What I Wrote During the Marathon …
So, last Friday the Northern California Writing Project’s Summer Institute held its first ever Writing Marathon. We were lucky to have Lynn Jacobs, our resident writing marathon expert, as a leader. She told us the history of the idea of a writing marathon, with its roots in the work of Natalie Goldberg, and how various people from local affiliates of the National Writing Project (notably Richard Louth) had modified the idea. Basically, participants in a writing marathon take on the identity of a writer–when asked, you identify yourself as a writer–and visit multiple locations and write. We broke into groups of around 3-4 people, and wandered to various downtown Chico locations. I wrote with Lynn and Alicia, and we spent time at Naked Lounge, the Chico City Hall, and the James Snidle Gallery. Everyone seemed positive about the experience. Next time, we’ll have to open it up to any NCWP-ers! The results of my day’s work is below, mostly unedited.
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I can’t help but notice the irony inherent in sitting in a hard, upright chair while wearing my casual attire–shorts, t-shirt, comfy Keen shoes–while in a coffee shop called the Naked Lounge. I’m neither naked, nor lounging. What I’m doing is writing. I’m a writer. That’s what I’m supposed to say, if people ask. Nobody has. Yet. And, because my fingers are crawling across the keyboard, I guess that I am, in fact writing, which in turn would make me, in fact, a writer. Yeah. Okay. I’ll go with that. But I’m guessing that you can tell, from the fact that I’m writing about this, rather than writing writing, that a bit of a disconnect happening at the moment. I’m doing what I call “clearing my throat”–saying just about anything because I haven’t figured a way in to what I’ll be writing about. Yet.
Maybe I should use a different voice. I’ll give the Dave Eggers 2nd person “you” a shot.
•••
You meet with others who have been, like you, institutionalized. Or, at least, you all have become part of an institute. Is that the same thing? You listen to your instructions: go out into the community, find places to write, and then write. You wonder what you will write about. You wonder who will ever read what you write, who would be interested in what you have to say–which may be nothing at all–you’re not convinced you can say anything without more prompting. But you nod, you say “I am a writer” when prompted, and you head out with a couple of others. You find yourself in a coffee shop called the Naked Lounge. You realize you are not, thankfully, naked, although sitting and writing makes you feel a little exposed anyway. You’re not lounging, either; you’re in a straight-backed chair that looks like it came from a 50s-era formica dinette set–orange-red seats and backs, and chipping, black-painted metal frame.
You look around. This is not a place you frequent. Out front are chairs for those who smoke. The people sitting there now are of the young and tattooed persuasion. They look to be enjoying the warm morning. Inside, you notice that the shades of the lights above you are made of what look like shithouse-brown napkins that have been, somehow (best not to think too much about the how, you think) stiffened into wrinkled freeform shapes. You think that they are probably cool; you insert the “probably” because you are no longer cool and so your declaration of the lightshades as cool may, through the transformative power of the word, render their coolness suddenly inert and impotent. You have seen this happen with your children many times, and would hate to impose this devastating effect on the unknowing owners of the shop. You can see it happening, despite your desire to squelch the image. You’ve said it in your head, without that qualifier: This is a cool place. You notice that, since you thought it, no one has entered the Naked Lounge. You wonder if you can surreptitiously look back at the baristas and see if they have suddenly been transformed from edgy, hip young women into uniformed look-alikes of Alice, the maid in the old Brady Bunch tv show. You think that even thinking such a thing is, well, pretty fucking weird. Alice? It must be the influence of the dinette set chair or something that took you back to the Bradys, or so you comfort yourself.
As you’re pondering these things, you note with relief that someone has come into the shop, and the someone is young. Oh, and here’s another customer, with dreadlocks. You overhear one of the baristas say, “You’re one of those people who could totally rock that!” You are suffused with relief that you have not, in fact, ruined the spot by faking your way in, pretending to write, and pronouncing it “cool.”
•••
The mixed media murals adorning the walls inside Chico’s City Hall are smattered with text. Quotes from locals about car pollution and community growth mix with photos from the past. A free-form map repeats the words “From One Place” and “To Another,” echoing our quick trip down Main Street from the Naked Lounge to here. I’m struck by the amount of public art in the building; the last time I was here, I was just paying a parking ticket. I saw the utility of the building only, blinded to its other attributes.
“Tip of the iceburg” is a completely trite cliché, I know. But the building, with its hidden art, embodies that notion of what we do–and don’t–see in our world. There are so many things submerged. In one of my favorite poems–and I’m actually surprised to discover that I even have a favorite poem, as poetry is not my favorite genre–Margaret Atwood writes about a photograph. The poem’s speaker describes an impressionistic scene of a lake, with a hill and a house in the background. Then the speaker offhandedly, parenthetically, remarks that she, herself, is in the picture, too, but is under the lakewater, somewhere; the photograph, we’re told, was taken the day after she drowned. What I love about this poem, besides the creepy feeling it gives when we discover that the speaker is, in fact, dead, is the peeling back of the surface to reveal something deeper, something I would not have otherwise noticed. I think that’s something we as a culture have let slip away; we’re usually rushing around the surface so fast that we can’t attend to the depths.
The summer institute has always been a time filled with an odd mixture of those two elements–rush rush rush, attend attend attend. I often feel a kind of manic craziness because we’re all reading so much, writing nonstop, preparing to share our practices, and learning about the diversity of teaching in our part of the state. But I’m also struck by the depth of what I learn about my colleagues, both their personal and professional lives. Candace, for instance, is a little on the quiet side, but her writing spells out in bold letters her complex, compassionate depths. Jessie, whom I had known as a driven, thoughtful student a decade ago and who is now a driven, thoughtful teacher, reveals an amazing, generations-long family legacy rife with the joy of language and learning. And Alicia, with whom I’ve shared an affinity for cycling, the perfect turn of phrase, and the playful delight of self-deprecating humor, has been writing repeatedly about her hands as metaphors for the unwanted, but indominatable resilience she has mustered through a truly terrifying twelvemonth.
And so I’m thinking, and will continue to think, about the implications of the iceburg effect. What might happen to us–as teachers, as people, as citizens–if the we started treating the superficial as the starting point? If we could make as part of our daily practices the assumption of depth, of profundity, in our friends, colleagues, and neighbors. What might that open up for us?
•••
Browsing a local art gallery, I’m reminded of my love of contemporary art. I appreciate realistic paintings and sculpture, but I’m taken by abstractions and extensions. The grotesque, the surreal, the expressionistic: these make my pulse race.
This is what initially attracted me to what’s called, depending on who’s doing the naming, the designer vinyl or designer toy movement. It’s based in the modification of often straightforward vinyl castings, of (usually) recognizable forms (figures, animals, etc.). They look like toys, but real artists–often with roots in subcultural art, like my very-favorite-artist-of-all-time, if-I-had-tattoos-they-would-be-of-his-artwork, Keith Haring–modify the figures, turning them from mass-produced to amazingly unique.
There’s a determined humanism in these pieces; they seem so connected to the artists, to their process, that they seem replicable by mere dabblers like me. They fill me with a sense not just of wonder, but of potential; they remind me that creation is in my grasp, if I only decide to reach out.
June 21 2009 | Uncategorized | No Comments »
