The exercise:
I was sitting out on the balcony trying to figure out what to write about. And the sun was setting. So, shockingly, I ended up writing about sunsets. I know, sometimes my own creativity awes me too.
Mine:
When the sun dipped into the ocean,
The final trick of Day's magician,
Where red sky and blue water met,
We would say that Jupiter had set.
That summer in Mexico
Doesn't seem so long ago.
I remember a different night,
The October air had quite a bite;
As we left the pub he said with a sly grin:
The heroes ride into the sunset again!
That one evening in Cologne
I didn't feel so alone.
Now the sun has gone to bed tonight.
Alone, I watch this fading light.
You're sleeping, three thousand miles away,
It's your tomorrow in my today.
And though the sky is lovely here,
It appears dull without you near.
Sunday June 29th, 2008
The exercise:
Having a lazy Sunday so I'm going to steal what I wrote from my writer's group this morning. The topic was silence.
Mine:
Why are so many people afraid of the stillness of quiet? Where did they learn that silence is to be avoided? Are they just rebelling against parents who were professional mimes?
Perhaps they are living in fear of their own thoughts and their refuge is to keep talking, banging pots together, blaring bad music. Maybe someone forgot to tell them that if you've got nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.
Have these poor people heard of meditation? I wonder if they equate it with witchcraft and voodoo, a behavior for the fringe element. Do they consider taking a vow of silence to be the same as promising to stop breathing?
I am not one of those people. I love silence. Give me two hours of quiet and I will journey upon the stormy waves of my thoughts to every corner of the universe. Call me a thought tourist if you like.
I will review the past, savor the present and speculate about the future. I will not need a television. I will not need the wacky morning radio DJ to share his views on Britney Spears. I will not need to see the latest fad video on YouTube, even if it involves the newest shenanigans of the dramatic chipmunk.
For me, silence is still golden.
Having a lazy Sunday so I'm going to steal what I wrote from my writer's group this morning. The topic was silence.
Mine:
Why are so many people afraid of the stillness of quiet? Where did they learn that silence is to be avoided? Are they just rebelling against parents who were professional mimes?
Perhaps they are living in fear of their own thoughts and their refuge is to keep talking, banging pots together, blaring bad music. Maybe someone forgot to tell them that if you've got nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all.
Have these poor people heard of meditation? I wonder if they equate it with witchcraft and voodoo, a behavior for the fringe element. Do they consider taking a vow of silence to be the same as promising to stop breathing?
I am not one of those people. I love silence. Give me two hours of quiet and I will journey upon the stormy waves of my thoughts to every corner of the universe. Call me a thought tourist if you like.
I will review the past, savor the present and speculate about the future. I will not need a television. I will not need the wacky morning radio DJ to share his views on Britney Spears. I will not need to see the latest fad video on YouTube, even if it involves the newest shenanigans of the dramatic chipmunk.
For me, silence is still golden.
Saturday June 28th, 2008
The exercise:
Kat and I went strawberry picking this morning on Westham Island and came home with 17 pounds of berries. We'll be freezing and eating these for quite a while:
Today's exercise is to use a favorite Beatles lyric as your first line and go from there. I suspect you can guess what mine will be.
Mine:
Strawberry fields forever! May we never see the day that these delicious berries are only born in the laboratories of giant corporations. May the day never dawn that these fields are dug up, paved over and built up into the latest subdivision of matching houses. But if that day does arrive, may the very next day bring the earthquake that washes it all away.
Strawberry fields forever. May the day soon come that every single man, woman and child realizes, appreciates and acts on the knowledge that a fresh, local strawberry tastes one hundred times better than one transported from thousands of miles away. May the fields of our local growers be filled with the young and old alike, picking the biggest, juiciest berries side by side. Five for the bucket, one for me. Three for the bucket, one for you. One for the bucket, two for me.
Strawberry fields forever.
Kat and I went strawberry picking this morning on Westham Island and came home with 17 pounds of berries. We'll be freezing and eating these for quite a while:
Today's exercise is to use a favorite Beatles lyric as your first line and go from there. I suspect you can guess what mine will be.
Mine:
Strawberry fields forever! May we never see the day that these delicious berries are only born in the laboratories of giant corporations. May the day never dawn that these fields are dug up, paved over and built up into the latest subdivision of matching houses. But if that day does arrive, may the very next day bring the earthquake that washes it all away.
Strawberry fields forever. May the day soon come that every single man, woman and child realizes, appreciates and acts on the knowledge that a fresh, local strawberry tastes one hundred times better than one transported from thousands of miles away. May the fields of our local growers be filled with the young and old alike, picking the biggest, juiciest berries side by side. Five for the bucket, one for me. Three for the bucket, one for you. One for the bucket, two for me.
Strawberry fields forever.
Friday June 27th, 2008
The exercise:
Welcome back to Def Poetry Jam Friday. Up first, a quick update on my attempt to stop uptalking - it lasted until last night when, around 6:30, I said 'The greens in the salad are from the garden, right?" I knew damn well the greens were from the garden - I picked them myself! Ah well, starting over.
This week's performance to discuss is a powerful piece by Daniel Beaty called Knock knock.
Mine:
The first time I saw this video it gave me chills. It still does. The passion in this performance is so intense that I don't know how anyone could not be touched by it in some way.
The transformation from his first words to his last are incredible, and the audience changes with him. He begins with a 'I have a little story to tell you' demeanor and the crowd quiets down to listen, a distance between them and this man on stage.
By the half way point he has taken on a 'You will listen to my story' style and the audience has closed the gap, they are wrapped around his words. The intensity is building and they are going along this journey with him whether they want to or not.
At the end he has grabbed the audience by the throat and they are up there with him. There is no separation between performer and audience. His words are the only things in that room that matter to anyone.
Listening to this piece I get to the point that I'm hanging on every word, almost so much that I lose the forest to the tree. I have to step back to hear the entirety of his message and it's important that I do so. This is a man who knows the true value of a father, who will make an incredible father himself one day if he is not already. The only reason he knows the word 'neglect' is because he suffered from it, not because he will do anything remotely like that to his children.
It is a reminder to us all to be grateful for the attentive parents we have had, or it is a comfort to those who were not so lucky to know that they are not alone. It is a brave, vulnerable spoken word performance and we should all feel fortunate to have been witness to it.
Keeping in the tradition that I started last Friday, here is another piece by Daniel Beaty for your viewing and thinking pleasure. Sorry for the long intro, this was the only decent quality version I could find.
Welcome back to Def Poetry Jam Friday. Up first, a quick update on my attempt to stop uptalking - it lasted until last night when, around 6:30, I said 'The greens in the salad are from the garden, right?" I knew damn well the greens were from the garden - I picked them myself! Ah well, starting over.
This week's performance to discuss is a powerful piece by Daniel Beaty called Knock knock.
Mine:
The first time I saw this video it gave me chills. It still does. The passion in this performance is so intense that I don't know how anyone could not be touched by it in some way.
The transformation from his first words to his last are incredible, and the audience changes with him. He begins with a 'I have a little story to tell you' demeanor and the crowd quiets down to listen, a distance between them and this man on stage.
By the half way point he has taken on a 'You will listen to my story' style and the audience has closed the gap, they are wrapped around his words. The intensity is building and they are going along this journey with him whether they want to or not.
At the end he has grabbed the audience by the throat and they are up there with him. There is no separation between performer and audience. His words are the only things in that room that matter to anyone.
Listening to this piece I get to the point that I'm hanging on every word, almost so much that I lose the forest to the tree. I have to step back to hear the entirety of his message and it's important that I do so. This is a man who knows the true value of a father, who will make an incredible father himself one day if he is not already. The only reason he knows the word 'neglect' is because he suffered from it, not because he will do anything remotely like that to his children.
It is a reminder to us all to be grateful for the attentive parents we have had, or it is a comfort to those who were not so lucky to know that they are not alone. It is a brave, vulnerable spoken word performance and we should all feel fortunate to have been witness to it.
Keeping in the tradition that I started last Friday, here is another piece by Daniel Beaty for your viewing and thinking pleasure. Sorry for the long intro, this was the only decent quality version I could find.
Thursday June 26th, 2008
The exercise:
It's been a big year for birthdays. Lots of the big three-oh going around, a 60th celebration around the corner, even a 70th. Thirty is four months to the day away for me, so with all that in mind - today's exercise is to write about aging.
Mine:
I'm not where I expected to be with thirty looming around the corner. If you had asked five year old me he'd have probably predicted a successful career as an artist. Coloring strictly between the lines of course.
Ten year old me would have regaled you with exciting tales of my future life as a librarian. Man was I a book-loving nerd back then. Still love reading, working on managing the nerd thing.
Fifteen year old me would have told you all about playing second base for the Toronto Blue Jays. I wouldn't hit a lot of home runs you see, but I'd steal a whole lot of bases. They'd nickname me Speedy.
Twenty year old me would have believed an exciting career as a marketer awaited me. I was going to be the bane of those bland, intellectually-offensive commercials. To jail with Jared! The capital punishment for the Canadian Tire couple!
Twenty-five year old me would expound the virtues of my life as a photographer for National Geographic. Snapping safari shots, framing France's fields. Summer all year 'round.
And here I am, none of those things. But you know what? I'm okay with that. No, I'm thrilled with that. I'm content with my life: I've found a pursuit in writing that I'm passionate about; I'm living happily with the girl of my dreams; I've got great friends around me; I've traveled abroad and will do so again.
Life is rarely what you expect it to be. But, let's be honest here, if it really was - wouldn't that be the most uninteresting, boring, lifeless life to live?
It's been a big year for birthdays. Lots of the big three-oh going around, a 60th celebration around the corner, even a 70th. Thirty is four months to the day away for me, so with all that in mind - today's exercise is to write about aging.
Mine:
I'm not where I expected to be with thirty looming around the corner. If you had asked five year old me he'd have probably predicted a successful career as an artist. Coloring strictly between the lines of course.
Ten year old me would have regaled you with exciting tales of my future life as a librarian. Man was I a book-loving nerd back then. Still love reading, working on managing the nerd thing.
Fifteen year old me would have told you all about playing second base for the Toronto Blue Jays. I wouldn't hit a lot of home runs you see, but I'd steal a whole lot of bases. They'd nickname me Speedy.
Twenty year old me would have believed an exciting career as a marketer awaited me. I was going to be the bane of those bland, intellectually-offensive commercials. To jail with Jared! The capital punishment for the Canadian Tire couple!
Twenty-five year old me would expound the virtues of my life as a photographer for National Geographic. Snapping safari shots, framing France's fields. Summer all year 'round.
And here I am, none of those things. But you know what? I'm okay with that. No, I'm thrilled with that. I'm content with my life: I've found a pursuit in writing that I'm passionate about; I'm living happily with the girl of my dreams; I've got great friends around me; I've traveled abroad and will do so again.
Life is rarely what you expect it to be. But, let's be honest here, if it really was - wouldn't that be the most uninteresting, boring, lifeless life to live?
Wednesday June 25th, 2008
The exercise:
Have fun with homonyms!
Mine:
I for an eye - should be the motto of the Third World Eye Care Society.
Two is too many to consider - potential motto for China's one child per family policy.
Acts four and eight need the ax - a medieval play director.
The ketchup and relish mustered the condiment troops in support of the mustard's failing health.
Sic us on your sick! - the rallying cry of doctors everywhere.
I could go on like this all night but any knight worthy of his armor knows that discretion is the better part of valor.
Have fun with homonyms!
Mine:
I for an eye - should be the motto of the Third World Eye Care Society.
Two is too many to consider - potential motto for China's one child per family policy.
Acts four and eight need the ax - a medieval play director.
The ketchup and relish mustered the condiment troops in support of the mustard's failing health.
Sic us on your sick! - the rallying cry of doctors everywhere.
I could go on like this all night but any knight worthy of his armor knows that discretion is the better part of valor.
Tuesday June 24th, 2008
The exercise:
I'm really tired tonight, so I'm writing about that. Feel free to do the same.
Mine:
I ran and I ran, until my legs would no longer carry me. I ran 'til my lungs filled with cotton and my legs turned to jelly. I rested, sucking in air noisily.
And then I ran some more.
Now my whole body aches, my thoughts are like earthquakes. Rational, coherent thoughts register a 1.0. Exhausted, nonsensical ideas a 5.9. Motivating thoughts fail to nudge the meter past the zero line.
My bed is calling, soon I shall be falling into the deepest slumber. My snores will be like the sawing of lumber!
And in the morning I shall rise. And I will run again, to nobody's surprise.
I'm really tired tonight, so I'm writing about that. Feel free to do the same.
Mine:
I ran and I ran, until my legs would no longer carry me. I ran 'til my lungs filled with cotton and my legs turned to jelly. I rested, sucking in air noisily.
And then I ran some more.
Now my whole body aches, my thoughts are like earthquakes. Rational, coherent thoughts register a 1.0. Exhausted, nonsensical ideas a 5.9. Motivating thoughts fail to nudge the meter past the zero line.
My bed is calling, soon I shall be falling into the deepest slumber. My snores will be like the sawing of lumber!
And in the morning I shall rise. And I will run again, to nobody's surprise.
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