Today is my day to workshop.
I'm going to try to write my blog during my two-hour break in the middle of the day. We'll see if this actually works. It could pose a problem. For example, I'm getting workshopped after lunch today, so I can't really tell you how it went, and not much has happened in the last six hours that I've been awake, and I told you everything up to that point in my last blog.
So far, I've written some exercises that worked out well. We were supposed to write our childhoods in twelve sentences, and mine turned out really well. It is all about my grandmother, and I wasn't expecting that. In twelve sentences, I covered all of the things I feel about her death and losing the apartment, and it's a travesty that this is the biggest thing that happened to me when I was a kid.
When I was fifteen, my grandmother was moved out of the apartment. And I don't think that the grown ups at the time understood what sort of an effect that had on us kids. That apartment was our home, and losing your home so suddenly and brashly can make it so you never really feel the same way about anything again. It's silly how such a small act in someone else's story can be a turning point in another's. And it's weird how after all these years, after everything my childhood entailed, the loss of the apartment was the thing I spent twelve sentences on.
I am one for justice in the world, and I don't think there will ever really be justice on that act. Maybe that's why I keep writing about it, keep thinking about it. Who knows.
I also wrote a poem for Alex, entitled "Thoughts on my New Husband While Studying in Dingle." It was a horrible poem, since I'm not a poet, but Alex liked it, so I guess that's what matters.
And while of course it isn’t all the same,
It seems we two are the same.
I’m happy to report, in the big scheme of things,
We still hold up.
I see the way others speak for one another when they’re married for a handful of decades.
Tonight, one of the writers said, “After becoming one, you become two.”
Our love is as old as this harbor, as fortified as these cliffs.
You may be on the other side of the world,
In our small land I left three days ago,
But you are here, in Dingle, more than ever.
Told you it was, as they'd say over here, rubbish.
I also learned this morning that in Ireland, you don't do your own laundry. laundry is 15 Euros per bag, and while I'd gladly pay it, I've only gone through three of my ten outfits for the backpacking trip, and it seems a waste of money. Maybe in England I'll do some laundry.
And that is what this blog has become. Me talking to you about my dirty clothes.
I'm going to try to write my blog during my two-hour break in the middle of the day. We'll see if this actually works. It could pose a problem. For example, I'm getting workshopped after lunch today, so I can't really tell you how it went, and not much has happened in the last six hours that I've been awake, and I told you everything up to that point in my last blog.
So far, I've written some exercises that worked out well. We were supposed to write our childhoods in twelve sentences, and mine turned out really well. It is all about my grandmother, and I wasn't expecting that. In twelve sentences, I covered all of the things I feel about her death and losing the apartment, and it's a travesty that this is the biggest thing that happened to me when I was a kid.
When I was fifteen, my grandmother was moved out of the apartment. And I don't think that the grown ups at the time understood what sort of an effect that had on us kids. That apartment was our home, and losing your home so suddenly and brashly can make it so you never really feel the same way about anything again. It's silly how such a small act in someone else's story can be a turning point in another's. And it's weird how after all these years, after everything my childhood entailed, the loss of the apartment was the thing I spent twelve sentences on.
I am one for justice in the world, and I don't think there will ever really be justice on that act. Maybe that's why I keep writing about it, keep thinking about it. Who knows.
I also wrote a poem for Alex, entitled "Thoughts on my New Husband While Studying in Dingle." It was a horrible poem, since I'm not a poet, but Alex liked it, so I guess that's what matters.
And while of course it isn’t all the same,
It seems we two are the same.
I’m happy to report, in the big scheme of things,
We still hold up.
I see the way others speak for one another when they’re married for a handful of decades.
Tonight, one of the writers said, “After becoming one, you become two.”
Our love is as old as this harbor, as fortified as these cliffs.
You may be on the other side of the world,
In our small land I left three days ago,
But you are here, in Dingle, more than ever.
Told you it was, as they'd say over here, rubbish.
I also learned this morning that in Ireland, you don't do your own laundry. laundry is 15 Euros per bag, and while I'd gladly pay it, I've only gone through three of my ten outfits for the backpacking trip, and it seems a waste of money. Maybe in England I'll do some laundry.
And that is what this blog has become. Me talking to you about my dirty clothes.
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