It has been 3 glorious weeks at Jentel and I've written more poems than I can believe (over 40). In a little more than 21 days many people here have experienced at least one or two days where the work just would not come. In a community environment such as this often those days were the same ones for each artist. The fiction writer, B., that I share my studio with, had a day when nothing was working. I could hear his curses mix with the gurgle of the river. That was the same day when two of the visual artists were stuck as well. And, then, well, I too fell victim to a brief time of drought.
Generally, while I believe it is important to nap, hike, and relax when the work isn't coming, I also believe in forcing the creative process a bit. Or, rather, sneaking up on the muse and pinching her butt. This can be accomplished in many different ways. Here, in Wyoming, I spent one day just hiking with the goal of getting as high as I could on the 1,000 acre wilderness. I recited lines of poems while hiking, shouting them to the wind, re-configuring their cadence and which syllables were stressed when, and whispering them to the grasshoppers. Then, I stripped and swam in the river (check out the river and my studio space with bones, etc. found on hike), letting the cool water have its way with my rigid intentions.
A few days ago was another day of general funkdom. So, I took off with my fellow artists to town and bought a bunch of colored chalk (while they stocked up on paint and rollers and cow figurines). The lovely J. gave me glassine paper (transparent, crinkly paper) that I layered on the mirror in my writing studio and plastered pictures to and wrote all over with markers (see picture). The huge paper gave me the freedom to write large, swirling words at a diagonal, all in caps, etc. The texture of it against the mirror glowed like a fire. Glittering and ready.
The visual artists graciously allowed me to use the big chalkboard in their studio common space and I wrote poems all over it in different colors with the knowledge that I could, and would, erase them shortly. This destruction gave my work a rapidity and intensity that mimicked the fires I was writing about. I wrote with the flat side as well as the pointy side of the chalk. The words themselves seemed to vibrate in the clouds of chalk dust. I added a friend’s musical score (check out picture) to the center of the board and wrote around it, under it, on it. The notes pulsed as the chalkboard bent and thumped against the wall under the pressure of my writing hand. The muse returned through the hills on a wild purple horse whose hooves pounded the rolling hills to crimson dust.
The visual artists graciously allowed me to use the big chalkboard in their studio common space and I wrote poems all over it in different colors with the knowledge that I could, and would, erase them shortly. This destruction gave my work a rapidity and intensity that mimicked the fires I was writing about. I wrote with the flat side as well as the pointy side of the chalk. The words themselves seemed to vibrate in the clouds of chalk dust. I added a friend’s musical score (check out picture) to the center of the board and wrote around it, under it, on it. The notes pulsed as the chalkboard bent and thumped against the wall under the pressure of my writing hand. The muse returned through the hills on a wild purple horse whose hooves pounded the rolling hills to crimson dust.
And then we had a glass of wine.
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