The walls of the cathedral in Lima are made of stone mortared together
with a million egg whites from the sea birds that to this day
nest in perennial multitude on the nearby rocks elbowing out of the Pacific.
The workers used what they had to hand, our tour guide tells us.
Over the mountains, for instance, where there are no sea birds,
the workers cemented their cathedral with the blood of oxen.
It’s easier to crack a few eggs, than to slaughter the ox, no?
A few eggs and the leg bones of believers for bedrock under magnificence.
I raised my eyes to the domed vault. I looked a really long time.
God’s not up there, I thought—but what I say is: what did they do with the yolks?
In the catacombs it’s immediately obvious that cracked skulls
without their lower jaws, stacked one on top of the other
resemble punctured egg shells shucked of their gold.
–Arlitia Jones, April 13, 2017
Kara Lee Corthron started this. I’m so happy she did.
“My hunger for knowledge is practically pathological,” writes Corthron.
So is her passion for storytelling and sharing what she learns with her fellow travelers on this big blue marble.
Every day for this past month, I have been profiling a different woman to celebrate Women’s History Month, along the way enlarging my world and finding connections to positive role models. I got the idea from Corthron who did the same kind of thing in February on her blog, Things I Think About.
“For each day of February, I’m going to feature a Black individual on my blog who falls into one of the following categories: 1) someone who rarely or never receives any attention during Black History Month, 2) someone whom I’d like to learn more about, or 3) someone I’ve only just heard of!” writes Corthron in her introduction to the project.
“Keep in mind that these entries will be very casual—I’m not a historian or a biographer—so please feel free to add other facts that I’ve left out or to add your own discussion questions/topics in the comments section. I want this to be an interactive project so I hope readers will be inspired to contribute.” Read More
It snowed on Easter.
I cracked the door open just enough to let the dog slip through. She was out like a shot and off into the woods, nose down, following the fresh tracks of a rabbit.
My first thought was, Run, Easter Bunny!
My second thought, Up yours, Winter! Read More
We lose people, we who are the quick.
Or maybe it’s more accurate to say they leave us. We hold tight to them, for all we are worth, but in the end, if they see the crack in the door and clear path to get to that sliver of sky beyond, they go.
Our mothers and fathers, our brothers and sisters, friends, lovers, enemies, they go.
“Go” is a helpful euphemism, isn’t it? Let’s agree to say go for now, because we can’t bring ourselves to utter that other final verb that defines how a life that walked beside us can end.
If only the moon–
give me something anything
a hint of yourself as a grail
or a swan’s egg,
even the petrified face
of someone I miss or mourn–
it would be so easy to write a poem
Moon, you’re just being a moon
which makes me nothing more than a woman staring
through dirty glass
at unnamed brightness
this morning after Thanksgiving.
Yesterday, I was so grateful.
Today, I’m cold and convinced the world
is ruled by a policy of ice and commerce
Why should writing a poem be any easier
than standing in line through the long night
for the discounted holy cup of the xbox?
Go be the moon. Keep your metaphors.
Your silver horn blaring through the trees
doesn’t work anymore. You’re out of the band
and according to this black dog under my desk
knocking her white-tipped tail against my leg,
I’m the big drum that booms the call to march.
Nov. 29, 2013
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in shockproof shit-detector.
Since May this year, I have spent some portion of every day writing something. A cracked poem, some loopy dialogue, a journal entry that says over and over and over one word scribbly pencil: Breathe.
(That’s as close as you can get to yoga without actually having to do yoga. Also, licking the wheels of a lawn mower is also the equivalent of downing a shot of wheat grass.)
It’s all writing. And it makes a difference. The act of writing something down on paper has a profound effect on how my brain engages with language for the rest of the day. I don’t care how bad the writing is, you have to write that shit in order to ever have any hope of getting one kernel of beauty in a manuscript later down the road.
Last week I was working on one of my new plays, rewriting pages into the wee hours. I had a deadline looming. I stayed up til 2am writing pages and pages of new dialogue, witty and emotionally deep with tons of story-propelling momentum and cool hurky-derky words. I thought. I woke up the next morning and read over what I’d so painstakingly scribbled the night before:
Garbage, my friends. Not even worthy of the deleted scenes reel. Utter trash.
I was grateful I hadn’t hit the send button the night before. No one needs to see that.
Hey, bad writing happens. No, that’s not right. Bad writing needs to happen. Now it’s a week later, and suddenly one line of all that nonsense I wrote is rising into the sky and can be seen for miles for what it really was trying to be, even by me, the myopic playwright. One line out of pages and pages of writing. Totally worth it!
And since I’m pulling inspirational quotes about what you need to do to be a writer, here’s my favorite from Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild:
Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same. … So write… Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.
Tomorrow the Leopards run out in the open for others to see. Tomorrow, director and actors and designers will gather around my kitchen table with the newly printed scripts in their hands and read words I wrote out loud for the first time. Tomorrow, my play comes alive.
But while the anticipation is killing me, there’s also this bittersweet sense of saying goodbye forever to a world that only I knew of, to people that only I had met, to the story that only I knew.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled as hell to hear my play read tomorrow. I wrote it with the intention of wanting to share it.
Playwrights live for this day.
My cast is amazing. My director brilliant. The designer, she’s out to blow our minds with her visual interpretation and mythic space. This first table read is the necessary and exciting step in collaboration as the play moves toward its workshop production in October. The play is ready, so ready to open its borders to other inhabitants.
Still, we never forget, we knew each other first and best. Yes, I’m talking about the play as if it were a “self” apart from myself, at the same time claiming it as a part of myself.
Tonight, I think about those initial inklings that made me write the play in the first place. I think about the hours I spent just staring at it, seriously just staring, staring, god all I’m doing is just staring at it because I don’t know what the hell it wants to be. I think about all the scenes I’ve deleted–in the case of this play, I think I’ve deleted far more pages than I’ve kept. (The old write 50 pages at night and cut it down to 4 the next morning scenario.) I think of my main character standing in a pool of light in my mind’s stage asking:
“How can I go on?”
All these months writing I’ve been trying to answer that question for her and for myself. And now the day is almost here when we hear that answer.
Tomorrow, I introduce my play, Come to me, Leopards. My Leopards, Jolianne, Sydney, Annia, Evelyn and Sharon will run through the woods together, fleet and strong, calling out to each other with new voices. My job tomorrow is to be the playwright and listen, to keep up with them and figure out exactly where they’re going before they get there.
for Mit, Rudy and Son of Rudy
Monday morning always a zoo,
freight rolling in and the restaurants calling in
out of sirloins, out of tenderloins, out of pork chops
for godsakes and now it’s up to you
to stand hours cutting
the day into 8oz portions to replenish
the larder behind a city’s appetite for the weekend.
You work for the wage and live by the yield
and take five at the next coffee break
when you wipe your hands on your apron,
lean your hip against the cutting table
to cross your arms and listen
to the other meatcutter’s joke about the guy…
but the damn phone never quits ringing
and across town some executive chef
is clear out of bulk sausage
and the whole fucking world
is going to come to a bad end
if it’s not delivered before lunch.
Pick up your knife.
You belong to a class of people
named for a verb, to a trade of men
stained with blood. The red
on these steaks is vital, brilliant,
against white mylar, the only color
in the whole damn place.
400 each center cut tops.
You made them.
“Mother, we haven’t had anything to eat today,” said the three miners from Mexico, “or yesterday, or the day before, and we are dead broke.”
I said it would be remarkable to find a miner any other way. I said I had enough money to get them plenty to eat, but to be sure and steer clear of the charity organizations .
I said, “I can tell you where you can go and get filled up. Go down to the saloon and get a free lunch, and they will give you a schooner of beer to wash it down. I will have a meeting on the street tonight, and as this is the tourist season the collection will be good and I will give it to you.
We had a collection of eighteen dollars that night, and I gave them five dollars apiece and kept three dollars to get something to eat.
Then we saw a gang coming down the street and they were hammering each other. I asked a policeman what the trouble was. He said it was a row about Jesus.
I said, “Who’s in it?”
He said, “The Salvation Army and the Volunteers are fighting about Jesus.”
I said, “that is a hell of a way to fight for Jesus. Why don’t you arrest them?”
He said it would not do because there were fighting for Jesus.
They had beaten each other and the women had pulled each other’s hair out. They were fighting to see which side Jesus belonged to. While they were hammering each other the collection that had been taken up rolled on the street. I jumped in and rescued the coin.
When I had some coin I didn’t have to fight for or talk for, but got it by bending my back a little, I said to the policeman: “Don’t you want a drink on Jesus?”
He said, “By God, I do!”
So we went to a restaurant and got supper and some beer, and if any fellow wanted to get an extra jag on we were ready to pay for it because we had Jesus’s money.
–Mary “Mother Jones” Harris
Speech at the annual convention
of United Mine Workers of America, 1909
Happy Labor Day weekend, everyone.
Thank you to all the unions, organizers, workers, agitators, liberals and lawmakers who finally pulled their heads out of the owners’ asses to give us a day to celebrate people who work.
And thank you, too, to everyone who has encouraged me and commented and viewed my blog in my inaugural week. I’m enjoying the conversation.