Creative coup

I am taking over this blog - no longer will you worry about whether or not Butterfly Woman is a man or a woman. This means I finally figured out how to create my own profile.

Sadness

There is a certain sadness
in the gently falling snow,
a softness, a delicacy of touch,
the tender surrender to soft warm flesh.

With dogged persistence,
it bandages winter wounds,
covers the carnage of autumn’s passing,
colors with wonder the weary
through their long gray desolation.

And yet there is a certain sadness
that awe filled eyes, cozy curtained,
cannot understand till jolted
by a thorough washing, to
fully face its joy,
feel its bite, its sting,
and finally believe
it's real.


@jms 30jan08

Magic Child

We were watching a movie entitled "My Neighbor Totoro". It is a Japanese animation in which 2 little girls discover a giant tree spirit living in the tree adjacent to their house which they have just moved into. Something about the idea that a young girl (age 3 or 4) could see a tree spirit was intriguing to me. It pulled at something inside of me, arousing it as if from a deep sleep. I was enchanted not so much about the movie but about this little person inside of me. Adults might name this child 'my inner child' but I will use the term 'little gifted one.'
My little gifted one is a creative genius. He can take simple everyday occurrences and make magic out of them. He is the one that roamed my childhood making up games, active games, which were fun to play. He is also the one that helps me build stories with magic - not Harry Potter magic, but true playful magic. All to often we are told to put away, our childishness and march into the adult world because that is what you have to do survive. In doing so we forget that magic maker inside, the source of our creative genius.
I have noted in my writing experiences that being creative is a very hard thing to do. Sometimes it just does not seem to happen. I believe that this is because I am being too adult in my approach to whatever it is that I am writing.
I hope to put some playfulness into my classes, to help revive the little genius inside of me and my students. Then the creative magic can begin. That is all I have for now --- FRANK

Sneak peak at tomorrow's assignment (Jan. 30)

The assignment in class tomorrow, Jan. 30, will be to write
a story with a moral to it similar to Aesop's Fables.
Frank

closings - small poems by Frank

This is a title
and then there was or were some line(s)
of various meanings and/or lengths
All of which mean nothing to me
of course you can read into this as
some sort of character flaw(s) ----------appearing between the lines----------
of the author's attempt to mask what he himself refuses to see
what lies beaneath this facade--is another human choosing to close his heart
all because he thought it too painful to feel
whatever it was or were some time(s) ago
He feels nothing because he tells himself so
in-between checks of the heart - is it still closed?

Authors

They dance around in wonderous whys
no-ing this writing they won't do
because it has to be great
waiting for applause and various lies
of 'loved it' and 'really really good.'

I was in a down mood so this is what came out.
FRANK

The Computer

     The front knob turned slowly because she was thinking.  What should she do first?  Feed the cat?  He meowed plaintively at the top of the stairs.  Have lunch herself?  Her stomach growled.  No.  The soft melodies of Sirens were floating up the stairs from the den.  Like Ulysses, she couldn't resist.  She turned to go downstairs and dropped the groceries on the landing along with her purse.  Did her cell phone inside need charging?  Was there an unheard message on it?  The love/hate battle began.  Technology always won either way and she ran quickly down the stairs to the computer.

     She had always disliked this room-her husband's domain.  Rows of books on every subject piled high in no order on shelves thick with dust.  Refusing to clean here, she had stayed upstairs in the kitchen and played her favorite opera CDs on a K-Mart special.   But he had bought this computer ten years ago which he kept on his desk.

     She couldn't go near it and was almost afraid of it.  What if she pressed the wrong button?  Would the lights go out? Would the windows crack?  Would smoke and steam come rolling out from the nest of wires hooked to it?  But she felt left behind and saw her techno friends marching toward the horizon while she limped to catch up with them.  Even her seven-year-old was attached to an i-pod when she drove her somewhere.  Black cords dangled from her ears and she smiled sweetly at the sound of songs that Grandma couldn't hear. 

     The computer screen called soundlessly, fish swimming back and forth across its surface.  A screen-saver, they called it.  There were so many words--spam, icon, delete, enter, search, web site.  It was a web for certain, a tangled mass of threads that caught you and pulled you in.  And here she was, sitting at the desk, reaching for, of all things, a mouse.

Stew

I’m replaying the scene over and over again in my mind. Sometimes I’m so bothered by the interaction that I actually say the words I’m replaying out loud, just to comfort myself. How could things have gotten so ugly and so misconstrued in such a short time? Why didn’t you say something earlier instead of letting it build into this ugly mountain of resentment?

“Listen……….” I cut the potatoes.

“You always………….” The carrots are peeled. The onions diced.

“I hate it when you………….” Chop the meat into bite sized pieces.

“You said………………” Add 1 cup of water and some beef stock.

“You think you are…………..” Seasonings. Salt, Pepper, bay leaf.

“Why do you………..” Garlic. Lots of that.

“You did………….” Worchester sauce gets added, you know, for a kick.

“I don’t want you to……………” Plop it all into the pot.

“I’m tired of……………” Turn the heat on low.

Let simmer for hours. And against my better judgment, that’s exactly what I do.

Taking IT Down

     I waited for as long as I possibly could.  My heart provided many excuses: the cat loved to sit under IT, IT brightened up the room so, many friends had not yet seen IT.  Epiphany was usually the last conceivable day, but January 6 came and went.  Then I said I'd wait 'til the last snowfall, but more snow was predicted.  

     Neighbors all seemed to have theirs down; no lollipop-bright colors glinted from their windows, no popcicle hues framed their doorways.  In some yards, red hearts already flashed their love signals.  I could protest, I thought.  What would it hurt to keep IT glowing for a few more weeks, even months, maybe the whole year even?  Wouldn't it be great to be ready for next Christmas in the middle of June?  

     My own hopes soared, but custom prevailed.  I wrapped little wooden angels in over-and-over-used tissue, carefully slid the German Raucherman into its rippled cardboard box, plucked straw stars off branches, and cradled the nativity figures into soft mounds of cotton batting.  Sadness at the finality of it pressed on my shoulders and hands.  The living room would never be the same again.  My comfortable cat would have to find a new spot to snuggle into; perhaps a new lamp would light the room; maybe friends would view the yard's spring flowers.  But I could take the loss, knowing the twinkling would come again, like elves winking in the dark, teasing the ten months of ridiculous gloom away, signaling the renewed warmth of love, of family, of memories, new glow-spots on the beloved triangle of branches, the  IT that lifted my spirits year after year, the TREE.                                                                     mutti

     

A new life. A life that is free from the constraints of relentless pain that burdens the mind, heart and soul. Today I am 12 years without this horrific pain that strapped my intellect,my feelings,and my spirit. Thank you, GOD!!!!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nude_Descending_a_Staircase,_No._2

Marcel Duchamp’s
“Nude Descending A Staircase”


Alien form in staccato passing
mutant hiccup
born of stuttering eye..

Mind gears grind
as piece parts
peel to
unoiled shudder,
jagged shoulder jarring elbow
shrill-cocked knee.

Cast-recast, cast-recast,
frozen frame through mucous haze :
Woman, naked,
descends .

Rudely, rudely
her fluidity
forced to heel
like shredded cabbage .




@jms 13feb86

1/18/08 – The Party Pig
I ran into an old friend the other day. Darn him. He is always smiling. That guy has a permanent smile on his face. He has been through some tough times and he still smiles. Ugh, I hate that.
You see, I am a cynical gal. I don’t know why, I am always drawn to the dark side. I can laugh with the best of them, but left to my own, I always find myself drawn to negativity and I don’t like that. January is always an introspective time for me. I try to improve upon myself physically and emotionally, and this January is no different. I have accomplished some of the weight loss issues, but I have found that I need to foster the emotional part of myself now. I want to be less negative, less judgmental, and more fun. I need to laugh more. I began thinking about my friend.
My friend, you see, is the Party Pig. He is actually a dog toy that belonged to my cat Ruth. She was an overly aggressive kitten and we needed to train her not to bite us constantly. Advice was given to buy a toy that replicated the parts of another kitten—arms, legs, ears, nose, and tail. This would give her the chance to wrestle with the faux kitten but know that our arms, legs, nose, (and tail?!) were off limits. She would learn to distinguish who was acceptable prey and who wasn’t. When we played with her, she was to be given the Party Pig.
The Party Pig has rope arms and legs, a small felt tail, and a grin so wide you’d think he new where all the good parties were. He has some cute pig ears and one thread stitched eye is coming undone, but he looks good for the abuse he has endured. The best part of the Party Pig is the party hat that he wears. It is the funniest thing –a blue polka dot hat that sits square at the top of his head. It has some red felt streamers that sprout out the top like a fountain. He is a snappy looking fellow, but why is this pig wearing a party hat? I try to imagine the dog toy manufacturer thinking “Hey, lets’ put a party hat on this pig. Dogs will love it!” It is so weird, it makes me laugh.
So, I’m being really philosophical about this guy when I see him at the bottom of my drawer. How can he smile all of the time? Is that possible? (I know, it’s stitched on, but humor me.) I’m all into the Dalai Lama and inner peace this year, so maybe the Party Pig can be an inspiration too. God knows he has been beat up, spit on, attacked, and bitten too many times to count, but that darned smile stays put. Not a thread is pulled loose. Can I do that? Can I be so forgiving and so resilient to keep my inner smile, if not my physical one, glowing? Can I forgive the negative forces in everyday life and find the beauty in the day?
I don’t know how I am going to do this, but I am going to try. I’ll sit him on my dresser for now to keep me focused on happiness. To remind me to lighten up. To remind me to find the good parties. And if I can’t do that, maybe just wear the funny hat and smile lot.

Renegade

Renegade


In a rush of blackberry bramble,
a noisy burr laps at light and swallows
whole; I am born, a changeling,
and the world becomes me.


Plump and moist with clever skin,
determined and bright as Sunday sky,
I roll about my mother’s carpet leaving
a rangy trail of baby mischief..


Impetuous and bold, a jumble hoarder,
I am weed, in her woolen garden.
Though in season I turn a flower face,
in shadow, still, tangled edges

stir, a lurid dance that startles wind,
as my progeny usurp the frightened hills,
reeling in their wild, unruly grace.
Oh God, can you forgive this randoming,

this vagabond of soul, the insatiate thirst
for forbidden ground, my infidelity to
wall and patch and row, holding fast with
suckered hands, this place of light and soil

that others, in their wisdom, deem
unsuitable to grow?
What purpose has this conduct,
impervious
to blight , that jumps the woolen fringe
spewing seed into the night?


@jms 30aug86

His Kiss

His kiss lingers,
lingers in the gentle hollow
below my navel,
lingers there the longest time
before moving on.

The world explodes to a field of wheat
golden heads prickling, weaving,
rolling in the sun.
The moment is forever warm, forever
warm and growing.

He promised me, oh,
he had promised me
the earth:
and was
the earth.

Climbing those sinewy mountains,
rushing breathless the valley slopes,
fingers explore, wandering aimless,
tripping easily over
foothills of his spine.

And his scent, his scent, sweet as autumn,
sweet as leaves, now
damp and clinging,
now
smoldering, aflame.

His taste, the lightest hint of sea-salt,
a spray of sudden coolness
from dark and secret caverns,
a deep cold well
against the parch of day.

And still he refuses to hurry,
though the tide threatens to return
in a wave that will break
with demon fury, open-mouthed
and thirsty, thirsty.

@jms 5may86

Ragdoll

Ragdoll, Ragdoll, you
old stuffed clown,
you’re bits and pieces
just like me.

Well-worn socks, a
pom-pom nose,
mismatched clothes-scraps
stitched by hand.

Two tattered sisters, long
neglected by clever fingers,
pulled together
in delicate alliance.

You, all crump and sniffle
bathe in sweet sadness.
While I, all scurry and intention
pluck at any spark or spangle

to stitch to the furious tangle
of my knotted psyche,
a curious patchwork
and I, the invention.

A discard’s dilemma: with you
wounded again and bleeding
poised beneath my needle,
just which of us

is being saved ?

@jms 28dec89

April

April

I remember when April’s fingers wiped
slender runs through winter soot on the tall,
lean, curtainless windows of your rooms.

Your tiger ease as you cleanly leapt those
graying mounds of melting March, hurrying happy
that for once, I was free to wait for you.

A teabag steeping in mismatched mugs, the aromas
of saffron and curry , sesame and soy on thick
green waves of boiling cabbage, oozing exotic

across the transom. Under borrowed bulb of a
flea-market lamp, second-hand pages unfold in end-
less profusion, the extravagant bloom of all things

possible. On your sunken mattress we fire-escape in
drowning August heat, plotting stars, navigating
dreams. Squeeze, we squeezed so hard for luck, for magic

as we launched our lives on the steam of kisses toward
the city lights, where we would reign. Rachmaninoff,
Rachmaninoff, sweet sad man, do you remember?






@jms 20mar86

Voices

                                               She heard voices now.  They talked about her.  They said

"Who did she think she was, trying to write at her age.  Why didn't  she go to lunch with friends, or take up bridge, or learn to knit?"

               

                                               She tried to keep the words out of her brain, but they kept coming through like lyrics from "Sweeney Todd" and wouldn't stop.  First one, then two, now three and four, they poured into her head.

                                                They said she may be smart, but she had made bad choices: the wrong school, the wrong job, the wrong husband, the wrong life.

                                                 She may have loved unwisely then, but she had them, her diamonds, one boy, one girl, her childen, "Her only gems," they said. 

Balloons and Rocks

They told her to write every day

                             paint every day

                             walk every day

                             drink green tea every day and pray every day.

Didn't they know she had to feed the cat every day, make the coffee every day, cook every day, do the dishes every day, bring the mail in every day, walk the dog every day and pick the kids up every day?

                              How could she let the balloons fly free above when the rocks held her down on the ground here below?

Upon Seeing Brad Pitt Or Someone Like Him

When she saw him, a sword plunged down her throat to her heart and blood hurried to her fingertips. She felt red all over and hoped he didn't notice. She was afraid she'd say something foolish like: 'What's your sign?' or 'How about those Lakers?'
Instead, she looked down at her shoes and thought about the blond hair that curled behind his ears and fell to his shoulders. His eyes were azure blue, like the sea, and seemed to focus on the people behind her.
She wanted his leathery hands to encircle her waist, but then remembered the ten pounds she had gained. And, if he saw her naked, he would have to see the scar where her breast should have been and the bulge of flesh under her arm.
She hated her body now. How could anyone, let alone a stranger, make love to her? The sad truth was that he would bloom with age and leave her withering on the vine, ready to drop.
Janis Boldenow 12-07

Rainbows and Unicorns (class project)

The rain left a mysterious rainbow in the sky that left a pathway for Billy, the unicorn, to pass onto. Slipping and sliding, the unicorn traveled upward until he reached the fluffiest white cloud in the sky. On top of the cloud, he skipped and jumped and rolled around for hours. The unicorn ran from one end of the cloud to the other, over and over again. He might have done that forever but he found another rainbow. This rainbow led to a dark gray cloud which was heavy with water. The unicorn slid down the rainbow and with a splash landed in the water. He swam and swam and used the rainbow as a diving board, sometimes doing back-flips into the water and sometimes doing front-flips.
He was having the time of his life. So much so that he did not notice that other unicorns had joined him on top of the clouds. They had found another rainbow and were using it to paint themselves. Some ran through the red and became red unicorns. Some ran through the blue and became blue unicorns. A few used the yellow to paint themselves yellow, but Billy was the only one who ran through the green band of the rainbow. The rest of the unicorns laughed.
"Green," they chuckled, " no cool unicorn is ever green."
Billy was not at all cowed by this.
"Why not," he retorted, "give me one good reason."
There was a pause and then one unicorn answered, "Because there has never been a green unicorn."
"There is now." replied Billy quite pleased with himself. He skidded down the rainbow, gaining speed as he went along. Soon the rest of the herd joined him, flying and flapping and sometimes dipping and climbing. No one seemed to care what colors they were anymore. They just floated along more like a bathtub full of bubbles than anything else. Perhaps, that's what happens when we stop trying to make sense out of things. Unicorns become bubbles. The more colors the better and the universe just spins and bobs with the planets in their own spheres, galloping as fast as they could with manes flying in the breeze.
"We're free. We're free." they yell. "No one can catch us now. No one can stop us. We'll do whatever we want, whenever we want. We'll fulfill our heart's desires and follow our bliss till the end of time. Or better yet, to the end of the rainbow!"

The End
Written by the entire class of the Night Session 1-9-08

thank you for two good intro classes

I want to thank all those great people who came to the introductory classes of Creative Writing last Wednesday. I had a lot of fun and I hope you did too. Writing comes from the heart. Creativity comes from the heart. You can write without using your heart but this writing usually comes out mechanical and boring. When you don't write using your heart, writing will become WORK to you and pretty soon you will find a lot of excuses not to write. If writing is fun then you will want to do it. I hope that I can teach you how to put fun into your writing. Of course, you might already have fun writing. I hope so. I can guarantee that most people will have fun in our creative writing classes. I hope to see you there and I hope that you will post some little stories here on the blog space - I will soon. Take care of yourself and your writing hand.
Frank Coughlin

Write here, right now

I want to write something profound here but I don't have anything to special to say. Writing anywhere (on paper, on computer) can be a scary experience. But for me, it is a fun time because I have learned to let go of all the restrictions that English teachers have taught me. They might have had my best interests in mind when they told me about the rules of writing but as an experience, writing became unfun when I incorporated all the rules. Proper Writing was like eating vegetables, good for you but ick (an aquired taste). I want to have fun and I want to have fun writing. I believe to do so you need to let go of all you learned about writing. Poetry does not have to rhyme. Stories do not have make sense. Characters do not have to be good. or smart. or sensible. Super heroes do not have be perfect. Monsters do not have to scary. What are your rules about writing? Break them and see how you feel about it. Be daring! Surprise yourself. Scare yourself. Find out what is inside of you. Let it out and let it go. If you love what you have written, keep writing it. But above all, I encourage you to write. That is what creative writing is to me : the expression of self, the expression of the soul. Let your voice be heard - write.

Welcome to Want-to-be-Writer !

Welcome to you, the soon to be writer! This blog site
is for us fledgling writers who are learning to allow the internal muse to come out into the world. I will post my thoughts for the moment, however stupendous or not, to help you get your writing voice going. Some days will be great
and some not. Read my postings and comment or post your own if you are invited !
Good Luck and GOOD WRITING.
I hope you come to our creative writing classes on Wed.s at the Center in Palos Park.

Yours Writefully,
the Want-to-be-Writer