In June I not only took a writing class and wrote in the company of others, but I even shared - aloud - a brief something that I had written. That was a first for me, and the only concrete goal accomplished during my weekend "intensive" memoir writing class at Literary Arts in downtown PDX, where we boasted a stellar view of the Rose Parade (if I were the kinda person who maybe liked crowds and parades and urban festivities, but at least didn't
hate them). Suffice it to say I was homicidal attempting to park the car, already running late and without a notebook to speak of, of course, on Saturday morning.
The first time the dozen or so of us were invited to share a sentence or two of what we'd written, I was the only one to "pass." I liken reading aloud to opening a present, or worse, reading a sentimental card, in front of a group of people who aren't even eating cake or drinking champagne but are staring, watching, waiting, for a one-woman show. But I did promise myself that I would share at some point during the weekend. Although I didn't actively volunteer to read my work aloud, I did share the following during our final "read around":
"Somewhere else inland in Costa Rica, maybe near Volcan Arenal, we took a river rafting tour where we met some comparably aged guides, whose names totally escape me now. I could look all these anecdotes up, actually, because Stacy kept a detailed log of all the things during our travels that Spring off-season. I’m sure I have it tucked away in one of my “Save Boxes,” stored away in a plastic Target bag or a manila envelope with “2005” scribbled on it in black Sharpie. My own memory fails me so regularly, I am grateful for my periods of obsessive archiving, or that Stac typed and printed an entire booklet of our memories from our travels abroad. Without those documented anecdotes or the hundreds of unorganized photos my memories, nearly 15 years later, bear little resemblance to the actual, factual experiences, and are more like memes than memories now. As with the river guides and the Rasta Curtain (pronounced "ker-tane"). What I do recall is being out late at night, filled with vodka and confidence and giggles, in a rougher part of a town whose name I wouldn’t even recognize if I saw it on a map, walking to the place these river guides – one of whom we nicknamed something about a snake or serpent – called home. We had been out at a club with them, drinking who knows what cocktails, with god knows how many calories, and then all went home together, with the ease and naivety unique to adventure-seeking 20-somethings on vacation in a foreign land."
It's out of context, of course, both on the page and aloud, and isn't related to anything in particular that I'm working on. Then again, I'm not "working on" anything. While I have no qualms writing things that people may or may not read, there is something safe in the silence of writing and the silence of reading. Reading aloud? Not so much. That kind of exposure feels just too naked (it reminds me of a scene from a movie I have since otherwise forgotten, a scene I once both loved and loathed - a woman made her lover circle the parts of her naked body with a permanent marker that he would change).
One of the things the teacher,
Jay Ponteri (an instructor at Literary Arts, a teacher/department head at Marylhurst, and an award-winning author who confirmed to me that he did not earn any money from his book) repeated throughout the weekend was this notion about "receiving." Re-reading what you've written to "receive" your work. Sharing aloud to "receive." The irony is that "receiving" is a theme that's been coming up in my regular life, too - it started at Unitarian church last Fall, and continues into my therapy, too. During the UU service, after the offering basket goes around, the congregation says in unison this "Affirmation of Gratitude and Giving." For most of my early visits to the church, this affirmation made me choke up, something about being grateful for our own needs, allowing others to give to us. Receive.
Let us be grateful when we are able to give
for many do not have that privilege.
Let us be grateful for all those who share their gifts with us
for we are enriched by their giving.
And let us be grateful even for our needs
so that we may learn from the generosity of others.
But I digress. The point here is simply to document, and I suppose share, my participation in this weekend writing class. Fingers crossed it inspires something in me, but I fear it will fall short, as it took me some 4 days and multiple attempts to even pull together this mosaic of a blog entry.
