Forcing One's Way Through

When forced to cobble together an alliterative poem in five minutes. I haven't forced alliteration into a poem since I was a kid.

A camel cuts through the Kalahari,
A windy waterless wasteland
Of sorts.

Behind it a sun scorched sojourner,
mystified by a myriad of mirages
that mirror false hopes;
forces his way through the sand
hoping to hit desertland's end.

Savoir Aimer

Savoir sourire/to know how to smile
À une inconnue qui passe/at a passing stranger
N'en garder aucune trace/without keeping any mark
Sinon celle du plaisir/save that of pleasure
Savoir aimer/to know how to love
Sans rien attendre en retour/without expecting anything in return
Ni égard, ni grand amour/neither consideration nor great love
Pas même l'espoir d'être aimé/ nor even the hope of being loved

{Refrain:}
Mais savoir donner/but to know how to give
Donner sans reprendre/give without taking back
Ne rien faire qu'apprendre/for no other point than to learn
Apprendre à aimer/to learn how to love
Aimer sans attendre/to love without expecting
Aimer à tout prendre/ to love wholly
Apprendre à sourire/to learn how to smile
Rien que pour le geste/ just for the gesture
Sans vouloir le reste/ without wanting the rest
Et apprendre à Vivre/and to learn to live
Et s'en aller/ and to leave;die; (i.e carry on with life)

Savoir attendre/to know how to expect
Goûter à ce plein bonheur/ to taste the full happiness
Qu'on vous donne comme par erreur/ that one gives you as if by mistake
Tant on ne l'attendait plus/ one had completely given up on it
Se voir y croire/ to see oneself believe it
pour tromper la peur du vide/ in order to cheat the fear of emptiness
Ancrée comme autant de rides/ anchored like so many wrinkles
Qui ternissent les miroirs/ that tarnish the mirrors.

{Refrain}

Savoir souffrir/ to know how to suffer
En silence, sans murmure/ in silence without complaint
Ni défense ni armure/ neither (with) protection nor armour
Souffrir à vouloir mourir, to suffer to the point of desiring death
Et se relever/ and to rise again
Comme on renaît de ses cendres/ as one reborn from his ashes
Avec tant d'amour à revendre/ with so much love to give back
Qu'on tire un trait sur le passé./ that one draw a line across the past (cross out the past)

{Refrain}

Apprendre à rêver/ to learn to dream
À rêver pour deux/ to dream for two
Rien qu'en fermant les yeux/ only shutting your eyes
Et savoir donner/ and to know how to give
Donner sans rature/ to give without crossing-out
Ni demi-mesure/ nor with half-measures
Apprendre à rester/ to learn to stay
Vouloir jusqu'au bout/ to will to the end
Rester malgré tout/ to stay despite everything
Apprendre à aimer/ to learn how to love
Et s'en aller/ and to leave
Et s'en aller.../and to leave
~Florent Pagny

Another Pagny song, just to fill up the empty space this week due to lack of assignments. With translation! I love the concept for this music video. It's very simple but evocative.

Là où je t'emmènerai

C'est au bout du regard
Là ou les bateaux quittent la mer
Là, où l'horizon est tellement plus clair
Sous la belle étoile celle qui te dit que la vie ici
ne sera jamais rien que ton amie

C'est au fond de tes yeux
là, où le monde effleure tes rêves
Là, où le bonheur n'est plus un mystère

C'est là que je t'emmènerai sur la route
et si le soleil le savait
mais j'en doute, il viendrait
Là, où je t'emmènerai
Aucun doute, il s'inviterait
pour nous éclairer

Nous longerons la mer
nos vie couleront sans un hiver
comme un matin d'été, un courant d'air
Et tout au long de ta vie
que s'écarte les nuages
je serais là à chaque fois que tu auras besoin de moi
Regarde là-bas

C'est là que je t'emmènerai sur la route
et le soleil si le savait
mais j'en doute, il viendrait
Là, où je t'emmènerai
Aucun doute, il s'inviterait
pour nous réchauffer
pour nous accompagner

Là où je t'emmènerai
Aucune peur, ni aucun doute
Le monde est toujours en été
Pas de douleur et pas de déroute
C'est là que je t'emmènerai
Sur ma route
pour te réchauffer et te protéger
Sans t'étouffer
Je t'emmènerai

~Florent Pagny

I don't like the video, actually, but it's here so you can listen to the song if you want. It's quite sappy, but in a poetic fashion.

Editing Dialogue

Where adverbs are evil.

Original: "It is far too windy to take the boat out today," Mother said with finality."The forecast promises fairer weather this afternoon," Father responded aggresively as he put down the newspaper. "May I be excused from the table please?" John said politely. "The forecast is always wrong. It would be better to walk to Beachy Head instead," Mother retorted impatiently, gathering the plates.


"It is far too windy to take the boat out," Mother said.

"The forecast promises fairer weather this afternoon," Father responded as he shoved the newspapers down.

"May I be excused from the table?" John requested.

"Forecasts are always wrong. It would be better to walk to Beachy Head," Mother retorted as she snatched up the plates.

Character Review

Algernon Montcrieff is a rapscallion young gentleman who does not believe in marriage: “The very essence of romance is uncertainty. If ever I get married, I’ll certainly try to forget the fact.” He has invented the practice of Bunburying, which is to avoid tedious social situations (such as meeting his imperious Aunt Bracknell) by living a double life. He is constantly visiting his make-believe friend, Bunbury the eternal invalid. He has a good friend, Jack, whom he finds to be “an extremely advanced Bunburyist.” Jack is from the countryside but pretends to have a profligate younger brother called Earnest in town, whose identity he assumes when he comes to London. All this is in order to get away from the stifling moral duty he has to his young ward, Cecily, back home. Algy is selfish but not unfeeling. He helps Jack by distracting Aunt Bracknell so that Jack can propose to his cousin, Gwendolen. The problem is, Gwendolen only knows him as Earnest and loves him for his name.

Algy becomes interested when he hears of Jack’s ward Cecily. He goes secretly to Jack’s house and meets and courts Cecily by pretending to be Jack’s younger brother, Earnest. So Gwendolyn loves Jack and Cecily loves Algy, but both think they love a man named Earnest. The two women meet, of course, and quarrel it out before all is settled. The two men baptize themselves as Earnest in order to marry the women they love.

Algy is also greedy, selfish and a liar, but in a mild and likeable manner. He eats all the cucumber sandwiches he has had prepared specially for Aunt Bracknell, and then tells her that he is terribly sorry “about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money” in the market that morning. He is conceited, and unlike Jack, takes nothing seriously, even his courtship of Cecily. When the women discover they have been tricked, they leave the men in scorn, and all he thinks is that it has been a wonderful episode of Bunburying. He is only serious about Bunburying and everything else is trivial.

This is a link to a clip, not of Algy but of Jack being interviewed by Aunt Bracknell to find out his suitability for Gwendolyn.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oWBdIx9IQE&feature=related

Alternative Resolution

Alternative resolution to Shadows of the Past by Foo at http://frozenwombat.blogspot.com/2008/09/shadows-of-past.html

From the moment at which Arthur passes out.

- wakes up to kicking; finds that it is raining. Runs about madly looking for his sister.
- sees people stood blindfold in rows and hit on the back of the head with shovels; summary execution. They are dropped into pits and buried immediately, though some are still alive.
- looks for his sister among the rows, cannot find her. She may already be buried.
- groups together with other stray kids. They run away to the next town and meet the resistance.
- They become soldiers.
- Arthur becomes a hardened soldier but is haunted by his guilt over his sister's disappearance. He meets a young girl who is reminiscent of her and dies saving her.

I Wish You Love by Léo Chauliac

I wish you bluebirds in the spring

To give your heart a song to sing

And then a kiss, but more than this

I wish you love

And in July a lemonade

To cool you in some leafy glade

I wish you health

And more than wealth

I wish you love

My breaking heart and I agree

That you and I could never be

So with my best

My very best

I set you free

I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to keep you warm

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love

My breaking heart and I agree

That you and I could never be

So with my best

My very best

I set you free

I wish you shelter from the storm

A cozy fire to keep you warm

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love

But most of all when snowflakes fall

I wish you love.

~Léo Chauliac

A song written in the 1950s. I like the interpretation by Rachael Yamagata best: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNLNVRw343I

Akisha

Thursday Session 8: Rewriting Exercise

Bear with me. This was written several years ago at an age when woodland fantasies still had some appeal. It has a similar theme to the Lighthouse story. I prefer the Lighthouse story. Which do you prefer?

****

There was a land where rain came more often than the sun for one half of the year, and sun came more often than the rain for the next half. This happened for every year as long as the sun continued to chase its lover the rain, who continued to run away, crying at the sun’s great heat.

Akisha loved both the sun and the rain. When it rained she stayed indoors and practiced the sword in the sheltered yard with her father, or if Ruika was around he would shoot at the straw balls she threw for him; sometimes Ruika would teach her the bow, too, but she was never as good at it as she was at the sword. Akisha had never yet touched a metal sword, or hurt anyone even with her wooden practice sword. Father refused to say if he had killed anyone, which was one of the ways Akisha knew that he had. He would come in with a heavy walk, sometimes with a scratch or a wound, and he would not answer when she asked him, “Did you kill anyone today?” “Hush!” Mother would say. Then she would push Akisha to the kitchen to bring the lemongrass ointment from its place in the cupboard.

Akisha stopped asking that question one day when her parents gave her permission to follow Ruika hunting. This time it was no straw ball but a rabbit hopping about in the grass, stopping every now and then to nibble at the stalks. Ruika gave it a little more time than he normally would so he could tell Akisha about how a hunter stalks his prey.

“Always stand downwind of the animal. Become grass, become rock, become the rain that falls on the earth.”

“I know that already. Quick, shoot it before it runs away.”

“Be quiet! And don’t be impatient. They can sense danger, even if they don’t see, hear, or smell you. The smallest movement…”

He also wanted to show off his shooting skill, so he let it hop a little further away.

“Oh, it’s getting--” but her words were interrupted by the bow’s twang as the arrow hissed towards its target. For a moment the rabbit seemed only alarmed—perhaps the arrow had missed—as it jumped high into the air. But then it landed on its side, gave two twitches, and stopped moving.

“Yes, a good shot!” said Ruika, punching his bow into the air. He usually celebrated with a little self-satisfied smile and sometimes one who looked closely would think his eyes sparkled: the exuberance today was for Akisha’s benefit. Yet she did not praise him. She stood up and ran to the little brown heap on the ground. “You killed it,” she told Ruika, and he did not understand why she looked hurt, as if he had said something nasty to her.

Two more rabbits and a pigeon followed in place of the straw balls. Akisha helped skin them with her small knife. One rabbit, the last, had not been hit cleanly; it was still twitching, its hind leg describing feeble circles as if it still imagined it could escape. Akisha held it by the ears and slid her blade across its throat in one swift movement. Something warm and wet trickled onto her fingers, and without opening her eyes she knew it was blood. She heaved a sigh and the sudden release in her chest made her realize that she had been holding her breath, too. Ruika was resting on a stone, looking at her with a lopsided smile. Not wanting to disappoint her brother, she continued her work with business-like alacrity. The animals were soft and warm to the touch, but as she sliced through the skin and her blade hit flesh the warmth was already ebbing; the pinkish flesh looked glazed. Blood oozed lethargically out of the wound.

When it was done, Akisha wiped her knife on the grass and said in a soft voice that she never knew she possessed, “Let’s go home.”

At home, Mother asked, “What did you get?” Akisha laid the dead pigeon on the table. Ruika recounted the day’s killings with pride as he surrendered the rabbits. One had been brown, and the other two black, but without their fur coats they were indistinguishable flabby masses. Akisha wondered if people looked like that underneath their skin too. Mother praised Ruika and tutted at Akisha’s sun-browned face: “Oh, what is to become of you, if you go out and play hunter with your brother. I tell Papa to keep you at home, but no, he trains you with the sword and arrow.” Mother always put up a fuss and Ruika told her it was something to do with getting married.

A week later, when Akisha’s father returned wounded and weary from one of his trips, she crept onto his lap and clung round his neck and hugged him tight as her mother washed his wounds. She wondered what he had done that week to keep the village safe; how many of the bandits and Southerners he fought were marksmen; whether they had the metal arrows which Ruika said could pierce armour. She knew he would not say anything if she asked, so she shifted till she could whisper into his ear, “I’m glad you’re back.” "As long as you're here to welcome me, I'll come back." Akisha thought of the rabbit leaping high into the air, caught in the sharp surprise of an unsuspected arrow. For the first time she realized that what Father said might not always be a promise he could keep. But it was good enough.

The Lighthouse That Fell Into The Sea

Timothy ran his foot along the edge of a wave as it pulled away from the shore, leaving a thin crust of foam that eventually faded into the sand. It was a relief to be by the water’s edge, away from the sun-scorched sand that he had run over to get here. He looked up a moment to view the sea in its entirety, but it was too vast. To the left was a promontory cut off by rocks and overhanging trees; from the very tip of the cliff sprang a lighthouse, tower and balcony and all, like a bizarre overgrown mushroom. It blazed white in the sun. To his right, the bay tapered off in another series of huge boulders. It seemed as if the cliffs were breaking apart, however slowly, and falling into the sea. Timothy wondered with alarm if—the next time he came—the lighthouse might have followed the rocks too, becoming a fossilized wreck. It would be famous. People would visit it and say, “this is the lighthouse that fell into the sea.”

He frowned a little. He remembered that someone had held his hand; they had looked at the lighthouse and a voice from somewhere above his head had said to him, “People will visit and say, ‘this is the lighthouse that fell into the sea.’” He remembered that the lighthouse had been grey and crumbly then, with a little tree sticking out the balcony. The memory seemed as far away and as hazy as the ships at the horizon’s edge, so unattainable. He could not tell if the ships were floating on air or on water.

The moment passed and he plunged into the water, spluttering at its sudden coolness and the saltiness in his mouth, then gurgling with delight. Perhaps he could swim to the island in-between. Or maybe he would swim as far as he could to the left and climb up the rocks to the lighthouse. All seemed like possibilities—the weather so bright and warm, the sea so mild. Janice called to him: “Whoay! Don’t go too far!” She was already running down the beach towards him, hand on head to keep her favourite straw hat from flying away. He had asked her why she wore such a ridiculously floppy thing. She insisted it was style, “the way the movie stars do it.” He contemplated his English teacher asking him, “define: sister.” Sisters are creatures who panic easily and who like to imitate movie stars.

Timothy poked his head out of the water. What was the fuss about? It was then that he realized the current had pulled him further out than he had intended to go when plunging in headfirst; that the gentle incline which first fooled him had given way to a treacherous depth his eight-year-old legs could not reach; that even though Janice’s hair was streaming behind her as she ran, she didn’t seem to get any larger or any nearer. His right foot hit down and touched only cold water that dragged him down further. He spluttered, thrashed. He hit the air and gasped.

He heard a sound of splashing other than his own.

The sun threw a glare in his eyes and the salt water stung his throat. Turning away, he caught a flash of red and white. Ma was standing at the lighthouse and waving at him. It was just near enough that he could make out her figure in her favourite red dress. She could not tell, of course. He screamed, but the effort ended in a sputter of water as a wave rolled over his head in one tranquil motion. And then another wave, and another.

And there was a sound of splashing, but it seemed no nearer than it had been before. There was red, and there was white and there were the rolling green hills that pushed him under every time he fought to come back up. The sound of splashing became louder, but it was only his thrashing about in the water filling his ears.

And there was white and there was red and there was green; then the white and green came together and for one moment, Timothy saw the lighthouse brilliant and white in the sea’s murky depth, except it was so dark the lighthouse quickly turned grey. The person holding his hand had been in a red bath suit, saying, “Someday the lighthouse will fall into the sea.” Was it Ma, or Janice? The palm had been large enough to enclose his, and he had felt as if, should the entire cliff have fallen away in front of his eyes, he would not have been afraid. The cold gave way to tingling warmth that unfroze his limbs. Timothy kicked out, launching himself forward against the current. He kicked again, arms flailing on all sides. A hand caught his wrist and held it tight.

“Papa,” squealed Timothy.

“Hold still, you idiot.” It was Janice.

She wrapped his arms around her neck and swam back to shore, gasping painfully all the way. Janice did not have the strength to carry him so they both flopped over where the waves broke and lapped at their ears and hair. The salt water drying fast on his body made it itch, but he did not have the strength to scratch it.

“Whatever made—” said Janice in between breaths, “you cry out—Papa.” Timothy lay there confused. He could not remember when the time of having a Papa had been, and when it had ended. He had not thought of Papa in a long time—maybe since he was three, when Papa would hold his hand and tell him stories. He admitted to himself that he had forgotten.

They lay there panting until Ma rushed over with a towel, fussing over Timothy and then over Janice. Timothy found that she was dripping water, though she had not gone into the sea. They mingled with the water on his body, not allowing him to be completely dry. They were tears. All the time she was muttering, “don’t you ever do this to me, Timothy, don’t you ever, ever.”

In the bus on the way home, Janice told him, without Ma hearing, “not to ever upset Ma that way again. Once was more than enough when Pa—” but the rest was cut off by the roar of a passing truck. Janice looked so serious that he did not dare ask again because she had pursed her lips and set her chin the way she always did when something was final and could not be unsaid or re-said. And he did not wish to upset anyone more than he had that day.

Detail

An exercise in allowing details to show, rather than stuffing in adjectives that tell.

Boyfriend who is a jerk:
His eyes widened into pools of helpless self-pity and remorse, withdrew, and finally stopped looking at me altogether, knowing that no words could apologise for dating his girlfriend's best friend.

Bad dress sense:
Suzy had an unfortunate weakness for lace and a tragic magnetism for clashing colours: a purple toga top with green pin-spots, a gypsy skirt asplash with blue and yellow fleur-de-lis (and a lace hem of course), torrid yellow socks and equally bright sneakers composed today's get-up.

Beautiful mountain scenery:
In the late mornings the sun would strike the peaks at a steep angle; they emerged from the mist with startling intensity, crowned in iridescent shades of green and surrounded by pools of deep verdure so intense it was almost blue where the shadows from mountain and cloud fell.

Inconsiderate roommate:
She had to print her notes at three in the morning on that ancient printer of hers--the one that rattles enough to keep the dead awake.

Character Sketch

Wendy sleeps in a queen-sized bed although she lives alone. She goes to bed with her head in the upper right corner and wakes up with her arm dangling from the bottom left corner. She takes her last gulp from the coffee cup by seven in the morning. "The punishment for tardiness," she tells Wuffles, "is not being allowed to finish one's coffee." If she is late the coffee is put in the fridge for the evening, and she departs for work, but not before feeding Wuffles. Wuffles is a tiny Pekinese with a sharp bark and she hates it with all her heart but cannot get rid of it as it was given by her best friend.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

~W.H Auden

Quotes II

The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story.
~Ursula Le Guin

"While I was writing A Wind In the Door, I spent a long time finding the word I needed, and finally came across kythe in Jamieson's Scottish Dictionary published in 1856, which I inherited from my grandfather. The first definition is 'to be manifest'; the second, 'to come in sight'; the third, 'to appear in proper character' and he quotes, 'he will kythe in his ain colours' with the explanation added, 'he will appear without disguise.'"
~Madeleine L'Engle

The road to hell is paved with adverbs
~Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft

Two Monologues

Stephanie (in rapidfire speech)

Well I wake up at five a.m, it takes twenty crunches and pushups and then I’m off on my morning jog. Those are my mornings usually but I guess you don’t want to know about them (breaks into embarrassed laughter). (hops up and down, as if ready to take off on a sprint). Say, do you want to go for a run? Really, like right now, nothing like exercise to lift the spirits and create a youthful glow, you know?

Everyone asks me “Stephanie you’re practically ageless, however do you manage it?” The girls at the office, they ask me for tips. I mean it’s so simple I wonder why they’re such airheads, they can’t do it themselves: don’t smoke, don’t drink, sleep early, no transfats, low sugar soya milk always—and this rule you can never break—no fastfood. The fat is in the fries, my dears, it’s all in the fries.

Stephanie paces up and down. She seems to have run out of things to say.

Everyone tells me I look great. “You’re looking fit, Steph!” “Steffi so hot!” “Steffi ni de shen zai hao.” Practically everyone, really. Everyone except Ted of course, but who cares about him, right? (disingenuous laughter) I could walk down the corridor in four-inch heels (not that I do, because the elevated posture damages the nerves and knees) and a miniskirt and he would still have that stupid stupid grin, or he…he’d just be humming to himself and seem to be stargazing when he’s only staring at the lights in the ceiling.

Exit.

Enter Theodore Lee. He is in a labcoat and hums the opening of Vivaldi’s Spring as he enters, walking as described by Stephanie. He performs dental procedures on a patient (imaginary figure)

Theodore

Nothing like a bit of Spring to put a spring in your step (chuckles to himself). (motions to his patient) Oh no, just a private joke. Are you ready?

Theodore turns around and switches on the CD player. Soothing classical music plays in the background. He then puts a mask on the patient.

Du calme, du calme. (pulls on gloves) Ah, alone at last. And in peace. No squirming, squealing child, nothing but the dulcet strains of…(short pause to take in the music)—Bach’s final symphony.

(as he operates on the patient) Dolce…dolce…pianissimo…crescendo…crescendo…forte!...pianoforte! (pulls a tooth out).

****not really the end****