Monthly Archive for March, 2008

His heart, as it were.

Published
by
Alisha
on March 29, 2008
in Uncategorized
. 1 Comment

I've been trying to figure out some backstory.

...............

Alma stood on the rim of the fountain and looked at the White Hawk. She kept her eyes still and the let the hawk's flit in and out of contact. The bars of the cage were painted with a green wash, and thick like frosting. There were two White Hawks. They perched tail to tail, facing opposite directions, so their hunched bodies seemed to be the wings of a bigger, headless bird. In the little pond beneath them, a soft-shelled tortoise pressed gently against the tile.

Alma stood, giving proper attention, until the owner came back with chicken, pita, melon and lamb. He dumped half in the water, half in the cage, then held the plate out at his side. A small deer licked it clean.

"It will smell like perfume," he said.

She waited.

"If you kill it, its blood is like perfume."

Plausible. The air conditioned lunch, electricity, wifi--she was drunk on luxuries. That morning, in his suite, she learned a few things: scale in the bathroom, Harry Potter on the book shelf, empty fridge, cereal under the sink. He smiled at her and blushed purple. His sweet-looking, old body made everything harmless, even the white flash of his eyes. It would be so easy not to leave. There, in the open courtyard, he took her jaw in his hand and lifted her face.

Her jaw fit neatly in the v of his thumb and forefinger. She drew back. He gripped. Her body moved three steps back, but her chin stayed put. There is an animal that looks like this in profile--a giraffe? Something that extends its neck to eat and uses its bottom teeth to snap leaves from their twigs. She felt ridiculous and panicked. She laughed and he let go.

Aequus nox

Published
by
Alisha
on March 21, 2008
in Uncategorized
. 1 Comment

Spring is here. I feel it distinctly. Even though I live in Santa Barbara, with its perpetually mild clime, Spring still makes its annunciation. I don't have anything to write. I just keep thinking about the equinox; this stillness.

A couple weeks ago, he took me up Figueroa Mountain in his new, white truck. There, and there. The first lupines; some little yellow ones; no poppies, yet. Green rocks and copper moss, acorn caps and pink sediments. From the top, everything was a ruffled valley. There's Michael Jackson's ranch, and there's where rich kids learn to chop wood. There's the stone house with the cold pool, built on sloping land. I used to throw my keys in so I'd have to go after them.

I keep thinking about cold keys, the taste of rust. I don't believe in ghosts or in animal emotions. I don't have the energy to explain myself. Even scientists know that bad things stay in the ground. Bad things, good things, whistling a tune--molecules are altered. My jeans smell like rust and my ankles are cold. It's been so long since I've held someone's hand.

Adelbert and Johann were best friends. Adelbert named the California poppy for Johann. Johann named the Sun Cup for Adelbert. The coastal hills were there so long before them, but their naming had a retroactive effect. It's like they lived their lives in reverse and took their ancestors into their wombs, or loins, I suppose. They claimed the lineage of another species, of another Kingdom. They joined an expedition and did not apologize for their diaries. The one-upping--naming flower after insect after shrub for the other--went on until the first one died. By then they'd inherited 4.7% of the earth and took it with them, having already broken the rules.

4.7% of the earth is so much more than a single Spring seen too early from a single mountain. Right now, there are hillsides itching with poppies. I wish I could wear such an obvious sign of growth and be stinky with self-propagation. I wish that writing (and lots of other things) didn't require such a long, hidden process. I want to go exploring and point to things and make up names for them and be fully convinced of my own authority, or at least pretend.

Spring is defiance. Everything I am working on right now is about defiance. Little things, absurdly serious, soon to be made available, boldly taking on meaning just because they exist, and threatening everyone else like badges that read "I did not waste my time," even though I did, decidedly, waste my time. I threw my keys in the water so I would have to get in, even though I was alone and I got right back out.

I don't have anything for you now. Not even soon. I find it weird and satisfying that Adelbert the Botanist is the same Adelbert who wrote gloomy poetry and loved the tale of the man who sold his shadow to the devil. The Bikini Atoll was previously named after Johann. Grave-robbers got it. I like these men. What were they like as friends? Was it anything like the confessional of the little truck, winding its way up the mountain?

I can't form a coherent thought from all the stuff in my head right now. Sorry.

I am Builder, or a myth come true.

Published
by
Alisha
on March 10, 2008
in Uncategorized
. 2 Comments

Dang. So, Thursday night I went to the grand reopening of Santa Barbara's Granada Theatre. I know that Santa Barbara reeks of wealth, but it's the kind of wealth that likes to pretend its just beach-bummin'-boho-too-laid-back-to-notice. Never have I seen the display of glitz and glamour that strolled over the red carpet and hovered around the champagne that night. I got free tickets through work and later learned that people paid $1,000.00 a seat.

You know you've reached extravagance when all around you are furs and feathers, sculpted hats with lace veils, and inch-thick diamond bracelets. I was clearly unshowered and had my sweater buttoned to the throat to hide the gross yellow stains on my t-shirt. Had I known, I would have gone all out. It was hard to take pictures because we were crammed in there so tight, but I really wanted to show you the old woman in the fluted red and turquoise gown, and the rows of tiny tiny cupcakes, and the flapper costumes, and the rhinestone cowboy.

The whole event made me reflect on what I had said earlier about a longing for an over-the-top mythology with all subtlety thrown to the wind. Not that I was talking about something that would actually take place, but it did feel like I walked right into the parade I had described. It was bizarre and repulsive and fun and ultimately very moving. And it helped me draw a connection between architecture and myth, or the ways spaces give rise to meaning.

When we build, it is always with a (particular) future in mind. The basis of all our designs is an ideal, and we build as though we are carving around the ineffable, revealing it in negative space. At the same time, we base our ideals on the architecture itself. Our homes, churches, schools, theaters, etc. become stopgaps in that we believe the immaterial past and future can be contained in them. I think myth and architecture feed each other. Yes, we bring meaning to structures, but there's a lot to meaning-making that we don't control and can't predict. Every time you make a shape you include and exclude. Certain belief systems are better suited to say, a steeple than a hogan, and vice versa. This is one way that beliefs perpetuate themselves, finding residence in something more lasting than brain tissue.

This is all sounding more impossible the more I talk about it. But really, I would be a very different person had I grown-up in a geodesic dome or a castle or on a farm. How was I, as a kid in church, to 'consider the birds' when I was distracted by white beams and the smell of carpet. I considered them via another architectural feat, imagination, and meanwhile learned to associate morality with shelter and a neo-Puritan aesthetic. It is yet another testament to the relational nature of meaning. Context is part of meaning, and everything we know depends on the way things stand in relation to one another, literally and figuratively. This is the humanity of logic. People can dream and do extravagant things in the Granada because it is an extravagant place.

So bringing it back to Thursday night: Everyone there behaved as though they believed and agreed that the theatre held great, desirable, intangible things, apparently unavailable elsewhere. Phrases like "the pinnacles of human achievement," "magic," "cultural investment," "preservation" and "artistic excellence" thickened the air. Would these things really be lost or endangered were the Granada to fall into ruin? I'm beginning to think so. I mean, would we even be able to take such grandeur seriously (I did; there were near tears) were it not for the height of the ceiling, the weight of the Moroccan chandelier and the depth of the orchestra pit? Okay, probably, but the point is that buildings are powerful.

True story: Charles M. Urton built the Granada using a mail-order how-to book on steel high-rise construction. The project ran out of money, so he sold his family home in order to see it to completion and pay-off every last worker. In 1925, a year after it opened, an earthquake leveled most of Santa Barbara, but the Granada was undamaged. Mr. Urton climbed the eight stories and hung a home-made banner that read: "Built by Charles M. Urton, Builder." Despite the voice inside me saying, "Why do we treat buildings like a legacy more perfect than children?!", I got chills. I want to be a builder! I want to hang my name on something after I've bought it with my whole self. David Conant, the architect overseeing current renovations, boasts of the theater's "good bones."

I suppose I am easily amazed, but I reel a little bit when I think that the structures I inhabit affect not just my everyday perception of the world, but my hopes, beliefs and expectations; that they are extensions of myself and points of contact with a collective identity. In the same way words are! Just like language! Architecture is literally our mode of existence! I was thinking about these things while watching the Santa Barbara Symphony Orchestra and the Santa Barbara Chamber Choir perform the most popular movement of Carl Orff's Carmina Burana, O Fortuna. Seriously, they went all out.

BTW, I saw my very first play at the Granada when I was 6 or 7 years-old.

Isolate the Unicorn

Published
by
Alisha
on March 2, 2008
in Uncategorized
. 6 Comments

I am taking a playwriting class and I realized I haven't said anything about it yet.

I am learning some very valuable things about writing in general.

For example: the practice, when you write, of placing yourself somewhere and writing from that place. I think this is what I always try to do when I write a poem. In order to find the sound I want, I have to know what direction the sound is coming from and where I stand in relation. When writing a scene, first picture a place and then put a person there. Or picture a person and then put them in a place. When you see this clearly, bring in another person. This simple advice yields galaxies of dramatic action.

The last class I took (which was a stage and screen writing combo class) had us start with the point we were going to make. What are you trying to say? What is the boiled-down, three word, Lajos Egri phrase that describes the entire arch of your story? This is very important. I agree that I have to find this. But, like I just said, I have to find this. When I approached my scripts this way, I ended up hating my characters and settings. I didn't believe in them. They were props. (Ironically, Lajos Egri believed in the primacy of character, but we focused on his thoughts about premise)

What I've discovered in this class is that a story follows from character and environment. Narratives are situated. And the way to let this happen is to take that idea literally. Go to the origin, see what happens. Added benefits: more excitement and less stress. It's an obvious approach, I guess, but it's also counterintuitive for many writers. I like to know what I'm trying to say, and to just start writing without knowing this feels a bit like trying to join repelling magnets. That resistance is what makes the writing so much better, though. The words have tension.

The other thing: surprise yourself. As one of our teachers puts it, make your writing strange. When things get comfortable and you begin to know too much, throw in a phrase you just overheard, force yourself to take an uncomfortable turn, make two unrelated characters talk to each other. At some point you've gotta know what's going on, and that is exciting and good, but surprises are fertile. You've gotta work for it and fire some new synapses. We all become romantics in a foreign land, no? In other words, strangers gotta exercise a little imagination.

An exercise from our other teacher: Write a scene between two people, one person is verbally punishing the other. As you write incorporate the phrases your teacher is shouting at you. For example: "Shut the door!" "Harness your people!" Then, half-way through, turn your punishment scene into a seduction. Super fun!

An exercise we did at home: Write a scene bridging chapters 2 and 3 of our book using only words found in those chapters. A found text scene! I had diabolical circus masters shouting, "Isolate the unicorn!"

I LOVE using found text. I think it is a fantastically rich way to write. It teaches me to think in new ways, opens new perspectives, and turns writing into an interactive process. I submit that using found text often requires more creativity than using one's 'own' words. This is also why I am currently fascinated by gnoetry, but more on that later.

I was really intimidated by playwriting (though drawn to it) because of the restrictions: you've gotta tell your story through your characters' mouths and you always have to consider staging. But so far it has only been rewarding. I'm learning about what motivates us. I have a deeper understanding of how language defines and alienates us. I think my poetry has improved.

The real purpose of this post is to encourage people to write plays. If you are interested, I would really like to talk to you or swap scripts or host a reading. Also, if you think you might want to take this class, let me know.

Okay, then.