Warm

*

Warm

5-minute Drill

30 July 2013

 Michael:

"Warm Cream of Wheat and hot chocolate..." We repeated the mantra to ourselves, bundled up in suede, lined jackets and hats (of course), "because 40% of your body heat leaves through your heads!" We shuffled through the brisk desert morning, ahead of the dawn, with a wagon in tow and a stroller leading the way, both filled to overflowing with Sunday morning papers. Mom had woken us at 3am; we had a routine. Each of us hoisted a stack of papers by its plastic strap, settled down on the living room floor, and began to fold silently, sometimes breaking out into a spontaneous race to see who could fold the fastest. Then we packed the papers tightly into their containers, and Mom watched us head out into the darkness. I was 10, Angie was seven. We were entrepreneurs, and Warm Cream of Wheat, and hot chocolate would be waiting.

Rachael:

She liked things warm. She wanted the warmth of love to envelope her and to hold her close, snuggled in like a baby against a mother's breast. She silently punished herself for everything she thought she lacked. Connections... Even over a pint at the pub, she could not bring herself to make eye contact with someone. A warm cup of tea was her salvation. That's when she dreamed of warm days in Ibiza as a child, family on holiday. Yes, a cup of tea. She would catch herself clinging to a cup like her very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. She knew she would head out into the November drizzle when the cup of tea was gone. Alone, looking towards the warmth of nothing. the embrace of chilly cotton sheets. She paused, waiting... avoiding heading out.

***

Find

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Find

  5 minute drill
  30 July, 2013

Rachael:

"There's nothing to find here darling - this bed's been took already..." He moved down the hall, the sweet smell of opium, of sweat, filled his senses. He wanted to find a bit of something, someone to share his brandy with. He could care less if she talked. He just wanted to look into someone's eyes to make sure, absolutely sure, he was still alive. Ten long months on a ship, and he had money to spend. He knew he wasn't going home; there was nothing to be found in those dreams. Yet he wept when he dreamed in his native tongue, thinking about finding her waiting beside the gate. "Nothing to find here..." It resonated in his head, over and over. He sipped his brandy, leaning against a stone wall, watching the others who paid to find comfort, making their way to wherever, whatever they find in the darkest hours of the night.

Michael:

"The trick is to find your way without getting hurt," the burly man said matter of factly, as if he had done this a million times before, held a thousand maps tightly in his grip, on nights like this, when the moon played behind the clouds, bringing the shadows to life like monsters lurking in wait. "The trick is not to get caught by some wild animal," he said, several hours later, when the breathing behind us was getting louder. "The trick is to know when to give up," I was thinking to myself... "when to decide that enough is enough..." The man who had given us the map - hastily drawn in a last ditch attempt to give us something, anything that might make us choose to spare his life - had been lying, of course. He hadn't been smart enough to figure that in that moment he had made himself more valuable dead than living. We were not going to find a damn thing out here. That was the real trick of it all.

***

Straight

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Straight

4 minute drill
22 July, 2012

Rachael:

As she pushes herself into a shoulder stand, she straightens her legs with ease. She recalls the ballet teacher's finger on her leg. "Turn out and straighten your spine." The shame is gone. Pushing her legs straight into the shoulder stand is a struggle and comfort wrapped into one movement. As she moves through sun salutations, the words "straighten your spine, straighten your neck" fall away as she assumes a strong, long and straight posture. She understands now; there is the battle for perfection demanded in ballet. The battle for perfection does not exist here in this world. Just the challenge to do your best.

Michael:

"Walk the straight and narrow." Sometimes I think that peoples' idea of what is straight is far too narrow. Is it even the straight truth at all? Certainly what goes on behind closed doors is a bit more crooked than... What? Can't we just be real? How about, "Walk how you feel." "Speak your truth." "Open up." "Be true to yourself." How about if I don't feel straight today? I say, "Dare to be crooked." "Crooked is as crooked does." "Walk with the crooked on the wide, wide road." I can imagine Jesus saying that. Isn't that what He did after all?

***

Lightweight

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Lightweight

4 minute drill
22 July, 2012

Michael:

They all said he was such a lightweight, a "sissy," afraid to live. "Drink up!" "You only live once!" Chiding him about his undiscovered manhood, "You wouldn't know what to do with that if it slapped you in the face." The car was heavy. He'd been in the back seat. They had refused to let him drive. He lifted with all of his might. Somehow he got them all out before the fire destroyed the evidence. Too late for them... He faces life alone now. He knows he has the courage. But he's still not sure that he knows what to do with it now that it has slapped him.

Rachael:

I am not sure if it exists, but I despise lightweight spirituality. Lightweight. Like you could open a can of something from God and have it be just "light." A sort of diet spiritual message. Well, that seems to be the way of things. Lightweight. In other words, if I agree, then I will listen. If it doesn't make me change, send the message. If it doesn't challenge my compassion... Cool! Lightweight Spirituality, like phrases and psalms on Facebook. Yes, it's about all we can manage with our hands so full of, well, other things. It's all we can manage with the mortgage and soccer practice.

***

Hermes

*

"Hermes"

4 minute drill

22 July, 2012

Hermes: Greek herald and messenger of the gods. The god of roads, commerce, invention, cunning, and theft. 

Rachael:

It was as though he forgot. With all the stillness and words left to be spoken, it was impossible to believe otherwise. When he was supposed to shout to Poseidon to protect the men, he remained silent. Watching. The stillness of the water has yet to betray what might have been on the tip of his tongue. The grief of the widows does not move him. The children, left hungry and cold, do not move him. We cry and shout in anger, "Hermes, where was your plea to our protector? Where was your voice in the storm, if not the thunder and crashing of waves that were our destruction?"

Michael:

Hello! My name is Hermes! Thank you very much... I come before you today to announce, herald and introduce all of these other gods behind me. They've come to honor you in your time of suffering. In the bright blue shirt we have the God of Selfish Pride. Let me hear a round of applause for the God of Selfish Pride. He wants you to know that he was the one in that photograph that has become, as he would say it, "world famous." You'll see it as soon as you turn on your T.V.'s. Then there's that God of False Humility, who will invite you to applaud for each of his colleagues, one at a time, whom he supervises. (ran out of time here).

***

High

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High

December 3rd, 2011

5-minute drill

By Michael 

(revised version written below, after the other entries):

High
as a kite,
bird

on a wire

my money
on my mind
over

matter

of fact,

doesn't matter 

after all is said

and
done
did it

work

another day 

older
than time

keeps on
ticking
like

a 

time bomb

*

By Rachael:

Something told her that the only thing that would preserve her was her sense of tenacity - that stubborn streak within her that had held her through the nights of doubt and fear. She held her head high, reassuring herself that she could make it through the ride ahead of her. As she looked up to see people moving along with their day, she couldn't make sense of how the entire world wasn't crying; how it could be that everyone wasn't swept into the gaping hole that she had become. Small memories, details too heavy almost to bear, swam in and out of her mind as she tried not to vomit.

*

By Sandy:

"High".....I imagine myself, high on a hill, taking in the beauty of the land, the sky, feeling my sense of JOY. I am high on happiness, hope, and passion of this moment,and of what the future brings,.....like the high excitement of expectation of a young child at Christmas time. I'm high on a hill,... looking at the beautiful blue sky, and somewhere, still, in my little girl heart, ....I'm wishfully looking for Santa to bring me the things of my heart.

***

Michael's revised poem:

High
as a kite,
free

as a bird
on
a
wire

my money
on 

my mind
over
matter

of
fact

doesn't matter 

after all
is
said

and
done
did it

work

another day 

older
than
time

keeps on
ticking
ticking,
ticking,
into the future.

***

Action

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Action

November 20th, 2011

5-minute drill

By Michael

"Action!" "Onward!" "Forward!"
"Go west young man!" "California or Bust!"
How about "California AND Bust!"

Constant progress, as a mandate,
is the mantra of the bacteria in the petri dish.
"Fuel! Fuel! There is still more fuel!" Procreate!
Fill. This. Dish.

Then the raised and beveled glass sides rise.
Behind this advancing line of muck there is only ruin...
a frothy, oozing mass of overindulgence.

Pressed against the wall, the bacteria choke and gasp.
On the outside, the scientists observe without sadness.
Life, in its many other forms, goes on.

*

By Rachael

Sometimes action challenges me. It competes with all of the ideas that take seed and start growing within me. I love ideas, concepts. But action. Action is hard. Action is full of responsibility, but so is the lack of action.

I often wonder what is the magic button to push to get action. Maybe it lies in the green, mucky vegan protein shake that I make myself drink. Or maybe the magic of action lies in the chia seeds that have suddenly become the object of my obsession. I guess, looking at it, action comes down to what you want.

What do I want? What on earth do I want? Often the answer to that lies beyond my grasp. I guess there is action necessary to discover that... When things get done, the answer will emerge.

***

Substance

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Substance

November 20th, 2011
5-minute drill

By Sandy

Substance: Oddly, varied word. It can be an abstract word, as in "Your character can be "of substance", which is a good thing. Or a noun, as in "Some people partake in an illegal substance", which can be a bad thing. Or it can be tangible, as in all matter is made up of a substance(s), which is also a scientific thing. There are towns called "Substance". There is something in my refridgerator, which is an "unknown substance". It is also considered as the subject matter of thought, discourse, study, etc. Glad we have this word, "substance". It is, evidently, a substantial part of our language!

By Michael

Substance... is ephemeral. How to keep it from evaporating away into ether? What is substance, really? Physicists don't even know for sure. What we perceive as solid objects are explained as quivering waves of energy that can be both here and on the other side of the universe at the same time, or they could be something altogether different in some alternative-parallel reality. So says the God of logic, mathematics, and science.

I know what has substance in my daily life: a walk down a leaf-strewn lane, the water reflecting the grey clouds and orange trees, a glint of snow on the mountains. The skunk tracks painted in white cross the asphalt trail, where we stop to help the old dog who has decided his walk is over. He is not lost in his own mind, even though his owners are searching worriedly for him farther up the trail.

(5 minutes ended here)

We wait, beside him, until his owners arrive, informed by the passing cyclist of his location. He grumbles, and stands reluctantly. Reunited, they go on their way. We go ours. This is substance.


By Rachael

It's not even a question worth asking. Because if you don't already know the answer, you never will. What is this thing that we feed? What is this substance that we seek? It comes in few forms, but it is easily faked. Pretty boxed knick-knacks and sparkly gems, made by someone halfway across the world, make us feel (or maybe prevent us from feeling) all that we want, what we yearn for. If you can walk among the wildflowers and fee like you won something, or have a conversation and get your soul to open just a bit, you'll never ask the question because you already know the answer. 

***

Clock

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 "Clock"

Finish The Story
3-Minute Drill

July 25th, 2010

In this exercise, we each started a story during the first drill. Then we had a second, timed drill to finish the story that the other had started. This is one of the completed short stories. Fun!

By Rachael:

Out of the window, she saw the people bustling in the cold air. Puffs of mist pushed their way in front of the faces of all the self-important men. Women with prams fussed with each other over the chill of the morning. With the table set for all her family, she turned wearily to the kettle that was now screaming. It reminded her of the demands of the day, shoving their way into her awareness. How was it that time moved so slowly when she was here? Cooking. Cleaning. Tending the babies. How could the hands of the clock move so slowly? She often checked to see if it were running.

By Michael:

The clock was running alright, but life seemed to be crawling. There was a knock at the front door. Who could it be? She heard a strange shuffling noise as she approached, as if somebody was trying to scuttle away quickly. She pushed aside her apprehension and opened the door. Bright lights! Cameras! People! She squinted into the glare. Ed McMahon appeared from behind the closest camera and said: "Aren't you glad you sent in your envelope?"

***

Tragic Comedy

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Tragic Comedy

July 25th, 2010

By Rachael:

"Tragic comedy" is a perfect way to make sense of this. How many of you believe that your make-up must be just so, or your day will be ruined? How many of you must have polished, fancy cars to get it right? No, that's not comedy at all - that is tragedy. The tragedy of not seeing is far worse than empty moments. Can you not see that the comedy is actually in seeing? Actually partaking in the wonder of all human fallibility. Laughter saves us. You have tragedy in your bags full of purchases and goods. I have life, wonder, and love because I see.

*

By Michael: 

"Tragic comedy" - sounds like a nonsense word to you I bet. But in the lives of so many, it is the phrase they might choose that most adequately conveys their reality. One tragedy after another... but somehow they find it within themselves to get up, dust themselves off, and laugh at the hilarity and the impossibility of their situation. Somehow they find within themselves the ability to become more than mere victims of circumstance, to be fully human.

***

Undertones

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Undertones

January 1st, 2011

By Rachael:

She looked into the cup and swirled the dark, swampy liquid. She knew that her effort had its rewards in store. As the night drew in, she listened to the calls of the birds and the never ending drone of the cicadas. Potions usually put her at peace. Usually a good mood at that. 

Tonight she waited for her guest. The lone woman that needed her help. Her help alone would make the difference between life and death. Maybe. Probably...

As she swirled the liquid, undertones of black cohosh and lemon balm brought her back to a place she knew. She didn't have to taste this brew to be familiar with the loss it meant, the pain it meant, the loss it prevented.

*

By Michael:

When I was young, Angie and I used to hunt for good places to play music and to sing harmony. We would sing under the 16th Street bridge as the cars thundered overhead and muddy water gurgled softly along, on its way to farms and to Mexico.

We would walk into the tunnel between the gym and the old-fashioned barber shop, with its metal stools and 2 barbers in white, to sing. Alto and baritone pitches melded with bass undertones that seemed to ooze from within cold, grey cement walls. Sweet harmonies reverberated throughout the hall for a few minutes; and have echoed through the years of my life. I can still hear them faint in the distance.

I would pull out my harmonica and play until somebody walked in. Then the music would stop, often before they had heard anything. We would walk out calmly, with smirks on our faces. We had just gotten away with something secret.

***

Elbow

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"Elbow"

August 9th, 2010

By Rachael:

What a privilege to be able to debate the word of inspiration. "Elbow" or "anthropology." They had to make a quick decision. Don't they realize that where they stand there is so little in their way? Full bellies and a warm bed. Two people together.

How is it that the weight of the brokenness of everything doesn't crush the simple pleasure? And yet... they keep the warmth of prayer reserved for just those things. Wounds too deep to heal, sadness that has no outlet nor a lid to keep it contained. In the folly and laughter of free writing games, their rivers flow deep and slow.

They will read the privilege of the moment, the luxury of toying and playing with concepts and ideas. After all, no one is hungry. No one is brokenhearted. The pleasure, that simple, basic pleasure of human expression sustains the weary. This is their secret to satisfy the hunger in their souls.

*

By Michael:

My elbows are trying to tell me something... Lightning storm perhaps? Tornado? Hurricane? "Don't do bunny hops on BMX's or roller-blade through tree branches if you're over 35?" Or are they telling me something about balance?

It used to be only one elbow that would complain. Like an old mother-in-law who felt robbed of her son, it has something to say. What do I hear? I hear a story of fun and adventure... a nursery rhyme from an old man in a rocking chair who is animatedly telling a tale to his young audience. These are the fruits of a lifetime of careful planting and harvesting.

They don't believe a word he says, and he doesn't care. Only he knows that every last word is true. The smiles and laughter on the delighted faces of unbelieving children are his reward.

***

Intro

*

Rachael and I have been playing writing games off and on since we met in the spring of 2010. I have a box full of the sheets we've written on and a binder that is beginning to fill up with more. We usually take a book off the shelf, and while one of us holds the book open, the other closes his or her eyes and points to a spot on the page. Usually we go with whatever word is pointed out. Sometimes neither of us likes the word and we'll choose again.

Depending on the mood we're in, we'll give ourselves anywhere between 2 and 5 minutes to write. Sometimes we feel like our writing is inspired, and other times we feel like we're just trudging along. No matter how we feel, we discover new and interesting things about ourselves and each other.

I've chosen this  first writing from August of 2010, because I think it gives a peek at what is to come in the writings that we'll continue to share. It's always exciting for us to see what will appear when that timer goes off. The results vary (as you will see) but that is part of the adventure.We hope that you will enjoy the discovery as much as we have.

***