Just Another Girl

I went to the university yesterday and dropped off my paperwork. They want me to try and transfer some of my credits from Ryerson and work toward an arts degree in English Literature. I don't know about that . . . seems like a lot of work and money . . . and how will this change my life? I'm working with words everyday, which is why people get an arts degree majoring in English lit . . . I suppose if I ever wanted to teach at the university level it would help . . . but having major success as an author pretty much wipes out the education part anyway . . . so, I don't know. All I know is I'm looking forward to the creative writing course I've signed up for in the fall. There are some other courses that look interesting that I might like to consider down the road . . . but I'm not looking that far ahead right now.

I did a little shopping while I was out and about yesterday, gotta take advantage of every walk-about because one can't count on good weather for very long around here. I bought a set of headphones with a mic, so now I can talk on MSN with other people who have mics, like Jenn. I'm hoping this will cut back on the long distance calling. Though my mother doesn't have a computer . . . so, I don't know. I talked with Jenn for a couple of hours last night though. It was cool. She was right, having no use for my voice at all since moving here, other than to say excuse me to strangers on the street has been different. I've started talking to myself a lot more, muttering mostly, asking myself rhetorical questions . . . when these guys move in next door they'll think I'm nuts.

I also bought a digital camera while I was out yesterday. Just a cheapo Kodak one from the Jean Coutu (they had an air miles special on it) but it's got 3.2 mega pixels which isn't too bad. It's certainly good enough to take some pictures around here and put them up on my blog for the world to see. So, watch for that! I'm going to be the tourist now, snapping shots everywhere I go.

I also bought myself a dvd that I really, really, really wanted. It was funny, at the video store the girl looked at me funny and asked, "Are you from Sackville?" And I said, no. And she laughed and said, "I didn't think so, you don't look familar." Yep, this place is that small!! People notice I'm not from around these parts. Crazy.

Last night I went to my writing workshop at the university. We focused on details in writing, did a bunch of different exercises. I'm finding it hard to concentrate in the evenings sometimes on these writing assignments. I'm tired, and those young girls are just bursting at the seams with creativity . . . I remember being like that *Sigh*. Anyway, we worked in pairs most of the evening, which also freaks me a little, I'd rather write alone. But she does it in groups so we get to know one another and then feel more comfortable sharing our work in the Thursday workshop sessions.

I worked with a girl named Emily all evening. We started by discussing detail. Is it important? How deep can it go? Were we detail oriented? Had anyone ever told us we were? Was there anything we did to remind ourselves to notice the details more? And so on. It was an interesting discussion. Emily and I had a little different experience. She's finding she needs to leave more out and I have to make a conscious effort to put more in. I don't notice many details, only when I remind myself to take notice. And I usually only do that when I "need" those details for a piece of writing. Emily reminds herself to notice things more spontaneously I think. After we discussed this in our pairs, we opened it up to the room and everyone shared their views. A woman named Anne, who has small children, said she thought of noticing the details as being a very childlike experience. We need to almost become a child again in order to get the focus. She saw it as a slowing down. When you drive down the street you notice less than if you walk down the street. That stuck with me in particular, having done so much walking as of late and yes, I would say I have been noticing more, smells and sounds as well as the visual.

We stayed in our pairs and in the next exercise Christina gave each group an object from her home and we were to pass a sheet of paper back and forth writing a new detail about the object each time. The object Emily and I had was some sort of an ornament. It was interesting and funny what happened. Here's what we wrote --

Emily: The woman is sitting.
Kellie: Hollow
E: There is a white streak down her nose.
K: Metallic
E: The sound of it moving against the desk is like stepping on a city grate.
K: Biblical Figure
E: There is a scroll in her left hand.
K: I think it's a man.
E: Her hair is rolled back.
K: His legs are crossed.
E: Her toes are shaped, but not separated.
K: He sits on a little stool like you would sit on to milk cows or shoe a horse.
E: The stool is low, but elaborate, like hand-carved wood, with a floral decoration.
K: A sword and shield rest against the stool.
E: A lute, tambourine and pipes rest against the back of her stool.
K: He is a Greek or Roman god, wearing a toga, loose clothing draped over one shoulder.
E: Short curls fall behind each of her ears, like those carefully groomed by characters in Jane Austen's novels.
K: Thick muscled forearms, very masculine looking and strong.
E: She looks straight ahead although her body is turned to the left, with a gaze that is both calm and filled with determination.
K: Sadness
E: She is robed, with only her neck, face, feet, hands and right arm from the elbow bare.

Then the time was up. I would have added that if this was a woman . . . she was the homeliest woman I've ever seen. The musical instruments really looked like weaponry to me. It actually looked like a sword snapped in two and crossing over a shield. Many of the others thought they were instruments though and believed it was a woman. Christina had said it was a woman at the beginning, but it hadn't really registered with me . . . which made me think of a concept Stacy and I had discussed recently about not being able to see what is there because it isn't what you expect it to be. And I wondered if this figurine was indeed a woman or if everyone just saw a woman because that's what they had been told it was. Very interesting.

In the next exercise we stayed in pairs but wrote separately. Christina gave each group a different object and then we had to write as much detail as possible without saying what the object was. Emily wrote an actual story. I wrote disjointed jagged snips. Here's mine:

The tin tube flattens sticky tar, creaking as it rolls. The road stretches before it. The bright green and burnt orange colours dotted with banana yellow draw English children from their flats and into the cobbled street. It lumbers past slowly like an elephant, smelling of oil and gas fumes. Flimsy, an adult might crush it under his boots, bringing tears and sobs. Tiny fingers hide in the rear and push. Imagination makes them invisible. Wind it up and let it go. It sprints across the ceramic tile, snagging on the shag carpet.

The object was an old toy steam roller, the tin kind, a wind-up toy from the 30's or 40's maybe. Emily's was much better than mine. I wasn't at all inspired by this object, couldn't think of much.

The next exercise was completely solo. We were instructed to think of an object or action that is really disgusting, like eating the cigarette butts out of an ashtray for example, and without saying what it is, we were supposed to describe it in as much detail as possible and describe it as something beautiful. Here's what I wrote:

Twisting, turning, dancing across a bright silver stage streaked with vibrant colours -- red, yellow, green. The door opens launching the performance. A slow seductive crawl at first, undulating, teasing, taunting, drawing attention. Others join in the dance and the tempo increases, becomes a frenzy of action. This is life. A collective activity. Together the dancers climb a rainbow of colour, swinging from one ledge to another, clinging to peaks and sliding into valleys, so carefree and light. This is living.

I was describing a maggot infested garbage bin . . . yet, it's very sexy by times :-)

We returned to our pairs for the next exercise. Emily and I were given a photograph. Other groups had photos as well, but each group kept their photo a secret from the others. We had to make a list of words that if said would immediately give the picture away. After we had our list of forbidden words, we each wrote about the photo using as much detail as possible but not using any of the words on our forbidden list. And then we read each other's piece and decided which one might fool the rest of the group and then we read that one aloud. We read Emily's . . . and didn't fool the group, they guessed it. But here's mine:

Round and round, my head wobbles as I watch. My eyes crossing, can't keep up. I feel a vibration in my feet, up through my knees, buckling my hips, zipping through my core, snapping my neck, and flowing out my arms and into my fingertips. Snap. Snap. I close my eyes for the full effect, basking in the feeling of letting go. Entranced, enchanted, lulled into relaxation, I begin to hum.

Not much there, I know. Emily's was much longer. She writes way more quickly than me. But any guesses as to what our photograph was? Cuz I'm not telling :-)

In the final exercise of the evening each pair was given a coin (ours was a nickel) and we had to pick a side (we picked the beaver) and decide upon a context for a story. Then separately we each wrote based on this context. Here's mine:

With a name like Charlie his parents should have known he'd turn out to be a sneaky bastard. Charlie, the sneaky beaver, never asked to be born into this hell pond, with those damn holier than now swans living next door. Always preaching and trying to keep him on the straight and narrow, help him to lead a more "enlightened" life. Well screw those swans, Charlie thinks. He dreams of the day he can bust out of this pond, find a nice girl, and make beautiful little beaver babies of his own with sensible strong names like Hank and Susan. Trouble is, Joe, his older brother built this dam. Joe, who's shadow he's lived in and under all his life. But Charlie has a plan. For seven weeks he's been chewing and chiseling and finally it's ready. He has his battering ram and come midnight he's busting out of this pond.

This got some laughs. Our concept was that the beaver was a vindictive little brother with a battering ram intent on destroying the dam. Emily's piece was very different than mine, more serious.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun. I look forward to going to class. It's going to suck when it's over and I'm left on my own for the summer. Maybe I'll find a group to join or something. And now, it's back to work for me!

Mood: Slow dancing
Drinking: Oooh! I've got new organic French Roast coffee from Jacob's Larder. Exciting! Yummy stuff!
Listening To: Blind Melon, No Rain
Hair: My ponytail grows longer every minute it seems!