Sunday, August 7, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
My Hiker's Ramble
Hike up Salisbury Crags to Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh
On Arthur's Seat there sits the barren sky,
Its temporal absence challenges our want for more.
We climb its measure, resolute in gait and sigh.
In reaching the ancient volcano's store,
The evident riches of this Royal crest
Is not the place we reach on weary foot,
But that which in awe is seen as the best,
The city of Edinburgh is at its root.
Her rich labyrinth spreads to the open Sea.
Her stately store, the base of this ancient hill,
Is man's best in thought and art, made by history.
We climbers are but a witness to its fill,
Our recourse, descent down to city's pace,
And leave open Arthur's seat to Zephyr's chase.
August 6, 2011, Theresa Ciccone
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Freewrite outside with Emma Hardy
Below is the transcription of my free-write from the prompts of our writing tutor- Emma Hardy. I invite my classmates to either transcribe, free-write new, or comment: ( The exercise was to freewrite off of the underlined phrases)
Aug. 3, 2011
The truth is found under the great sprawling tree-under its branches, dark and damp, something steeped in the green smell of wet moss, deep as the dark rough tree trunk, in the bits of silence between the birds calling and the rustle of the leaves, but something not quite discernible as my eyes catch the tiny air light insects that fly into my tears causing my eyes to shut. Truth is also that I am but will not tell you because if I do it will become a lie and I don't want to lie. I have to much hubris for that I want to tell you the key, the secret, the one fact that will open our eyes so that you say, aww I see- I see-I'll see the truth on your face-open, relaxed muscles turned to jelly so that your skin hangs naturally on your cheek and jawbone, so real, so truthful with a tinge of resignation - What I wished I had said was will you, will you? I will, I will, I wish I had that God is Dead or The War has begun or The World will end or The Novel is Dead or Public School education is an archaic institution There is no Santa Clause 2 plus 2 is not 4 and everything you believe is a lie so that we can begin again - go to another place - quite different than this- where paradigms and buildings have fallen like great heaps of sand washed by the waves and we are left here together to start again because truly nothing is more passionate than you and me together on the beach left to create a world better than this because when I look into your eyes I see such affirmation and need that what I meant to say was I love you - in the most respectful sense because you see - nothing shocking has been enough to erase the world in which these words are thought of and --if courageously enough, said, at the beach, you and I.
I opened the door and thought of the Beatles' movie - the Yellow Submarine in which Ringo is in a funhouse of brightly colored doors - open one and a funhouse mirror appears and there I am a wavy image - enormous forehead, little squatty legs or on tippy toes and squatty head and lanky endless legs - Oh no, not me. Another door. I travel in an endless little labyrinth of twists and turns, another door - after I escape that one - a wonderful green hillside - where was I in the film - Where did Ringo end up with his Cockney accent and childlike funny acceptance of the next "pickle" he arrived at- yes - the Blue Meanies chasing him along with John, Paul, and George running onto the Yellow Submarine with a funny man at the helm - Nowhere Man who was so sure where he was going but it was his life told in an amazingly smooth ditty - "He's a real Nowhere man living in his Nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody." So where did I end when I opened the door? In a place I made happen because I had made the exertion, the effort to change my consciousness through action which is the only way to come to someplace different- I was the list maker - had my period, had a glass of wine, saw my mother, smelled my father's tobacco, said I've never been to Scotland, saw my brother without his precious firstborn, believed that America could never experience war on native soil, saw the twin towers fall, believed that Santa was anyone but my father, smoked cigarettes, drove my Sunbird, Cavalier, Cadillac, AMC, purple sparkle bike with banana seat, 3 speed Raliegh, first lovely leather pocketbook, tarnished silver ring, said that I can't because it was something I couldn't change, said I can...because as I read this now realize that there is nothing but change..
Aug. 3, 2011
The truth is found under the great sprawling tree-under its branches, dark and damp, something steeped in the green smell of wet moss, deep as the dark rough tree trunk, in the bits of silence between the birds calling and the rustle of the leaves, but something not quite discernible as my eyes catch the tiny air light insects that fly into my tears causing my eyes to shut. Truth is also that I am but will not tell you because if I do it will become a lie and I don't want to lie. I have to much hubris for that I want to tell you the key, the secret, the one fact that will open our eyes so that you say, aww I see- I see-I'll see the truth on your face-open, relaxed muscles turned to jelly so that your skin hangs naturally on your cheek and jawbone, so real, so truthful with a tinge of resignation - What I wished I had said was will you, will you? I will, I will, I wish I had that God is Dead or The War has begun or The World will end or The Novel is Dead or Public School education is an archaic institution There is no Santa Clause 2 plus 2 is not 4 and everything you believe is a lie so that we can begin again - go to another place - quite different than this- where paradigms and buildings have fallen like great heaps of sand washed by the waves and we are left here together to start again because truly nothing is more passionate than you and me together on the beach left to create a world better than this because when I look into your eyes I see such affirmation and need that what I meant to say was I love you - in the most respectful sense because you see - nothing shocking has been enough to erase the world in which these words are thought of and --if courageously enough, said, at the beach, you and I.
I opened the door and thought of the Beatles' movie - the Yellow Submarine in which Ringo is in a funhouse of brightly colored doors - open one and a funhouse mirror appears and there I am a wavy image - enormous forehead, little squatty legs or on tippy toes and squatty head and lanky endless legs - Oh no, not me. Another door. I travel in an endless little labyrinth of twists and turns, another door - after I escape that one - a wonderful green hillside - where was I in the film - Where did Ringo end up with his Cockney accent and childlike funny acceptance of the next "pickle" he arrived at- yes - the Blue Meanies chasing him along with John, Paul, and George running onto the Yellow Submarine with a funny man at the helm - Nowhere Man who was so sure where he was going but it was his life told in an amazingly smooth ditty - "He's a real Nowhere man living in his Nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody." So where did I end when I opened the door? In a place I made happen because I had made the exertion, the effort to change my consciousness through action which is the only way to come to someplace different- I was the list maker - had my period, had a glass of wine, saw my mother, smelled my father's tobacco, said I've never been to Scotland, saw my brother without his precious firstborn, believed that America could never experience war on native soil, saw the twin towers fall, believed that Santa was anyone but my father, smoked cigarettes, drove my Sunbird, Cavalier, Cadillac, AMC, purple sparkle bike with banana seat, 3 speed Raliegh, first lovely leather pocketbook, tarnished silver ring, said that I can't because it was something I couldn't change, said I can...because as I read this now realize that there is nothing but change..
Masterclass with Douglass Maxwell
I'm squeezing Doug Maxwell's lecture in in the wee hours of the morning, on the heels of Liz Lochhead's entry. He was hard to find, having found the Hume Lecture Hall late after a long walk in the rain (has anyone noticed that Scots don't much care for umbrellas?) I passed a pawn shop with three guitars to choose from, plenty of vintage shops- all with a cause - many hospice charities - little Indian, Pakistan restaurants, a butcher with meatpies in the window (where's Johnny Depp and Helena Bodman Carter?) and sturdy brick and mortar churches with black iron fencing parading as Fringe play venues. Douglass Maxwell gave us gems about playwrighting starting with all his rejection letters - he's like that Frenchman in "Man on Wire" who traversed the World Trade Towers in the 1970s on a tightrope. He explains his voice as comedies with a tinge of sadness. He says things like "The Play becomes a vague shape on the horizon" when you start writing it. Then, "The play will tell you" and the characters start as "primary colors" then they become filled in. While he believes in the mystery of the play, he's workman attitude and energy are evident. Crafting a play requires many redrafts, yet he says "Plays should be parboiled, not hard boiled" Through experience, he tells of early recognition followed by swift criticism - but he seems to like to live on the wire. Scottish theater is about "newness and invention" so he is reinventing structure and what that thing called a play is. He then handed us the balance pole and said jump on as we broke off into groups to fashion a play. Even the most shy of us got up and we had time because our meager plays were the quickest productions ever! Theater writing is visceral - worry about the theme later; in fact, it will take care of itself. When the lecture was over, the sun was out and we proceeded to our writing groups. To make sense of it, he is an artist in motion.
Accomodation and Allocution
A bed, mirror, bathroom, television, closet, drawers, a desk, phone, plenty of outlets- As Virginia Woolf read to the Arts Society at Newnham and Odtaa at Girton, Oct. 1928 - "A Room of One's Own". I'm in Masson Hall, part of Pollack Halls. The grounds are well tended with perennials filling in the spaces between the buildings and the walkways. The greeny feel continues up beyond the buildings to Holyrood Park where Arthur's Seat looms imposing, mossy, ancient and worn down like a oak chair with a smooth worn seat. It is a mountain, though, one on which you can see hikers traverse its length on top.
Besides our room, two important places at Pollack are John McIntyre Dining center and Baird House. At JM, the food is plentiful and good. At Baird House, there is a common room where we have convened for our orientation and lectures. Our first such lecture is given by the first such lady of Scottish letters - Liz Lochhead. A funny grand dame of a poet who surely doesn't seem to view herself in such a way. While in Jan., 2011, she was named Scots Maker, Scotland's national poet (succeeding Edwin Morgan, the first Scots Maker, 2004, who passed), she is self effacing and carries a youthful earnestness to answer her audience with truthful intent, shown as she pauses a bit before she rambles an explanation that usually produces a laugh, even if she was aiming at something else. She reads her poem about a child getting bundled up in the voice of thick Scottish accent, and then reads it again, in standard English. She reads accessible poetry, about enemies and sisters. She generously shares her creative process as we ask her questions about the getting poetry down on paper. For her the process isn't over, even when editing her "Selected Poems" surely the ones to be read in classrooms- she edits them again. Afterward, we mosy to her books, which are plays about Mary Queen of Scots, Medea, Mary Shelley! such weighty stuff! - while her poetry is accessible, she keeps company with the classics of Scottish history and English Literature, and why shouldn't we - surrender to the process and the human frailty of getting it wrong as much as getting it right-maybe even more wrong(we think!) - while aiming at the crystalline classics of which structure embodies the human chord? She is truly a great voice to hear at the beginning of our time here in Edinburgh. And, as I in my "Room of One's Own" I can hear her read her poem, Scottish accent and all.
Besides our room, two important places at Pollack are John McIntyre Dining center and Baird House. At JM, the food is plentiful and good. At Baird House, there is a common room where we have convened for our orientation and lectures. Our first such lecture is given by the first such lady of Scottish letters - Liz Lochhead. A funny grand dame of a poet who surely doesn't seem to view herself in such a way. While in Jan., 2011, she was named Scots Maker, Scotland's national poet (succeeding Edwin Morgan, the first Scots Maker, 2004, who passed), she is self effacing and carries a youthful earnestness to answer her audience with truthful intent, shown as she pauses a bit before she rambles an explanation that usually produces a laugh, even if she was aiming at something else. She reads her poem about a child getting bundled up in the voice of thick Scottish accent, and then reads it again, in standard English. She reads accessible poetry, about enemies and sisters. She generously shares her creative process as we ask her questions about the getting poetry down on paper. For her the process isn't over, even when editing her "Selected Poems" surely the ones to be read in classrooms- she edits them again. Afterward, we mosy to her books, which are plays about Mary Queen of Scots, Medea, Mary Shelley! such weighty stuff! - while her poetry is accessible, she keeps company with the classics of Scottish history and English Literature, and why shouldn't we - surrender to the process and the human frailty of getting it wrong as much as getting it right-maybe even more wrong(we think!) - while aiming at the crystalline classics of which structure embodies the human chord? She is truly a great voice to hear at the beginning of our time here in Edinburgh. And, as I in my "Room of One's Own" I can hear her read her poem, Scottish accent and all.
Scottish Universities' International Summer School (SUISS)
Founded by Professor David Daiches in 1947, the Scottish Universities' International Summer School (SUISS) runs courses in British literature, history and culture, for undergraduates, postgraduates and teachers from all over the world.(http://www.summer-school.hss.ed.ac.uk/suiss/about.html)
Monday, August 1, 2011
Six hours until departure
Boarding passes confirmations passports carry-ons mac jumper sensible sneakers black dress ipod laptop cameras global phones british pounds and one hundred dollar bills last minute correspondence notebooks pocketbooks pens paper reading lists travel guides open sky away I go!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)