The Furious Spinner

Wednesday, April 28, 2004: I wrote the Writing of Lady Liberty twice. The computer crashed, and when I got it working again, I couldn’t find the post. So I rewrote it. That was my entire morning. I can remember little else about the day.

Yesterday I wrote the essay “Brave New World,” about my weariness, activism, and Kuan Yin Peace Garden. It ended up to be totally different from what I started with. After I wrote about 1,300 words, I read it, and it was wasn’t working. So I did what Michelangelo did when he was creating David. Have you heard that story? (It’s probably apocryphal). Someone asked Michelangelo, “How did you create such a gorgeous statue?” and Michelangelo said, “That was easy. I just chipped away everything that wasn’t David.” That anecdote sums up creative work, doesn’t it? Especially rewriting. I chipped away everything that wasn’t my essay. In the end, I didn’t have David or anything close, but I did have an essay written from my heart. I sent it off to Common Dreams and Alternet.org. Today, Wednesday, Common Dreams picked it up. I started getting emails about it immediately. Other people are tired, too, and they seemed relieved to discover it wasn’t just them.

Thursday, April 29, 2004: My allergies are so flared. I can hardly think or feel anything else. The book is not progressing the way I like. I keep thinking of other book ideas I would rather be doing. I drove to Vancouver for a meeting I had at 1:00 at the library. On the way, I listened to a Book on Tape about the Declaration of Independence and another tape on Thomas Paine’s Common Sense. The more I learn, the more I am coming to believe that it is amazing this country ever came into being. Also, I’m appalled at these people (Jefferson, Washington, Patrick Henry) who owned slaves talking about liberty and freedom! Had they no sense of irony?

At the library, we talked about the fiction collection which I am responsible for. I forgot to bring anything for lunch. I felt a bit woozy, but I sloshed my way through the two hour meeting. Then I talked with Sandy from the office for a while about politics and those pictures of U.S. soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners. We were both surprised by the women who had participated in the abuse. Maybe the sexes are the same, which is what I believed when I was younger; the only difference is that half of us have outies and half of us have innies.

Afterward, I drove to Wild Oats, bought potato chips (for lunch); then I went to Blockbuster and got five movies. The day was cloudless, so my windshield framed the mountain for part of the way home. It has not rained in ages, it seems, but Mount Hood was downright cheeky, covered completely in albino white snow; maybe we won’t have a drought after all.

Alternet picked up my essay “Brave New World” but renamed it “Beauty Mark.” Lots of email on it, too.

Friday, April 30, 2004: Mario and I got up early and went to Falling Creek for a hike. This morning we tried to create a map of the trail. We counted how many steps we took to particular landmarks along the trail. I have wanted to do this for years. We got about a third of the trail finished. It took a long time. Walk and count, stop, write it all down, make a drawing. Walk and count, walk and count.

We came home and drove to Portland and Thai Noon. I jotted down some notes for the novel while we waited for lunch.

We went to the Chinese Gardens afterward. We sat in the boat pavilion, me with my yellow pad and Mario with his journal. We had not been here since winter, before I got sick. It was a warm clear day, and the Garden was crowded. I looked down at the small red carp that swam around in the pond, then wrote a couple of pages on Lady Liberty.

I was in a fake boat in the middle of the Chinese Gardens in the middle of Portland, Oregon, while I wrote about Lafayette and Oney in a bookstore in Philadelphia, talking about birds. (Yes, there were bookstores in Philadelphia in 1796.)

After a while Mario and I drove to the Tao of Tea on Belmont. We had not been here for probably half a year. I got a pear smoothie made with organic yogurt and red tea from Africa. We sat silently in the cool dark quiet of the restaurant, writing. I sucked on my smoothie and discovered Martha’s nephew, who worked as a secretary for George, had a crush on Oney. I discovered this by writing it. I hoped he wouldn’t mind.

On the way home we listened to Stephen King’s On Writing. Mario and I admire him. He started out poor and made it big. He loves his wife, and he’s not snotty about genre. (I think it’s so funny that Margaret Atwood shouts from the rooftops that she does not write science fiction. Thou doth protest too much, M. Atwood. You write about the future and horrifying future societies. What would you call that?) I don’t agree with him on all his writing advice, of course. For instance, he said you should get your own room, your own spot, where you can go and close the door. This may be a male thing. (Oh, wait; I forgot, there isn’t any difference between us...) Mario really likes to have his own room to write. When I was very young—I might not even have been twenty—but I remember deciding that I needed to be able to write any place, any time, under any circumstances. I used to drive to Detroit and sit in the Renaissance Center where I was surrounded by people and noise with my yellow pad and write. I wrote during class. I wrote when I didn’t feel well. I wrote outside. I wrote inside. I wrote when I was pissed off. I wrote when I was happy. I wrote. I think that’s one of the smartest things I ever decided for myself. Because of that, knock on wood, I have nearly always been able to write.

When we got home, we made apple pie. While we waited for the pie to bake, I got on the computer and volunteered to help with a program the peace group is putting on. Brian Concannon, an attorney who has been working on civil rights in Haiti, is coming to our area. I asked the organizer if I could interview Concannon. Haiti actually figures into Lady Liberty, at least historically. When the Haitians (although they weren’t called that then) revolted in the 1790s, the slave holders in America were shaking in their boots. The revolution in Haiti was the only successful slave revolution in history, as far as we know. During the revolutionary years (1791-1804), 100,000 Haitians were killed. The inhabitants of Haiti have not had an easy time of it since.

Saturday, May 1, 2004: On this sacred day, Beltane, the day where we celebrate fertility and love, I was sick.

Sunday, May 2, 2004: We decided to stay home today. We had been doing too much running around. I spent most of the morning writing on the novel. It’s extremely frustrating. I have a group of young men in a tavern, and I have to look up every other thing they say. I hadn’t realized how many figures of speech we use in dialogue. I couldn’t say “cracking up” when referring to someone going crazy. I couldn’t say “playing hooky” when someone skipped classes. But they could say “God-damn” and “fuck.” Some words are eternal.

Monday, May 3, 2004: We went to Falling Creek for a hike. Today we counted deer’s head orchids. This was the first time that we counted less than we had the week before. When I got home, a former editor who is now an agent called to discuss my career. Not sure what came of the conversation. Mario was depressed afterward. He gets his hopes up for my writing, and then he is constantly disappointed. Ah well. We went to Portland to Thai Noon again. On the way we listened to more of Stephen King’s On Writing. I can’t remember much about it, but I was inspired. He says he never wrote for the money. Hmmm. I never wrote for the money either, but I certainly would have if I knew how!

While we waited for dinner at Thai Noon we decided to do some writing exercises. Our first exercise was to describe the restaurant poetically in 25 words. We gave ourselves only a few minutes.

I wrote: Assaulted by ricer cars, diesel fumes, the Rolling Stones, we sit inside an orange crate, open to the world, waiting for Thai, gathering no moss.

Mario wrote: Orange walled garage, old incubator of oil stains and hissing air hose, now home to tofu stir-fry and couples at tables waiting for sustenance.

Then we decided to describe people or a person in the restaurant as an animal in 25 words. We called it “Asphalt Jungle.”

I wrote: Zebra foal, striped red and white, plays with animal crackers, unaware that zebras are herbivores. One slips her grasp, makes a noise. Uh-oh, she whinnies.

Mario wrote: Hippo grace crossing the street, grazing giraffe pulling at leaves, ponderous elk struggling against air, happy seal lolling on beach, busy cub reaching for fish.

I was describing a toddler eating with her doting parents. Mario described five different patrons. The final exercise was that we had to describe our meal, or parts of our meal, in 25 words.

I wrote: White rice in a white bowl, leaves on the rim in white relief. I pick out a bit of black—a bug—and continue eating.

Mario wrote: White wheels, their spin frozen, clogged with scrubbed grain and a motionless kaleidoscope snapshot, lubricated with garlic and ginger sauce, spoon cradled and trident speared.

Yes, there was a bug in my rice, and yes, I did continue to eat. This tells you how good the food was. It was fun doing the exercises. We hadn’t done anything like that for a while. I felt as though it got my writing juices going.

Tuesday, May 4, 2004: My allergies are so flared. Perhaps I’m allergic to Thai Noon food? I was miserable. Didn’t feel like writing. I was so exhausted. Got an email from Endicott Studio reminding us they could still use some poetry. The theme was sacred love, marriage, animal bride/bridegroom. I was not feeling loving or sacred. I thought of Isis and Osiris, but I didn’t want to write anything about a wife losing her husband.

Wednesday, May 5, 2004: Kept thinking of fairy tales. I want to write modern fairy tales. I want to write something sensual. Something with sex. Writing about Martha Washington in 1796 is not very sexy–aren’t you glad? I don’t want to imagine the mother of our country doing it either. But I am longing to write about modern times. Or any times where I can use modern dialogue and lots of people are doing the wild thing.

I thought of the “Swan Maidens” fairy tale. Maybe I could write a poem for Endicott. I sat at the computer at 9:00 a.m. and wrote:

Wings

I dream of wings.
White wings. Black.
Whispers of wings.
Shhhhh.
What does it mean?
Shhhhh.
That is all you can ever say, my love, my only?
I can’t remember how we first met.
Tell me again.
In college. A writing class.
You were the star.
Always falling, falling, falling?
I remember a lake. Mist rising.
Or a foggy memory.
And my sisters.
Shhhhh. You have no sisters.
I wish I could fly.
Doesn’t everyone?

I don’t remember who I am.
No one knows who they are.
In the morning after you are gone
I listen for...
I listen for...
I listen. The world has a heartbeat.
It sounds just like my daughter’s.
Her hand on my cheek is softer
Than a bird’s wing.

I never forced you. You wanted me.
I remember that. Wanted you until
All else disappeared. But you know
I can’t remember why.
The door slams. Was that what I listened for?
Or was it my daughter’s sleep breathing.
Like the wings of birds against the wind.
Why am I the only one who hears it?

I want to feel my love for you again.
Are you gone from my heart?
Then I hear what I have been waiting for.
My daughter calls my name.
I hear it. It is the sound of wings.
Distinct wings. Particular wings.
She holds up a dirty white cloak.
Made of feathers. It is singing.
Winging. The wings of my soul.

Is this what you’ve been looking for?
My daughter smiles. I loved you to get her.
I know the end to this story. I take
My wings and fly away. Nothing
Else matters but that.
Only—
Only she is the heart of the world.
And you did not steal my wings.
I gave them to you.
How could I have forgotten that?

I tell her to hide the cloak
Under her bed for now; I do not touch
it. I work day and night. You do not
Speak. Or see. She sleeps and plays. I find
feathers wherever I can. In the woods.
Along the trail. Inside pillows.
Those are the best. They are filled with
dreams. The ones in the forest are wild
and desperate to fly again. They will hold us up.

When I am finished I awaken my daughter.
She puts on her cloak sleepily, smiling.
She waits for me on the lawn, stretching out
her arms to yawn, laughing as she flaps her
wings. I laugh, too, but don’t touch my cloak yet.

Our laughter awakens you. You smile
forgetting your anger. Your fear.
You see your daughter.
You see me. You always have.
With wings.

I throw my cloak across my back.
I am airborne instantly,
my daughter next to me.
We fly toward the moon,
back to my sisters.

I have left another cloak,
folded into a square
on the kitchen table.
Next to the salt and pepper shakers.

The wind tips my wings.
I hear the heartbeat of the world
And listen for the sound
Of your wings.


I sent the poem off about 10:00 a.m. A couple hours later, Terri
accepted it for publication. I wrote on the novel. It still feels as though I’m slogging through it; every sentence is difficult. This is not the way I usually work. Writing the poem was so much fun. Not only am I having trouble with LL, but this vision of a young girl keeps coming to mind. I’ve seen her for a few, but now she keeps popping into my mind more and more. I want to write about her. Lately when she appears, she is looking at her arm, twirling her hand around, as if she were in a car with her hand stuck out the window playing with the wind, only she’s on the ground, on a dirt path, fascinated with her own arm and skin and the way it looks and moves up against the blue sky...

I need to keep working on Lady Liberty. I need to get more comfortable. When I get to page 100, I’ll read it and see what I think. That’s two more pages. 0 comments

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