Thursday, February 24, 2011
Missing In Action
Hi folks - and a special hello to all of you who read this blog regularly - there are not many of you that I'm aware of, but every now and then, I hear from one of you, and , as I've said before, it means a lot to me. I do know that alerts go out to some folks too, whenever a new one of these postings happens. So for you regulars, there's this:
I've not exactly been missing in action - though the posts have been scarce of late, and usually to do with my daily activities which seem so fascinating to me, (and, inexplicably, to a few of you as well, thank you very much)...it's more like I've been missing BECAUSE of action, that action being the inordinate amount of writing assignments tossed at me by the ever - wonderful Adair Lara, leader of our pack.
I use "inordinate" not in its meaning as "unwarranted" or "overmuch", but in its more specific meaning: "extravagant", "immoderate"...since every single exercise we're given, every assignment, is useful and welcome. But there has been a lot to do, and more every day as I realize the true reason I am
in the writing workshop to begin with: to learn how to write more effectively. With more technique that I can put to good use in pointing, shaping and refining the writing that pours out of me naturally.
The aim of course is not to curtail that natural flow. In fact, I am grateful, more than ever, for the sheer years I've put in as a writer in my journals and blogs, because I am actually pretty fearless in letting the ideas pour out, and every now and then in that torrent of words comes a phrase or two that are better than the others, and that say something unique, and very much mine.
But I've rarely had to write "to purpose" before...in other words, I've rambled...and rambled...wanting to simply have a space on a blank page for my every thought to come alive in front of me , establishing a sort of dialogue , I suppose, with my own mind. In writing , the blank page became my friend who is ever there no matter whatever or whoever is not. Writing is really my constant "other", my true companion. A lively conversation between two absolutely delightful characters, both of whom are parts of me...i mean, come on, at least for me, that can never be boring!
Then, you all came along and decided you liked to read that dialogue between two friends , as it were (the two parts of me), and i then had some one else to write for: you guys. But there've been no demands placed on me, no real goal or purpose other than to let you in on what I'm thinking and feeling - and no other discipline except that which my own need dictated: I've written when I've felt like it! AND, the mission has been a noble one: to communicate, to let you know me better, and in turn, every now and then, to let me know you as well. AND it's been fun, and will remain so, I dearly hope.
The only time I've been required to write has been for dear Barter Theatre, whenever I've directed a show in the season. Director's Notes are de rigeur and though in the midst of a manic schedule they can be seen as a burden, I always adored writing them. But they always became better once my boss had time to look at them and give me notes on them, to focus and guide their purpose for each show. Once he vetted the first draft and led me in the direction of the more specific, the more personal, the Director's Notes became a true assignment I could learn from, and so I did. And, I flatter myself to hope they also became better Director's Notes, at least from this particular director.
But you see, they were guided...they were more like what I'm now doing in my Writing Workshop: in this first 12-week workshop , my first ever, since college, i am being required to learn things I'd forgotten, or have never known, and the pieces I am writing are disciplined for a purpose larger than my own selfish ones, and are meant to communicate to a larger audience by the very nature of their being more crafted and skilled.
I am actually having to edit to someone else's taste almost every single time I share a piece with the workshop and, though there have been a piece or two that have come full-blown out of my head that have been praised as just right from the get-go, for the most part each piece I attempt is another learning step, and an arduous, difficult step at that...because I'VE NEVER HAD TO ANSWER TO ANYONE BUT MY OWN SOFT AND PERMISSIVE EGO! I've ALWAYS loved what I write (really I still do)...but now I actually want it to BE GOOD! Not that what you and I have responded to has not been good...but I'd like it to be better than good...I want to be the very best I can do as a writer: more concise, deeper in my thought process, capable of longer, more textured and detailed works, smarter, clearer, better all the way around. And so: this workshop is the first step in that direction of becoming a BETTER writer. A more widely accepted writer, therefore. I'm talking publishing here.
SO - let me hear from you on this - and even if I don't, rest assured: I will keep you all posted, as I always eventually do, on how things are going, what life is bringing me here in the West, and how the entire writing challenge is proceeding. I feel it is the adventure of my life now, and it could feel righter.
As ever, i look forward to hearing from you all too. Please : YOU keep ME posted too.
I've not exactly been missing in action - though the posts have been scarce of late, and usually to do with my daily activities which seem so fascinating to me, (and, inexplicably, to a few of you as well, thank you very much)...it's more like I've been missing BECAUSE of action, that action being the inordinate amount of writing assignments tossed at me by the ever - wonderful Adair Lara, leader of our pack.
I use "inordinate" not in its meaning as "unwarranted" or "overmuch", but in its more specific meaning: "extravagant", "immoderate"...since every single exercise we're given, every assignment, is useful and welcome. But there has been a lot to do, and more every day as I realize the true reason I am
in the writing workshop to begin with: to learn how to write more effectively. With more technique that I can put to good use in pointing, shaping and refining the writing that pours out of me naturally.
The aim of course is not to curtail that natural flow. In fact, I am grateful, more than ever, for the sheer years I've put in as a writer in my journals and blogs, because I am actually pretty fearless in letting the ideas pour out, and every now and then in that torrent of words comes a phrase or two that are better than the others, and that say something unique, and very much mine.
But I've rarely had to write "to purpose" before...in other words, I've rambled...and rambled...wanting to simply have a space on a blank page for my every thought to come alive in front of me , establishing a sort of dialogue , I suppose, with my own mind. In writing , the blank page became my friend who is ever there no matter whatever or whoever is not. Writing is really my constant "other", my true companion. A lively conversation between two absolutely delightful characters, both of whom are parts of me...i mean, come on, at least for me, that can never be boring!
Then, you all came along and decided you liked to read that dialogue between two friends , as it were (the two parts of me), and i then had some one else to write for: you guys. But there've been no demands placed on me, no real goal or purpose other than to let you in on what I'm thinking and feeling - and no other discipline except that which my own need dictated: I've written when I've felt like it! AND, the mission has been a noble one: to communicate, to let you know me better, and in turn, every now and then, to let me know you as well. AND it's been fun, and will remain so, I dearly hope.
The only time I've been required to write has been for dear Barter Theatre, whenever I've directed a show in the season. Director's Notes are de rigeur and though in the midst of a manic schedule they can be seen as a burden, I always adored writing them. But they always became better once my boss had time to look at them and give me notes on them, to focus and guide their purpose for each show. Once he vetted the first draft and led me in the direction of the more specific, the more personal, the Director's Notes became a true assignment I could learn from, and so I did. And, I flatter myself to hope they also became better Director's Notes, at least from this particular director.
But you see, they were guided...they were more like what I'm now doing in my Writing Workshop: in this first 12-week workshop , my first ever, since college, i am being required to learn things I'd forgotten, or have never known, and the pieces I am writing are disciplined for a purpose larger than my own selfish ones, and are meant to communicate to a larger audience by the very nature of their being more crafted and skilled.
I am actually having to edit to someone else's taste almost every single time I share a piece with the workshop and, though there have been a piece or two that have come full-blown out of my head that have been praised as just right from the get-go, for the most part each piece I attempt is another learning step, and an arduous, difficult step at that...because I'VE NEVER HAD TO ANSWER TO ANYONE BUT MY OWN SOFT AND PERMISSIVE EGO! I've ALWAYS loved what I write (really I still do)...but now I actually want it to BE GOOD! Not that what you and I have responded to has not been good...but I'd like it to be better than good...I want to be the very best I can do as a writer: more concise, deeper in my thought process, capable of longer, more textured and detailed works, smarter, clearer, better all the way around. And so: this workshop is the first step in that direction of becoming a BETTER writer. A more widely accepted writer, therefore. I'm talking publishing here.
SO - let me hear from you on this - and even if I don't, rest assured: I will keep you all posted, as I always eventually do, on how things are going, what life is bringing me here in the West, and how the entire writing challenge is proceeding. I feel it is the adventure of my life now, and it could feel righter.
As ever, i look forward to hearing from you all too. Please : YOU keep ME posted too.
Labels: SF Writing
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Birding WIth Bob
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| A California wood duck I saw on my first miraculous day of birding with Bob. |
So lovely, the entire day I spent with dear old friend Bob G. engaging in what has become his serious hobby: birding! In the process of become a true "birder" he has become a fine photographer of the birds he watches. THe photo at left is of one of the three species we were going after to see on that particular day. We lucked out at lovely little Lloyd Lake in the middle of Golden Gate Park, and not one but two wood ducks, a male brightly colored (at left) and his mate, less glorious but lovely as well were floating serenely midst the Muscovy ducks that populate that lake, and they stood out like refined jewels in a basket of grain, so bright were their colors.
This little fella, so very dapper in his definition, looks like someone painted him, after carving his perfect little ducky body out of a wood light enough to float. He is impossibly beautiful to see up close, and when you do get close (these two floated mostly away from us in the lake) they don't even seem real, they are so visual and graphic. From far away, they look like actors on a stage, defined and arresting, and you're not sure why until you see their make-up job up close: they are positively garish in their coloration, like with bright make-up applied too thick. But it's what makes them so arresting to view from afar: their make-up is perfect for the space they "perform" in. Beautiful ...very beautiful.
 |
| "Damn, I hate tourists!" |
TO the immediate left is an American bittern! Another rare bird we went to see that day -urged on by a sighting posting from one of SF's birder sites Bob tunes into regularly. Sadly, the little guy eluded us that day - though we stood for an hour waiting for his return to where we were told he'd been sighted- and there were several regular birders waiting for his showing...he never did that afternoon. Bob went out a day or two later to the same spot in GG Park, and found him, made several shots ...attached is my favorite because he looks furious for one reason or another...maybe he's pissed off that he was discovered in his hiding place around the little marsh.
That lovely several hours we saw ringed-neck ducks - also rare, Bob said - pie-billed grebes, Muscovy ducks, so odd and wondrous, blue herons nesting (there is this one place on the Stowe Lake island where there are several nests of them...again in Golden Gate Park), double crested cormorants, diving ducks, dabbling ducks, black-crowned night herons, Canada geese, sparrows, humming birds, swans, hooded mallards, and more. It was like nothing I've ever experienced in my life before.
An entire other universe of awareness. Creatures that are pre-historic in their origins, on earth far longer than human kind has been, so delicate and graceful in their ways. Is there anything more serene than a floating duck? OR more gloriously lyrical than a blue heron flying to her nest? It was like watching a movie while being part of it, with the cast of characters so far above you, so clearly more equipped to live in a world closed to you - man can build all the airplanes he wants to build - we were never meant to fly like these creatures do - they are meant to soar like that, and to effortlessly float as they do. WE can only dream of such grace. I admire birds so.
Am I becoming a birder? Another step in the direction of becoming a true California girl? Stay tuned.
Labels: SF birding
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Perfect Rainy Reading Day in San Francisco
She and Cyrano are cuddled right now on the sofa looking out onto Lombard Street...no matter where we settle, they always find something interesting to look at and bark at outside our windows. But right now, they both seem to be falling asleep.
It's a good day for a nap, but I have much workshop writing to do, and a thoroughly interesting book about Hewlitt-Packard to read, given to me by its author , Chuck House, who is in my writing workshop, and who has become a true writing partner for me. This book surprises me with its ability to not only hold my interest, but entertain me as well. Chuck is a superb and engaging writer. And I am grateful for the gift of his book called The HP Phenomenon.
Back to it. More soon. Love from a very liquid San Francisco. Beautiful, nonetheless.
Labels: SF 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Almost Heaven - Carmel-By-The-Sea
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| Carmel Beach at Sunset |
And the canvas I am stretched on holds all the magical colors: the crisp white beige of the sparkling sands, the deep green-yellow of the washed-ashore seaweed, the sliver glints sparkling on the tips of the waves, the purple/turquoise/deep blue/aquamarine water itself, the white clouds, the yellow gold rays of sun, and all the dots of red/pink/blue/lime/peach/brown/orange of the people and dogs walking by me: all small dabs of shiny oil that make up the entire perfect picture. It all looks like so much art to me.
There are people who feel this way when they are in the mountains, and others who feel most free in cities ringed by tall buildings they feel they have to climb. Yet others find unlimited creativity in the small cubicle they’re assigned on a job, and there are ever those who are able to find freedom in a jail cell. Buddhist sages speak of finding the limitless freedom of enlightenment within one’s own consciousness, and there’ve been plenty of ancient Buddhist saints who’ve lived alone in freezing mountain caves to prove it. One of the great appeals of falling in love is that feeling of limitless joy and power experienced in the first part of that falling: thousands of songs have been written about it.
But give me the Ocean, the beach and the wide sky every time. And give me time to sit on that beach, breathing it all in, and you’ll find me a happy, calm and everything-is-possible woman. A shack on the beach would serve as well as a mansion. All I really require is the vast water and sky, and the luxury of time to be near both. All I need to feel strong again is a one-on-one with water and sky.
So, a weekend in Carmel is exactly right for me. A week would be better, and a month, the best of all. But for now, I’ll settle on the glories of this weekend, and count myself lucky that I now live near enough to it to come every weekend if I want to. For now that we have made San Francisco our home, I am nearer to my idea of Heaven than I ever have been.
And I wallow in the realization that , even at my age – not a youngster anymore – I had the strength and courage to make this happen, to make the difficult move out of a well-rehearsed NYC way of life, to leap off the cliff and trust that I would not fall, but, rather, fly straight to the places I have always dreamed of being: my almost Heaven, my picture postcard , this place called Carmel-By-The-Sea.
Labels: SF 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
I Just Couldn't Stop Myself!
I know it's a 1st-person Prose/Essay Workshop, but in response to yesterday's "prompt" assignment, to write about something we love in a tone of hate or about something we hate in a tone of love, I had to write the following. You may sing out loud, if you wish:
These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things
Tourists on Lombard and loud wailing sirens,
People who litter my ‘mediate environs,
Busses so crowded you’re crushed ‘til it stings,
These are a few of my favorite things!
Fights with my husband that wake up the neighbors,
Points that he makes, then repeatedly belabors,
Friends unpredictable with wide mood swings,
These are a few of my favorite things.
When my dogs pee
On the carpet
Or do number 2,
I love it so much I could squeeze them to death,
Or smother them ‘til they’re blue.
Writing my guts out then hating each sentence,
People who’re nasty but show no repentance,
Streetcars that scare me with loud wrenching “dings”,
This is the newest of my favorite things!
Seeing a show where the actors are awful,
Witnessing crim’nals in behavior unlawful,
Hearing the lies that a politician “sings”,
Long on my list of my favorite things.
I know these things
I should hate, yes,
I know I just should,
But seeing the wretchedness throughout the world,
It all makes me feel…..
So GOOD!
xxev
Sing out, all you Louise's out there!
Labels: SF Writing
Monday, February 07, 2011
I'd Walk a Mile For a Symphony
Years ago, with the ardent belief that my body needed strenuous internal cleansing, I went to a nutritionist who put me on all sorts of juices fasts: Cranberry juice and mineral water for my liver, watermelon juice and mineral water for my kidneys, orange/grapefruit/lemon juice and mineral water for my entire lymphatic system.
I was a walking, sloshing, California fruit orchard for weeks at a time. And I kept the bottled mineral water industry afloat, not to mention my bladder.
The benefits of course were lovely- an anorexic’s dream - since I was eating no solid food except little carrot sticks and whole stalks of celery, but lips that touched cheeseburgers never touched mine.
One of the more ingenious tortures she devised was a total non-dairy regimen for an entire year, if you can imagine it: Nothing from any animal that produced any milk whatsoever was allowed in my mouth and for an entire 12-month period of time. I didn’t go near a single container of milk, cream, yogurt, ice cream, cottage cheese (any cheese!), half-n-half, whipping cream, condensed milk, sherbet, pudding, mayonnaise, horseradish sauce, creamery salad dressing, margarine or butter. The American Dairy Association and I parted company. I even tried to go nowhere near a cow or goat, which wasn’t very difficult, since I was quite an urban gal at the time. The only goats that crossed my path were the old men who leered at me on the subway.
Then, one day, the year had passed, and, finding myself in a show in Boston, I went with the gang to a famous hole-in-the-wall seafood joint where the clam chowder was legendary, and for the first time in 365 days ordered what everyone else did. I felt somehow evil doing so, but did it nonetheless: my year in the desert had passed. And I remember the first taste of that creamy, buttery, thick and gorgeously seasoned soup like it was yesterday: it was heavenly. Indescribably so.
My taste buds – so grateful they wept – woke up with a gentle start, as if the sleep had done them good, as they celebrated with a slow stretch, a deep intake of sweet sensations that greeted them: the flavors, the smooth textures, the complex tastes that layered one upon another: the comfort of it all. It was as if , in the moments I savored that little bowl of chowder, I re- discovered land and realized what my legs were for.
Which is exactly the same thing that happened to me when I went to my first San Francisco Symphony concert 3 weeks ago: an evening of Khachaturian and Prokofiev, with one of the most delightful violin solos ever devised.
Well, not exactly the same thing, since it wasn’t my taste buds that woke up, but rather my ears, but, bodily gratitude being the point, let’s not quibble: I actually did salivate that evening, as well.
I’ve recently moved to this glorious city from NYC, but en route spent three years in a small town tucked away in a corner of SW Virginia. It is a wonderful place, this small town, and its mountains are glorious, the people the best on earth. Its blue-grass musicians are unrivaled anywhere: it is their music, the music of that region. You need an “old time music” player, you go there and you will find the best our country has to offer. But a large pool of symphonic players? Not yet. They’re working on it, and their efforts need to be supported, but for three years I went to concerts waiting for the cream to come to the table.
Which is why, when I walked into the very beautiful Davies Hall and felt the buzz of the crowds around me, a crowd clearly schooled in what to expect, I felt like I was entering that little hole-in-the-wall seafood joint from years ago, only the décor was much better. And once again, the soup did not disappoint.
As I entered the soaring auditorium (I remembered its root: audio), my soul began to lift in that old familiar way, and as if in a religious place, my head naturally lifted upward, so I could see what was there, survey the boxes and loges ringing the hall. I realize now: that is what important architecture does. It organizes your experience of the place you’re entering, and the organization of Davies is sublime.
Then, I saw the stage stretched before me, and my mouth broke into a natural smile it had not felt in years. I could sense the evening would be a great one. And in that, I didn’t even suspect how right I was.
I could write another thousand words on what the magnificent music, wonderfully played by all, did to me that night. Suffice it to say – for now – that I began to weep with joy early on, and my husband had to give me his handkerchief once I’d gone through all the tissues in my little purse. I’ve always believed that a good performance of any kind should leave you moist in some way, and I was a damp mess by the end of that evening.
The difficult and sumptuous music was terrifically played, the audience was appreciative and alive, the soloists breath-taking in their skill, and my heart soared so high for the entire time that I felt giddy by evening’s end. I walked out into the lobby afterward, honored to be part of this great city, and my husband (a great fan of symphonic music) went home and ordered so many tickets to future concerts, we will be quite fat with music once we’re done.
Our cream-free fast is over: we will now consume all can.
I might even sneak in a pint of gourmet ice cream next time, and sit furtively licking it as I listen, like the old contented cat I have become.
Labels: SF Symphony
