Thoughts that never made it - Intro

Today, I'm going to start a series on words that never made it to print.  I like them so I'm going to put them here.

The first entry explains why:

Noisy crowds of words 

Live in my head

Clamoring for freedom

All want to go.

They drop from my mind 

And slip down my arm

To fall from my pen

One letter at a time

Strings of words,

Forming themselves into

sentences, stories, poems . . .

I wonder 

Where did they come from?

And who they belong to?

Sometimes writing is easy

sometimes it's hard,

sometimes I just feel

empty and used up.

Too tired to think

Weary from pen and keyboard

I need to rest and renew

Until words are once more

Jammed in my head

Screaming to be let out.

Then it feels good.  Like 

Putting a baby to an overfull breast

Ever mindful that the breast too

Needs to rest and fill up again.

  Marilynne

Unintended accusations

Last night I left one of my poems at moments of perfect clarity .

Julochka said of the quilt she had pictured that it had been made from clothing her children had once worn.  She always thought of them when she looked at it.  I related to that and thought of the poem.

I thought today that I would tell you a bit about the way this little ditty came to be.  

I was in my first writing class and I’d joined the class late.  Our teacher liked to knit while we read or discussed things.

On this day we were to write a limerick.  I’ve always loved writing limericks and this one popped into my head nearly whole, as my poems often do.

Writing Class

There once was a teacher of note
Who listened more than she wrote
To words of great wit as she sat and knit
Words and letters entangled became.

One day she spied a sweater
And remembered every letter
Of the words between the stitches she had knit
To the words she gave her name
To who belongs the fame?
To the sweater, or the teacher, or the wit?

(c) Marilynne Smith

There is an odd ending to my writing this limerick.  When I wrote it, I didn't realize there is an accusation here.  After all, I was only writing a silly little poem.  I was proud of it and told my teacher that since she was the inspiration for the poem, I was giving it to her.

Ah, unintended accusations.  My teacher never returned to the class.  I was only encapsulating a thought as a poem.  I meant nothing.  I did not intend to accuse her.

I've always felt I would have liked to apologize to her.  But then, would that be making it worse?  I don't know.  I just know that limericks tell a little story and that is the one I told.  It was nothing more than that and nothing less.

Marilynne

Evening thoughts

I have a mental block trying to create a new web page. I know how to do it, but every time I begin to code, I just fuzz out. It's a problem with words. Yes, stupid little words that line up in chains to make sentences. As a writer I know how to string them in long melodic ribbons. However, put some HTML code in front of me and I block.

It's not that I don't know HTML. Somewhere a friend has a sample table I made for her showing that you can code anything. If you can code a crazy table and use a cascading style sheet, you should be able to create a web site.

So, with the web site on my mind, I'm going to say "Good Evening" and take myself to bed. By morning I should have it all written and coded - it I can remember it at all.

Better luck to you.

Marilynne

Watercolor and writing

These are my two favorite things (as opposed to family and friends who don't even count as things). I love to do both.

Today was watercolor day. All day, I sat with my paints working on a little picture of a vase and some flowers. I finished the vase and flowers several weeks ago, but I lacked the courage to begin the background. Somehow I was sure I would mess up, so I left it on my desk.





Today I decided to do that background. I painted the background wet on wet, which means I wet the paper, waited until it soaked in, then carefully dropped paint onto the wet paper and watched it spread. I love doing that. The paint doesn't go farther than the wet paper, so if you're careful with the water, it only goes where you want it to be.

Wet on wet allows you to drop more than one color on the page and watch them compete for space. They don't mix unless you brush them. So, one color flows along, and the other color competes for space. Today it was the lovely red/orange color of burnt sienna and the dark and stormy Payne's gray. I painted with the burnt sienna first, then dipped the grey into the corners to form shadows and such. It's fun to watch.

Then, just as the burnt sienna and Payne's grey settled down, I dipped a pale bit of alizarin red into the mix. Yummy! To make it more fun, I lifted some of the paint with a Kleenex. This left a whitish spot on the paper, but it was still wet. Paint flowed into the white spot and made a paler mix of the colors.
So they're all there in the background. You can see each color separately and the overall effect is a beautiful rusty orange darkened in places with the gray and sparked with the red.

The reason I was reluctant to start the background was because the foreground was a lovely pale vase with white roses in it. I was afraid that it would be overwhelmed by the bright background. Was it? No, it set it off and I have something pretty to hang on my wall.

The overall result of the day was not only the painting, not only lunch with my friend, but also a sense of relaxation, delight, and accomplishment. Why shouldn't I pursue something that gives me such satisfaction?

No reason at all. Still, in the back on my mind Maxie is waiting. Maxie is a character in the murder mystery I'm writing. Last thing I wrote, she entered a strange house in the dark. She was at the top of the stairs when a big earthquake hit. Maxie was tossed back into the stairwell and fell down the stairs to a little landing. That's where she waited out the earthquake in the dark. Afraid and alone.

So, after a day of painting, I've got to go and rescue Maxie. I need to know how she survived and what she decides to do about the house. It's tough work, but someone's got to do it.

Marilynne