2007 Summer Insitute Writing Marathon

Today I joined a mini-writing marathon for the new fellows participating in the Invitational Summer Insitute hosted by the National Writing Project (NWP) at Rutgers University. The writing marathon is based on a journal exercise described by author Natalie Goldberg in her book Writing Down the Bones. In this book, Goldberg suggests how to approach the marathon:

Everyone in the group agrees to commit himself or herself for the full time. Then we make up a schedule. For example, a ten-minute writing session, another ten-minute session, a fifteen-minute session, two twenty-minute sessions, and then we finish with a half-hour round of writing. So for the first session, we all write for ten minutes and then go around the room and read what we’ve written with no comments by anyone. . . . A pause naturally happens after each reader, but we do not say “That was great” or even “I know what you mean.” There is no good or bad, no praise or criticism. We read what we have written and go on to the next person. . . . What usually happens is you stop thinking: you write; you become less and less self-conscious. Everyone is in the same boat, and because no comments are made, you feel freer and freer to write anything you want. (150)

The purpose of writing marathon mesh's with the NWP's main philosophy that teachers of writing should practice what they teach. The marathon offers a writing experience unfettered by genre, style, prompt, etc. It's actually quite relieving to get out of a computer lab or classroom and just write. Richard Louth describes how the marathon was put to use at their local NWP site in the article The New Orleans Writing Marathon. Louth gives additional advice:

• If you go into a restaurant or bar, be sure to order something.
• If anyone asks, tell them you are a writer.
• Keep in mind that you are doing this for yourself and for nobody else.

The design for the 2007 NWP Rutgers Invitational Summer Institute drew on these two sources. Older teacher consultants joined the new summer fellows, and naturally subdivided into groups of three to five participants. Each group was set free to roam the campus and surrounding areas, with an established rendezvous place and time.

My group set out from the Graduate School of Education, down Voorhees Mall, towards the Old Queens campus; our first stop was Kirkpatrick Chapel. We spent 15 minutes writing inside the chapel, and shared outside on the lawn. The group made way past the lawn, and directly to the train station across the street. We uncomfortably crammed into an elevator up to the train platform. It smelled of urine, baked by the summer's heat-- that made for good writing fodder. We only spent 10 minutes writing at the station, and then shared at Marita's Cantina over nachos (a marathon isn't complete without food and drink). Court's Tavern made for a good final stop on our writing marathon. We wrote for a full 30 minutes, and shared our writing over a beer.

2007wmisi tagged map - Tagzania

Kirkpatrick Chapel- 15 minutes

“What does it mean to have faith in God,” he asked, not expecting an answer in return. “The geographical history of the earth. Big bang. Continents shifting. Evolution. Movements of culture across continents, diverging and rejoining. Thanks to science and history, we already have the answers. There is no mystery anymore—just scientific proof.”

“I don’t know…” she started.

“Of course you don’t. Religion doesn’t prove something…”

“I don’t know. I mean to say, I want to believe in something more than here and now. I need to believe there is meaning in my life. That I was born for a reason, to serve a greater good. Your born. You live. You die. But what for? Religion gives me that answer. There is something beyond the scientific mechanics. There is beauty in what we don’t know.”

Train Station- 10 minutes

The subway station smelled of urinal cakes, smoldering cigarette butts, burnt coffee. Not the place you’d imagine for a romantic tryst. Dimly lit. The overhead fluorescent tubes flickered in and out of tempo. Water drip, drip, dripped deep within the bowels of the tunnel. But she insisted on meeting halfway. That was their relationship, always meeting halfway. The tunnel was alive with a beat of it’s own, so distant, yet unmistakable. Growing in timber, like a crescendo of timpani drums. His heart picked up. Rhythm, like the chugging sounds of the engine that would bring her back to him.

Court Tavern – 25 minutes

“Hey Jersey, you gonna ride?” That wasn’t a question. That was a statement veiled as a question, veiled as a test to my masculinity.

“What’s it to ya Texas?” I chided back.

At first, he rode the pause in conversation. Lingering long enough where I became slightly uncomfortable. Then he grinned at me with his eyes and slammed down a shot of whiskey.

“Do you have what it takes to prove that you have some nads city boy.” He spoke soft, yet firm. Overemphasizing city, like it was some kind of derogatory term. Maybe it was around these parts.

Dear God, it’s times like this I wish I was witty. I’m blessed to have a quick mind—though there isn’t any synaptic response between my thoughts and words. My tongue bumbled around with a few syllables. I stuttered, sucking down the air of silence. You know, someone should write a dictionary of wit-isms for times like this. A pocket reference for all the right things to say in times like this. That’s the moment I decided that actions must speak louder than words, and gave my nod to Texas.

“So, what’s it going to be,” he asked.

I pushed the stool outward, with the back of my legs, and stood from the bar. At first it took will to place one foot in front of the other. But something deep inside me disconnected from the situation. It was at that moment that I felt outside of myself, like I was watching a sitcom on TV where I also happened to be the main character of the episode. Something deep within me took over- I think they call it testosterone, and my body moved on autopilot.

Big Texas took pleasure at all of this, and guffawed as I made my way toward the mechanical bull. He shouted “Look at Jersey go!” in a sing-song sort of way. “Go Jersey go!” Cheering me onward, drawing a large audience to watch the debacle.

I’m Jersey. I’m suburban. I push a lawn mower for sport. What did I know about riding a mechanical bull? I knew well enough that I didn’t know. There was no faking experience or skill. I’d ride this blanged contraption out of sheer determination. That should show Big Texas I had the balls.

Tags: NWP, National Writing Project, Rutgers, writing marathon, creative writing, Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

The Moment (Ireland)

“Ireland” is a vignette I wrote as part of NWP’s Invitational Summer Institute two summers ago. The story is autobiographical in nature. It describes the very moment when I proposed to my wife during one of the last nights in Ireland. After having reread this story, I was shocked that this experience was portrayed in the third person perspective. Deep emotions are much more accessible in the first person; I tend to overuse this writing approach.

In this piece of writing, the third person gives a more balanced treatment to both characters. Like the poem “The Feeling of It”, this story attempts to capture one moment in time; an emotional landscape sculpted by the surrounding environments. Peculiar enough, the story’s original title “The Moment,” was also the title of another vignette that was finished this past summer. I am only starting gain a sense that this theme runs throughout my stories and poems. That will be for you to judge.

Although psychologists, educators, and philosophers alike could debate this point, our environment is a shared experience. For the most part, a group of people could agree upon what information their five senses detect. We take in those senses, and make our own personal meaning based on memories and feelings- our own personal interpretation based on the outside environment and experience. It is our personal perception, our personality, which isolates people and makes us individual. We then try to reconnect with other human beings by expressing these internal ideas through language (both spoken and written), art, music, math, etc. This is one of the prevailing ideas in American education; this is my fascination.

Dear Caroline,

Can you remember Kilkenny: the medieval city; the Irish drum circle, all two of them; hostel in an old guard tower; Frank, the dreadlock proprietress; obnoxious Americans from Connecticut; a walk in the woods; moonlight, and the moment; going to the local pub; announcing the event; townsfolk, including those Americans; buying us shots; meant twice for me because you don’t drink; drunk Irish brogue; foosball; those Irish love their America, especially Disney and Florida; the drunken bartender was also the taxi driver for the night; stumbling up all those spiral steps; sleeping in separate cots, in a one room hostel. After all those years, the memories are still fresh. This is my gift to you on our wedding anniversary.

With love,
Joe

(Ireland) The Moment

It was the second time that week the clouds parted to reveal the sky. Even if it was only for a moment, the view was stunning. A realist would have reported that a full moon looked no different in Ireland than it would have appeared in New Jersey. A true romantic would have argued differently. The moon appeared inexplicably huge, and save a young couple, nothing else competed for space on that horizon.

The picture presented itself as gentleman and lady sitting atop a fieldstone wall. This wall stretched onward for miles in either direction, rolling softly over green hills as far as the eye could see. Occasionally another wall would meet at a perpendicular, forming an odd grid. In other places the wall had collapsed where stones had loosened from the agents of time and weather. The walls and fields blended into the horizon where land meets the still night. Only the stones and moon gave audience to this couple. How could it not be romantic for the couple?

This was a moment of isolation and intimacy; somehow life outside of their sphere did not exist. Perhaps a countryman may have walked by with his dog, or a brook rippled over worn-down rocks. They would never have noticed. Save the fieldstone wall, any trace of humanity was removed. Was it possible to be alone in the world and truly hear silence, let alone these two shared in that experience?

She was cold, and slightly frightened. Midnight, middle-of-nowhere, full moon, foreign country- this was ripe material for her inner fears to take hold. A rustle in the field or a howl should have distracted her from the moment. Rather she drew further into that sphere that was their shared space, and shut out the world . . . all save that full moon. Intimacy was a feeling of warmth that spread throughout the body, originating somewhere deep within her. It was a feeling of serenity and safety invested in their state of togetherness.

Inside the gentleman’s pocket was a secret waiting to be revealed. He nervously thumbed the object over and over, rotating it in his sweaty palm. The heaviness of the object weighted down any courage he could muster. “Could she know my innermost desire,” he thought as that that desire revolved around his pinky finger. What if she knew? Would she have given him a sign, a signal, some message of affirmation? He stared deep into her eyes, unable to read the moment. Even though his palms sweated profusely, his throat was parched. A word struggled to produce itself, but lost itself somewhere on the tip of his tongue. The silence maintained.

The full moon, true intimacy, the feel of her breath on his neck, his secret yearning to be set free- this moment was certain not to last. This was an experience to be savored, made precious; never to be lived again. He removed the secret from his pocket and slid the diamond ring onto her finger. Silence . . . stillness . . . shock. She tilted the diamond toward the moonlight as beams of light danced within the many facets and reflected back toward her eyes. The corners of her mouth drew upwards into a soft smile of affirmation.

Tags: Ireland, National Writing Project, personal memoir, proposal

The Feeling of It

I don't think of myself as much of a poet, although inspired by my cohorts in the National Writing Project at Rutgers U to write more poetry. I've attended the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, participated in several writing marathons, always trying to gain a better appreciation for reading / writing. I have even constructed a Poet Tree in my classroom. Might sound campy, but I am most inspired by my students' poetry. Now I am looking at the craft of songwriting- poetry set to music. No guarantee that it will be of much worth, but I'll keep trying.

I wrote "The Feeling of It" during the NWP's Invitational Summer Institute a few years back. Actually this was my first attempt at poetry since high school. I was inspired to write a sestina, a very complex form poem, after having read Neil Gaimans "Vampire Sestina" in his collection titled "Angels and Visitations". James Baldwin's short "Sonny's Blues" also came to mind. This story has one of the best descriptions of the affect and communication shared between improvisational musicians in all of the literature I have ever encountered. The content came from a very moving experience at It, possibly one of the best Phish festivals outside of the Clifford Ball. I wanted to fuse: the complexity of a sestina; Baldwin's comprehension of music, and his power to communicate those ideas; with my own personal perspective on the Phish experience. The poem doesn't do justice for those not in the know, but might get a few head nods from those that share similar experiences. Therefore my audience is rather limited.

Today I post this poem in memorandum / celebration of Coventry- Phish's announced farewell party one year ago. That weekend is gone, but remains fresh in my memory.



The Feeling of “IT”

Bathed in golden locks of light
with no sense and loyalty of time
the intangible gap between space
and the subtle sounds of music
inspired the congregation to dance
as a celebration of the soul

It is the language of the soul
to converge, converse, shed light
upon movement, with sound dance
-ing a frantic rhythm within tempo; time
gauged only by measures of music
and kinesthetic space

Many individuals confined within a space
moved by funk, by jazz, by spirit, by soul-
shaking, pulsating, worshipping music
bringing them together toward a new light
a new time
within the communion of the dance

The musicians lead the crowd along, fingers dance
-ing tirelessly upon instruments; hollow space
reverberated guitar strings, snare drum snaped out time,
as bass sauntered beneath, piano rolls ringing out soul;
puffs of smoke rose showered in light
as the audience bathed in warm washes of music

A struggle of harmony and cacophony; a music-
al phrase called, answered, revisited, reinvented; a dance
of notes interweaving, improvising, imposing light
and order; then swept away into space
of frantic chaos- doubted, questioned, soul
searched, renewed, reiterated, then brought back to time

Band and crowd reciprocating pure energy; this time
invigorated by the exchange music
free to explore the uncharted depths of the soul
navigated by the dance;
what was once an empty space
now radiated with life, warmth, sound, light

Like a thousand sparks of light set free of time
and transcended space; set forth the music,
inspired the dance, and intensified the soul

Tags: sestina, poetry, National Writing Project, Geraldine R. Dodge, writing marathon, Phish, It, Neil Gaiman, James Baldwin

Return of the BLOG

I came across BLOGS at the 2003 National Writing Project Convention in San Francisco. The technology sessions focused on the use of blogs in the classroom. I brought those ideas back east to Jersey, where I had every intention of putting these new ideas into practice. I registered for a blog right away, and well, that was as far as it went- a good inention. Don't get me wrong, I did pioneer new uses of technology in the classroom, just never made it around to blogging. My initial enthusiasm became worn down by grad school, coaching, teaching, purchasing a house, guitar lessons, band practice, etc...

What a shame.

Then it happened. Blogs moved out of from the shadows of obscurity and into the limelight. The word popped up left and right- the word blog spread like wildfire. They were used for journalism, presidential campaigns, celebrity promotions, appeared in media events, etc. I witnessed as more and more of my friends, including my wife, catch onto the blogging fad. It was only a matter of time before I caught up with the times, again, and registered my own blog.

That is what brings me back here today. I completely forgot about ever registering for a blog in the first place. It was like finding a crumpled 20 dollar bill in a coat jacket that you haven't worn since a year ago. My initial reaction was, "Oh yeah, guess I did register a blog way back when..."

Well, here is the end to a blogging hiatus.

Cheers

PS. In case you were wondering, I never did present that workshop session on blogging. Maybe this year. Maybe...

Tags: blogs, National Writing Project, professional development