One of the pastors held a creative writing group at church this morning that was so cool. Pitched, he told us, as something akin to a drop-in yoga class -- an hour of exercising (maybe exorcising). Writing as a practice.
You've got Marvin to thank for this vomiting of posts this evening (and by "you," I mean, you, Mom, my only reader). I've been noting things I've wanted to write about over the last couple of weeks, but I have not been making time for my practice.
In the group, I got to writing about Conor. Marvin asked us to think about sensory details, to include colors, smells, and tastes. Nothing like that struck me at the time, but as I laid (lie?) down for a nap this afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me to try to write what's below.
---
It had to have been a summer day because I remember light streaming in, and I remember feeling like I richly deserved this Nachos Bell Grande I was about to eat, having survived another day of unending boredom at her office. I used to make so many things -- stories, crafts, games, role-playing games -- out of that office paper they had with the tear off edges with the little holes. I'd sit on the floor behind her desk bopping my head to the music of the dot matrix printer. Florescent lighting.
So it had to be summer, because I remember that the natural lighting was such a relief. I could not wait to squeeze a few packets of that Mild Border Sauce onto those nachos.
Mom went up to order and sent me, Neil, and Conor to sit and wait at the table. I'm remembering now that there was always the unspoken expectation to try to keep Conor relatively quiet.
I held his hands down, gently, with great disgust at their drooly-sliminess, resigned to tolerating it until I could wash my hands. Let him rub all his cold, wet fingers all up and down my wrists and forearms as I tried to keep him from slamming his hand down on the formica table.
There wasn't anything special about the shouting he did in Taco Bell that day. I mean, it was loud. Puberty had started to deepen his voice. So so loud. Make you wince a little loud. And, (presumably) pissed about the (as I said, gentle) restraining I was doing, he'd finish his few seconds of screaming by slamming himself backward in his shoulder and forcefully pulling his hand back up into his mouth for a little gnawing (and to recoat it with that good stuff).
Put that on repeat, cycled through every thirty seconds or so. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Mom came over with the tray, and we all shared our amusement that he was doing the axe-murderer, as we called it (as we still call it). A soft taco and some Coke exorcised him of that demon for the time being.
I remember noticing that other people were looking, and I remember genuinely not giving much of a shit.
You've got Marvin to thank for this vomiting of posts this evening (and by "you," I mean, you, Mom, my only reader). I've been noting things I've wanted to write about over the last couple of weeks, but I have not been making time for my practice.
In the group, I got to writing about Conor. Marvin asked us to think about sensory details, to include colors, smells, and tastes. Nothing like that struck me at the time, but as I laid (lie?) down for a nap this afternoon, it suddenly occurred to me to try to write what's below.
---
It had to have been a summer day because I remember light streaming in, and I remember feeling like I richly deserved this Nachos Bell Grande I was about to eat, having survived another day of unending boredom at her office. I used to make so many things -- stories, crafts, games, role-playing games -- out of that office paper they had with the tear off edges with the little holes. I'd sit on the floor behind her desk bopping my head to the music of the dot matrix printer. Florescent lighting.
So it had to be summer, because I remember that the natural lighting was such a relief. I could not wait to squeeze a few packets of that Mild Border Sauce onto those nachos.
Mom went up to order and sent me, Neil, and Conor to sit and wait at the table. I'm remembering now that there was always the unspoken expectation to try to keep Conor relatively quiet.
I held his hands down, gently, with great disgust at their drooly-sliminess, resigned to tolerating it until I could wash my hands. Let him rub all his cold, wet fingers all up and down my wrists and forearms as I tried to keep him from slamming his hand down on the formica table.
There wasn't anything special about the shouting he did in Taco Bell that day. I mean, it was loud. Puberty had started to deepen his voice. So so loud. Make you wince a little loud. And, (presumably) pissed about the (as I said, gentle) restraining I was doing, he'd finish his few seconds of screaming by slamming himself backward in his shoulder and forcefully pulling his hand back up into his mouth for a little gnawing (and to recoat it with that good stuff).
Put that on repeat, cycled through every thirty seconds or so. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Mom came over with the tray, and we all shared our amusement that he was doing the axe-murderer, as we called it (as we still call it). A soft taco and some Coke exorcised him of that demon for the time being.
I remember noticing that other people were looking, and I remember genuinely not giving much of a shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment