The truth is I feel today that I have nothing to say. That is, I feel zero desire to write what I have come to believe most everyone wants to hear. Normally I'd just write what's on on my mind and let it go, sustainted simply by getting whatever off my chest. But lately I've experienced a great deal of antagonism here. A troll managed to bypass the block of his (its) SN and post his inanity of attack. Another, longtime troll showed up with yet another SN and went ballistic. He's now blocked. But the fact he showed up at all was like being buried in a sewer. For the time being I'm fresh out of charity.
I have a volunteer, requested, small project: to write a short short story in which a memory from childhood was awakened by one of the senses: cold, heat, smell, color, weight, and so on, whatever has been in your life a force to reanimate an old, old memory. A collection of such short stories will be sold in book form to raise money for the keep of homeless children. [Details can be found in AOL Message Board "Writers Pad Open Discussion, Oct. 16, '07] The best model of that process I have ever read comes from Swann's Way in the Marcel Proust novel REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST. The character remembers the smell of cake dipped in tea and served by his mother out in the garden when the character was a child. I read that scene when I was in High School in San Francisco. I thought it was sweet, but fanciful. About ten years later, in New York, I did "Sense Memory" exercizes in Lee Strasberg's private acting classes and discovered that memory is indeed often coupled with a solid sensory reality, such as the smell of cake out in the garden.
In adult life the preciousness of a long relationship is amplified when there are many memories tied to concrete sensory reality. Making it up is weak compared to the flood that comes from remembered sensory reality. When I was last married, in 1992, my wife had no breasts, nada, zip, none. Seven months ago when she (God Bless her) gave birth to Marc Andrew her breasts were humungous, melons! Yet, remembering first being with her, fifteen years ago, I hardly noticed that she had no breasts; didn't bother her so it didn't bother me. I shouldn't be writing this part should I?! Oh dear. So kill me. But remember, Mark Andrew is the one who now sings Beethoven! Ha ha ha, and he's only seven months old. What next?!@! Wish me luck, please.
Barry
2 comments:
Sounds like a very interesting creative writing excercise. I do indeed wish you luck with it. From what I have gathered in your journal, you have led a very interesting life and I'm certain that it is filled with remembrances to rival those of Proust. What an excellent use for the proceeds from the sale of the publication.--Sheria
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