and scans the forest behind him and then visibly satisfied turn back to chewing.

I watch him for awhile and then unwillingly return to my boiling coffee. When I look back few minutes later I catch its back walking into the forest slowly and unhurried. Two seconds later as if merging into the trees it is gone.

My backyard

From my dining room windows facing east I can see the desert. In the mornings with a cup of coffee in my hand I stand there and watch how the sun, a huge red sphere is rising slowly over the Edom mountain range on the Jordanian border. Once over the mountains it colors the otherwise brown landscape with all shades of orange as if lighting a fire. The massive mountain range, hazy in the morning, becomes crystal clear in the evening when the sun as it goes down strokes it with its last rays.

 Brown on brown is the desert color pallet. From the dark deep shady browns to the very light ones that appear almost white. The rocks bleached by the sun shimmer and almost force me to close my eyes. When I stand there squinting against the blinding sun I can see for miles how the soft round hills go on and on until they end abruptly at the edge of the sea. One brown hill follows another, and another, broken only by an occasional lonely tree.  Nothing to stop my eyes from resting on the Dead Sea a splash of vibrant blue just below the horizon. 

 From where I stand at the big glass windows I can see the point at the end of our street where the town ends and the road, a black narrow strip of asphalt keeps on going creating the only disruption in the uninterrupted scenery. It appears and disappears behind the curves and I try to follow it until I can see it no more and all is left is the vast emptiness.

As I watch the desert in the different seasons I am constantly amazed by its richness, diversity and many faces. The changes some small and others almost theatrical are quick and utterly unpredictable.

In the fall the rain comes, big heavy drops, after months of scorching, blazing summer sun. The rain will pound on the sun baked ground and create a magical transformation. Suddenly there is life everywhere creating a vivid sense of awakening. Small plants will sprout within minutes and small insects will emerge from under the rocks. Almost as if some quick messenger delivered the news, “water! Come out, water”. The air heavy with anticipation just minutes before will be buzzing and humming with the frantic movement.

The harmless rain drops, messengers of life when they first appear can within minutes turn into a full scale flood. The small streams will join to create a wall of roaring water with a surprising force and magnitude that can take on everything on its way to the sea.

In the spring the desert becomes restless. At night the winds are howling, and their echo is spreading over the vast empty space and the narrow ravines. The dry bushes are woken up by the winds that make them go on, rolling, for miles. It is the time of the sand storms. They gather force silently and then fill up the sky and the air with a dense cloud of yellow sand and deafening noise. There is no way to hide from the sand when it surrounds you like a shroud limits your move and take away your sight.

In the front of my house I planted a garden and cultivated it for years. Forever battling the burning summer sun and safeguarding the precious flowers and few trees with a constant supply of water. I know how they completely rely on my care to survive and it makes me proud to see the patches of green I created against the brown landscape.  When I sit there on my porch in the summer nights I relish on the temporary relief from the heat and can almost forget the desert in my back yard.

For over twenty five years I lived in this small town at the edge of the desert. Every spring I would try with no success to keep the sand out of my freshly cleaned house. All along the summer I battled the heat and dryness making sure to hydrate myself and my precious garden. When the fall finally came I hoped with everyone else for the rain to come and reward us with a spectacular show of wild flowers.

Living at the edge of the desert is a constant reminder its power. One cannot forget for even one minute that underneath this great beauty danger lurks. The desert is a giant. For days it can lie quietly outwardly harmless but dare to defy him and it will turn up on you and within minutes crush you up, it was always here and will be.

Start small

The big one, self doubt

Phobias

 

 

When

Frequently when you ask people when did they start to write they will answer "As long as I remember I was always writing." This is true for me too. But when did I really start to write is probably a whole different answer.

The line is so elusive that it is almost like chasing something that is not really there.

Because "I was always writing" and the proof is little snippets of writings in my first grade notebooks, short scripts I plan with my friends, some heartbreaking poems about lost or dead pets smeared with tears and the big one, my diary that was started when I was ten years old.

When people moaned and groaned about school writing assignments I was content. For awhile I had a love affair with pens and needed to have 'just' the right one to write with. My handwriting, thanks to my second grade teacher was a source of many compliments and I loved, absolutely loved the feeling of the pen touching paper.

And then I wrote newspaper articles for everyone who would let me. School, town newsletter, professional opinions, you name it.

But all of that did not really amount to being a writer the way I see it today. That shift happened about 4-5 years ago when I joined my first creative writing class. Writing also took a whole different turn for me when I switched languages from Hebrew to English. Strange, I realize, but somehow this combination of writing in a  foreign language and writing to an audience opened something new and exciting.

I am thankful for that change, it brought many hours of pure joy and a new understanding of what does it mean to be writing.

Duality

"We share our essential holographic nature as fractal expressions of a field of consciousness."

I often wonder how much of my writing is influenced by the fact that there is a constant duality inside of me. I believe that when we write it is 'us' in different forms that we bring in, or use, or rely on. Our inner landscapes are a combination of memories and images and cultural roots. What happens to us as writers if those inner reservoirs that we pull from are in constant conflict and unrest. Will that make for a better writing or rather take away from the clarity.

My duality has many faces.

The physical one consist of - here versus there, or in some times there versus here. Physical landscapes that I lean on from my childhood and those that I see from my window today.

The cultural one - I realize as write that I pull from a cultural well that I inherit from my parents and their parents before them till the end of time. Ambiguous, perhaps, but in a way we all rely on our combine inner memory, collective psyche,  that goes way beyond our personal short term one.

The linguistic one - Let's face it, I am a traitor to my mother tongue and an impostor to the one I now pretend to call my own, but who am I kidding. A language is so much more than just the 'right' words put nicely together. It's the vast never ending terrain that combine it all together.

I Write
I write, I erase
I learn, I forget
I live, I learn
I love, I hate
I come, I go
I sleep, I wake
I do, I am.

CC Carpenter

Found this on the Internet today in my endless roaming on google looking for inspiration. So few words so much is being said. The power of poetry is overwhelming.

Maybe...

 

 - If I sat every morninig to write,

 - If I read all the 'right' books

- Went to more workshops and classes,

- Lisented to all my teachers,

- Had more self confidence,

-Asked more questions,

- Asked less questions,

Wriitng demons

What there is to say that wasn't said before.

 

 

Winter watch

 

 

A branch of berries

Lying on crisp bed of white snow

Like drops of red blood

 

Snowflake like, crystals swirl

 Landing like kisses on the earth

Quietly in the frozen air

 

Shadows of bent trees 

Mirages of dying summer

Giants in the soft wooly fog

 

I wipe the window clear

And squeezing my face to the frosty glass

Keep watching for spring

A writing companian

Every morning in front of my computer this exchange is taking place. Me, serious and driven pouring my 'oh so important thoughts onto the computer 'and she just as driven walking back and forth stepping gently on the keyboard sending herds of letters scrambling on the screen mingling with my orderly sentences.
First I get mad.
"Don't you see, you are as usual a disturbance."
Than I try to work around her realizing as I am doing it how pathetic this might look to any bystander. I try to get to the keys by sending my hand under her belly or see the screen above her ears and just as I find a somewhat workable position she moves and graciously send a paw or a tail and brush it all away. At the end I give up. I laugh and pet her on the head "you are right," I tell her "I am taking myself way too seriously."
I brush the clamps of hair from my shirt, phoo away some more fine hair stuck to my face, and lean back.
She stretches slowly, yawn, get up and walk away.

Explosions

And other times I am bursting with ideas. My hands are flowing on the keyboard and I watch them with admiration trying to match the flow . Colors and shapes are spreading on the screen and I can see how the vivid picture is almost, almost there.

Images

some days it is all so blurry and I have to squint hard to see the form through the blur. I push aside unwanted images and thoughts that don't accumulate to anything. I go here, I go there, but feel like treading water. My legs so heavy as I try to pick them up, my breath so forced, and hard and my ideas swim away just as I think that I am getting closer and about to finally catch them.

Time to write

Finding the time, finding my own time, my writing cycle, when is my writing at its best.
I do it best in the mornings, as I wake up. From the shower with my cup of coffee I power the computer and ignoring everything else grant myself few precious moments of 'me'.
It's usually works like magic. I often find that while I was asleep my mind did some extra work and as my fingers hit the keys thoughts I was not aware of pour out onto the screen.
It could be that, it could be the warm shower water or the steaming coffee but mornings are without a question my time to write.

Don't ever forget

Those black and white pictures, old memories etched in paper,so fragile. Images of places long gone and people that soon will be forgotten, What isn't remembered is as good as dead.

memories

Just finished unpacking my house of over twenty years, what a strange experience. We did not live in it for the past ten years so opening the door to the room, where all our belonging were stored, such a long time ago, was literally walking back into the past.

A wall to ceiling boxes taped shut and labeled very hurriedly, and somewhat carelessly, with titles like 'stuff' or' miscellaneous'. This was an enormous task that had to be finished within a month and watered down to only few boxes of real valuables.

What is valuable is not a small question to answer. Is it my daughters' baby clothes that I kept all those years, so small and crumbled and yellowing? Or maybe the boxes and boxes of toys and plush animals, so dear to our hearts at the time. And my books, so many books, collected with much love over the years.

"You don't need the physical evidence of something that you really like" I tell myself firmly in an effort to quiet the voices screaming "no...Don’t throw me!!!"

Pictures, how can I throw away pictures? My old diaries, my kids’ birthday cards to me, their notebooks from first grade, and their drawings from kindergarten. I keep moving the boxes from here to there, piling items in neat little piles and then pulling them out, I even catch myself arranging them back on shelves for the new people. I know I can't take them all, I know I can't leave them either, don't they have a soul, part of my soul?

More on humor/ my mother's cooking

My mothers’ kitchen

 

 

Until the day I met my husband I was convinced that my mother was an excellent cook. Our culinary menu at home was a mixture of Austrian and Hungarian dishes, she brought from her parent’s home, combined with new inventions she introduced continuously. If there’s anything, I learned from her about cooking is not to be intimidated by new tastes, colors and unique food combinations.

That was also the common view in my extended family. Whenever my aunts, uncles and cousins came to visit they all marveled at her cooking, and baking, but mostly her sense of innovation and boldness at trying new things.

I have some fond memories of helping her creating her dishes, rolling out and cutting the dough for a special dish she made of boiled dumplings, dipped in bread crumbs and sugar. Filling Hanukkah donuts with sweet red jelly, sweet cheese balls, and my all time favorite, a spicy cheese dip I could never reconstruct in later years, even though I have the exact recipe in my hands.

My husband came from the US and his favorite all time story is how he always thought, until he came to Israel, that vegetables came from a can. Yet he had the audacity to vocally and outwardly dislike my mothers’ cooking and declare it not appetizing and odd.

When we got married, I had to make a choice. And following the words of the bible (Genesis 2:24)” Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall join to his wife…” I believed that as a devoted wife, I too had the duty to stick with him and accept his taste in food. But being my mother daughter I still felt some loyalty, and deep fondness, to her cooking and the home flavors.

Over the years I gradually reintroduced back my childhood favorite dishes, some with my own minor modifications, to make them more palatable, to my own family. It turned out to be a success, not only did my husband learn to like many of them, they become a constant part of our menu to the point that my own daughters, now living independently, call me for instructions on how to prepare certain dishes, or ask me to make them on their visits home.

And so even though my husband keeps repeating the old script, in family gathering, how my mother couldn’t cook, the cold facts are that he eats my dishes, which are really her dishes. I wonder what my mother will say if she would still be with us and it makes me smile. So often things are not what they seem, and our food connection is just one small proof.