For my writers and creative people
who like to do nerdy things like writing exercises...
while I continue to think about my shadow self…
Here is an exercise I simply love.
GETTING STARTED
Take the following lines (these are all from my new memoir, by the way) and use one of them to write the beginning of your own chapter:
I take my first sip of coffee as I sit cross-legged in my reading spot on the sofa.
And in a way, I wasn’t lying.
If I couldn’t tell my mama my head felt like it was about to split open, I might have head-butted her too.
I’ve never known more than I know now that most people are completely thrown by things that are out of their ordinary.
It was quiet in the apartment.
I like to set a timer for five minutes and let my hands move freely without much thinking — instead just feeling, imagining, and free associating and see what comes out in that period of time. It’s usually surprising. Sometimes I even like it. If you decide to do it, please leave what you come up with in the comments so we can share if you wish!
Since I’ve already written those paragraphs, I’m going to start with this sentence:
“Midsummer, no time to be in New Orleans."
But there I was, with “deep in love” running around in my brain, you know that song by that new americana supergroup with anäis mitchell — I think it’s called bonny light horseman — I would normally confirm that by picking up my phone but I don’t want to disturb my thoughts with that thing. That thing gets in my way and distracts me from what I should really be doing too often and I think that if I didn’t run the risk of becoming totally isolated I’d get rid of it like Robert Ellis did. He lived for awhile just using an iPad, which I thought was darlingly eccentric of him, but then he’s like that — insists on wearing a white tuxedo for all of his piano man gigs. I appreciate the commitment, which he doesn’t lack in any department it seems. When he’s into something, he’s into something. I love that about him. I love him, period. I bet he likes New Orleans too — I do, but as it is midsummer, it’s not a very good time to be here. Yet here I am. Rotting in the heat. It’s not a dry rot like the dry rot that threatens to kill the clothing I have in the attic because I can’t fit everything into the tiny closet I have downstairs, it’s rather wet and it makes my irritation grow like kudzu. I have no choice but to sit on this porch and sip this drink because doing anything more than that would give me the dropsy. Hell, I have the dropsy already, hence my dropping down on this porch to sip this drink and fan my face with this folding fan. I keep a little chalice of them in the entryway at home, but also keep one in every handbag so I always have one handy. It isn’t cute when a lady sweats. It isn’t cute when anyone does, to tell the truth, not unless the sweat is intentional — like when you’re working, or exercising, or attempting to thwart an Olympic record. Not much worse than seeing someone melt away into their mint julep or aperol spritz at a garden party. You just want to hold something cool up their brow. That’s why I never have a party without that chalice of fans out in the open no matter what time of year it is. I know too many menopausal women that could break into a flop sweat worthy of Albert Brooks in Broadcast News when he finally got on air (google that) and I’m just not having it in my presence. Where was I? Oh, yes. Midsummer, no time to be in New Orleans. Good thing I’ve got my fan.
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It was quiet in the apartment. For a change. I wonder if he's okay up there. Oh wait, do I actually care? The incessant noise from the upstairs neighbor has tortured me for almost a year. He never leaves the apartment. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't sleep. Which means I don't sleep. There have been times when he's bounced a basketball at two in the morning. Because, THAT'S when you get the urge to dribble. Ever since I've moved into this apartment - my first apartment since leaving home - I've been subject to his ceaseless pacing and noise. His footsteps so heavy that photographs of my family and my framed art prints have been hurled off the wall at all hours of the night. I've resorted to sleeping with ear plugs but they don't block out enough of the noise. When I'm on the phone with friends or family, I am constantly asked, "What is that noise?" "Is that him?" to which I groan and say yes. He's also a chronic smoker. And, thanks to the terrific ventilation system, everything in my apartment is permeated with smoke. My clothes, my bed, my couch and my lungs. Wonder if they sell Febreze in gallon-size jugs? Not long ago, my doctor asked me if I smoked as it seems I have adult-onset asthma. He eyed me suspiciously as I said, "I don't but my upstairs neighbor does". I'm so tired. Working full time as a librarian and going to grad school is enough. But, y'all, I need a nap. A long, quiet one - sans earplugs. I've done the whole "banging on the ceiling with a broom" technique to no avail. One night, after I couldn't take it anymore, I banged on the ceiling with my broom - a broom that does more banging than it does sweeping - and I heard him come out of his apartment. Yes, he actually came outside. Stunned silence fell over my living room because he ran down the steps and twisted my doorknob. I was suddenly terrified. What would he do if I opened the door? What does he even look like? While I wanted to berate him and tell him to quiet down, I was scared. I silently thanked myself for locking the door and backed up. He raced back upstairs after a few tugs at the doorknob. I could hear his footsteps put pressure on each step as he ran. Once he reached his apartment, I heard the door slam. I waited with bated breath. It was quiet in the apartment. As I began to smile with relief, the pacing swelled to a ferocious stomp and poor Picasso’s "Guernica" fell at my feet.
“ It was quiet in the apartment.” Well, almost. Except for the irritating, incessant coughing I hear through these paper-thin walls. I come here to my “zen den” for a quiet respite from the bustling city. Waking up to the soft rustling of the trees and the chirping birds is a priceless thing. Yes, I will try to focus on that instead. I start my morning meditation with Chopra and repeat the daily mantra silently to myself. The usual distractions are there in my head, but I manage to return periodically to the mantra. As I slowly drift off, here it comes again. That hacking cough…I mutter “shut up, old man “ in my mind. No, that can’t become my mantra. I somehow manage to get through the rest of the meditation with minimal distractions. I feel calmer for a few brief moments. I look up at a framed piece of artwork with the most beautiful words ”-- oh Lord, help me heal.” It’s going to be a good day. I can feel it. I grab my essentials and head out to the beach.