writer's workshop: Prompt: Stand silent & still, preferably in an area of heavy traffic for six minutes. Record your stream of conciousness, reflecting your reactions to your perceptions. Stop after exactly 6 mins. do not cross out or erase.
10:25-10:31. 6 minute silence.
...a boy with flip flop sandals (my grandma always called them "jap flaps", but thats not p.c. anymore) walks towards the bus stop where i sit watching cars. he is wearing boardshorts & a mesh backed cap. (such a silly habit, wearing swim trunks for pants) he leaves a blank impression on me-blank like waters taste on your toungue) just another sun dulled surfer, like all the rest. (they ask me stupid questions sometimes like "are you scene?" "are you gothic?", & i laugh on the outside & feel embarrassed on the inside but no one ever sees that part) the boy sits, pulls a sketch pad from his bookbag. then a burnt orange pastel stick. hunches his back into a C shape. his hand is still. he looks up. down. up/side. side. sets the sketchpad down. walks over to the chain link fence. he pulls a stem of bouganvilla through the fence. pinches off a single tissuepaperthin magenta bud. he tilts his chin up, raises the flower to eye level. he examines the veins trapped within the thin petal skin. boy gently pulls one petal down with one fingertip. the bloom unfolds like a pop up book. inner petals part revealing three impossibly perfecttiny white flowers hidden in the center. the boy does a half smile. quick back to sketchpad with pastel stick clenched in teeth. our eyes meet. his are green interrupted by honeygold freckle eyes. he raises his eyebrows like we do to say "i see you. you are here. i am here. i acknowledge you,stranger". i fold my arms, try to cover my tattoos. sometimes its hard to feel cool in a well lit room. the boy doesnt see me anyway. he is somewhere deep within the labirynth of magenta petals & hiding tiny flowers & burnt orange pastel dust. it looks silly & odd from the outside. inspiration. he furiously marks the page, rocking, slightly autistic in his determination. he draws. i sit furiously marking the page, rocking, slightly autistic in my determination. i write.
there is never "do you need to draw like you need to eat, as much as you need water?" and never "could you fill pages, waste hours with one bouganvilla bloom's inspiration?"
just blank. surfer. and emo? goth? and quick Up Eyebrows.
a brown car older than me sputterchokes by. quick as a photograph i inhale her image. freckle nosed, golden blonde strands caught in the wind like ribbon streamers behind her. barefeet poke out the open window, rested on rearview window. tan ankles and cuffed faded jeans. the breeze stings my nostrils with it's stolen Pacific salt smell. she is golden sun/matching hair/freckle nose like a print ad. i want to buy the jeans shes selling. beep alarm beep interrupted. six minutes.
10:25-10:31. 6 minute silence.
...a boy with flip flop sandals (my grandma always called them "jap flaps", but thats not p.c. anymore) walks towards the bus stop where i sit watching cars. he is wearing boardshorts & a mesh backed cap. (such a silly habit, wearing swim trunks for pants) he leaves a blank impression on me-blank like waters taste on your toungue) just another sun dulled surfer, like all the rest. (they ask me stupid questions sometimes like "are you scene?" "are you gothic?", & i laugh on the outside & feel embarrassed on the inside but no one ever sees that part) the boy sits, pulls a sketch pad from his bookbag. then a burnt orange pastel stick. hunches his back into a C shape. his hand is still. he looks up. down. up/side. side. sets the sketchpad down. walks over to the chain link fence. he pulls a stem of bouganvilla through the fence. pinches off a single tissuepaperthin magenta bud. he tilts his chin up, raises the flower to eye level. he examines the veins trapped within the thin petal skin. boy gently pulls one petal down with one fingertip. the bloom unfolds like a pop up book. inner petals part revealing three impossibly perfecttiny white flowers hidden in the center. the boy does a half smile. quick back to sketchpad with pastel stick clenched in teeth. our eyes meet. his are green interrupted by honeygold freckle eyes. he raises his eyebrows like we do to say "i see you. you are here. i am here. i acknowledge you,stranger". i fold my arms, try to cover my tattoos. sometimes its hard to feel cool in a well lit room. the boy doesnt see me anyway. he is somewhere deep within the labirynth of magenta petals & hiding tiny flowers & burnt orange pastel dust. it looks silly & odd from the outside. inspiration. he furiously marks the page, rocking, slightly autistic in his determination. he draws. i sit furiously marking the page, rocking, slightly autistic in my determination. i write.
there is never "do you need to draw like you need to eat, as much as you need water?" and never "could you fill pages, waste hours with one bouganvilla bloom's inspiration?"
just blank. surfer. and emo? goth? and quick Up Eyebrows.
a brown car older than me sputterchokes by. quick as a photograph i inhale her image. freckle nosed, golden blonde strands caught in the wind like ribbon streamers behind her. barefeet poke out the open window, rested on rearview window. tan ankles and cuffed faded jeans. the breeze stings my nostrils with it's stolen Pacific salt smell. she is golden sun/matching hair/freckle nose like a print ad. i want to buy the jeans shes selling. beep alarm beep interrupted. six minutes.
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[Edited on May 09, 2004 7:40PM]
Cracked out from too much coffee and too much calculus. I'm just trying to continue to care. 3 more days...