Weekly 5-10 minute writing prompts from feather anchor adages.
4.10.10
WK 05 -- What does that remind you of? Ten minutes, go!
5 comments:
Anonymous
said...
Caves is what the interview room reminds me of, stalagmites and stalactites dripping and mounding on the floor. Some of us move, making the cave into a carousel of subterranean losers. Like a cavern with pitch black moments when artificial light fails, this interview room is a portal to unknown business, unseen people and unwelcome authority. But a fellow has to eat. Being crazy never disqualified anyone from a job, in fact, it might help with this job posting. WANTED: GUY FRIDAY. NOT AFRAID OF CHALLENGES. WILLING TO WORK ODD HOURS. A hit man? A male nurse? A handyman with his own tools? I fill out the form which only asks for my driver's license number and previous employers. The interviewer enters the room and calls the stalagtite near the window into another cavern. We in the underground rearrange outselves. There must be another door, an exit. I haven't seen an applicant leave that private door. I'm glad I have my knife with me today. Touch me and you die. I smell bacon. And the floor has dust bunnies the size of rabbits along the wall. Is this how Alice felt when facing the smiling cat? My left hand begins twitching, making sword fighting arcs in the air. And then it's my turn. I suck in oxygen and go deeper, toward the center of the earth. So far the light has not failed and I don't see a cat.
I don't know... I don't know what it reminds me of. Only that it touches some deep part of my memory that hides from the flashlight of introspection. It hides from fear of becoming known and of have to be remembered. So perhaps it reminds me of fear. There was always fear. Fear of the dark, fear of dogs, fear of being alone and lonely. Always fear. Deep hunting fear. I could never escape it. It would lurk waiting for the time when my defenses were down and then it would jump in the form of an innocuous something. It never mattered what. It has only ever mattered that it was always there and hides there still. Perhaps, if I knew why, I could nuture it back to health. I could stare it in the face and remind it that we are strong now and there is nothing to fear. I could gently hold its hand and walk through the past, putting down the fear of dying, putting down the fear of being alone and lonely. That little nudge in the back of my memory... It reminds me that I was once more than afraid, that I once lived in a terror I do not remember.
A child’s empty shoe stranded on the roadside, a wheelchair left out in the rain. “What does that remind you of?” she asked again and again. I’d arranged a private session with Paula, a perfumer with a little shop in Ballard. I’d salivated over Jitterbug Perfume and been gripped by the passion of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. Over the years I’d spent thousands on French perfumes. My visit with Paula was another stop along the rickety tracks of my sensory journey. Paula locked the door and pulled the shade of her front window, she poured me a glass of water and asked, “Are you comfortable?” “Yes,” I replied as I shed my jacket and slipped off my shoes. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” She sat across from me, the table between us laden with vials of attar of roses, damask rose, rose of absolute. Hundreds of little vials. For two and a half hours I inhaled sweet scents, sharp scents, fetid scents. “What does that remind you of?”she asked again and again. Earthy juniper, high dessert summer, early dawn. Clumsy drunken nights, one too many Tangueray and tonics, loosening my tongue like a truth serum. The musky scent of sweat and sex that lingers under your arms after a night of lovemaking. It smells exactly the same today as it did 23 years ago. Ambrosia. Vanilla, the dry and powdery scent of Mrs. Lovell as she hugged me close to her breast. Irish Spring, ugly memories of Uncle Rick showering with his adoptive daughter. I rated the scents as they registered in my nasal passages but kept the reveries to myself. Occasionally Paula handed me a burlap bag of roasted coffee beans to cleanse my nasal palate. The experience was like having my I Ching read, tossing down the coins, examining opposites, changes and the acceptance of the inevitability of change. She promised to have something for me to sample within the week. I walked home in a fog, relaxed, almost like I’d been drugged. A glass of wine, a lovely dinner prepared by my husband, a long, hot bath… That night my dreams were intense. Visceral, sexual, contextual dreams. Images and memories flooded my subconscious like a super 8 newsreel. “What does it remind you of?” she asked. “Me,” I whispered, “all of this, me.”
All my uncles are old now, the youngest with new knees but a back that can’t be straightened-- 76, his twin on her own now, Crazy Jean, it was never fair to call her that, deaf she was and maybe a little strange but not crazy, nobody in our family is actually crazy, not the cousin who says he is the messiah, not the aunt who undresses in front of a backlit window every night and eats only broth, the capillaries glowing beneath her blue skin like county roads in hill country. My uncle Tom Sharpe who wears a fake Rolex and is proud of its falseness, takes a Vietnamese coin he’s had since the fall of Bien Den Phu and says, wanna see my dong? The joke now forty years old but he still thinks it’s hilarious. His wife just died, four days after his oldest daughter, it’s tough is all he says when my sister calls. My sister. complicated in a way only someone who says I don’t think that much about myself can be. If I had to assign one word to each of them, my brother and sister, my brother would be angry, my sister, sad. I don’t know what any of this has to do with the prompt, I don’t know what any of it reminds me of – family is exhausting, they break their arms, they get divorced, as do I, I know they think I’m not like them, it all came out four years ago when I left my husband, what they really thought. I’ve not kept any of these emails detailing my selfishness throughout the years, just the one from my nephew who said she’s happier than she’s every been, leave her alone, why don’t you. And by the way, you all take Christmas way too seriously. I love my nephew.
A time long gone. A time when all was magical and the world was happy and beautiful no matter where I looked.
It reminds me of lemon ice. Have you tried it? I can't even describe its goodness other than to say it tastes like summer long ago and of what hope must look like, bright and happy and full of possibility. Oh, to be at the creek on a hot summer day, the sounds of happiness all around. Laughter all around and the smiles... especially from that one over there. "Don't look! Shh... don't be obvious." More giggles and the taste of lemon ice.
5 comments:
Caves is what the interview room reminds me of, stalagmites and stalactites dripping and mounding on the floor. Some of us move, making the cave into a carousel of subterranean losers. Like a cavern with pitch black moments when artificial light fails, this interview room is a portal to unknown business, unseen people and unwelcome authority. But a fellow has to eat. Being crazy never disqualified anyone from a job, in fact, it might help with this job posting. WANTED: GUY FRIDAY. NOT AFRAID OF CHALLENGES. WILLING TO WORK ODD HOURS. A hit man? A male nurse? A handyman with his own tools? I fill out the form which only asks for my driver's license number and previous employers. The interviewer enters the room and calls the stalagtite near the window into another cavern. We in the underground rearrange outselves. There must be another door, an exit. I haven't seen an applicant leave that private door. I'm glad I have my knife with me today. Touch me and you die. I smell bacon. And the floor has dust bunnies the size of rabbits along the wall. Is this how Alice felt when facing the smiling cat? My left hand begins twitching, making sword fighting arcs in the air. And then it's my turn. I suck in oxygen and go deeper, toward the center of the earth. So far the light has not failed and I don't see a cat.
I don't know... I don't know what it reminds me of. Only that it touches some deep part of my memory that hides from the flashlight of introspection. It hides from fear of becoming known and of have to be remembered.
So perhaps it reminds me of fear. There was always fear. Fear of the dark, fear of dogs, fear of being alone and lonely. Always fear. Deep hunting fear. I could never escape it. It would lurk waiting for the time when my defenses were down and then it would jump in the form of an innocuous something. It never mattered what. It has only ever mattered that it was always there and hides there still.
Perhaps, if I knew why, I could nuture it back to health. I could stare it in the face and remind it that we are strong now and there is nothing to fear. I could gently hold its hand and walk through the past, putting down the fear of dying, putting down the fear of being alone and lonely.
That little nudge in the back of my memory... It reminds me that I was once more than afraid, that I once lived in a terror I do not remember.
A child’s empty shoe stranded on the roadside, a wheelchair left out in the rain.
“What does that remind you of?” she asked again and again.
I’d arranged a private session with Paula, a perfumer with a little shop in Ballard. I’d salivated over Jitterbug Perfume and been gripped by the passion of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. Over the years I’d spent thousands on French perfumes. My visit with Paula was another stop along the rickety tracks of my sensory journey.
Paula locked the door and pulled the shade of her front window, she poured me a glass of water and asked, “Are you comfortable?” “Yes,” I replied as I shed my jacket and slipped off my shoes. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
She sat across from me, the table between us laden with vials of attar of roses, damask rose, rose of absolute. Hundreds of little vials. For two and a half hours I inhaled sweet scents, sharp scents, fetid scents.
“What does that remind you of?”she asked again and again.
Earthy juniper, high dessert summer, early dawn. Clumsy drunken nights, one too many Tangueray and tonics, loosening my tongue like a truth serum.
The musky scent of sweat and sex that lingers under your arms after a night of lovemaking. It smells exactly the same today as it did 23 years ago. Ambrosia.
Vanilla, the dry and powdery scent of Mrs. Lovell as she hugged me close to her breast.
Irish Spring, ugly memories of Uncle Rick showering with his adoptive daughter.
I rated the scents as they registered in my nasal passages but kept the reveries to myself. Occasionally Paula handed me a burlap bag of roasted coffee beans to cleanse my nasal palate.
The experience was like having my I Ching read, tossing down the coins, examining opposites, changes and the acceptance of the inevitability of change.
She promised to have something for me to sample within the week. I walked home in a fog, relaxed, almost like I’d been drugged. A glass of wine, a lovely dinner prepared by my husband, a long, hot bath…
That night my dreams were intense. Visceral, sexual, contextual dreams. Images and memories flooded my subconscious like a super 8 newsreel.
“What does it remind you of?” she asked. “Me,” I whispered, “all of this, me.”
All my uncles are old now, the youngest
with new knees but a back that can’t be straightened--
76, his twin on her own now, Crazy Jean,
it was never fair to call her that, deaf she was
and maybe a little strange but not crazy,
nobody in our family is actually crazy,
not the cousin who says he is the messiah,
not the aunt who undresses in front of a backlit
window every night and eats only broth,
the capillaries glowing beneath her blue skin
like county roads in hill country. My uncle Tom Sharpe
who wears a fake Rolex and is proud of its falseness,
takes a Vietnamese coin he’s had since the fall
of Bien Den Phu and says, wanna see my dong?
The joke now forty years old but he still
thinks it’s hilarious. His wife just died,
four days after his oldest daughter,
it’s tough is all he says when my sister calls.
My sister. complicated in a way only someone
who says I don’t think that much about myself
can be. If I had to assign one word to each
of them, my brother and sister, my brother
would be angry, my sister, sad.
I don’t know what any of this has to do
with the prompt, I don’t know what any of it
reminds me of – family is exhausting,
they break their arms, they get divorced,
as do I, I know they think I’m not like them,
it all came out four years ago when I left
my husband, what they really thought.
I’ve not kept any of these emails detailing
my selfishness throughout the years,
just the one from my nephew who said
she’s happier than she’s every been,
leave her alone, why don’t you. And by the way,
you all take Christmas way too seriously.
I love my nephew.
A time long gone. A time when all was magical and the world was happy and beautiful no matter where I looked.
It reminds me of lemon ice. Have you tried it? I can't even describe its goodness other than to say it tastes like summer long ago and of what hope must look like, bright and happy and full of possibility. Oh, to be at the creek on a hot summer day, the sounds of happiness all around. Laughter all around and the smiles... especially from that one over there. "Don't look! Shh... don't be obvious." More giggles and the taste of lemon ice.
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