90.

[my treetop studio. there are many gifts in this magical land of artists.]

last night i read some things i wrote in front of strangers. to which they collectively sighed, smiled the kind of smile that says, "Yes. Beautiful." not, "Happy story lady." and some nice folks approached me afterwards to comment on my reading. they commented on my voice. on my storytelling. on the south itself. i was in the presence of many writers of many genres with many more years experience and many more publications who are far more aware of their direction and their nuances and their goals and and and...they liked it. when it was all said and done, this week at the Fine Arts Work Center has taught me a number of things about process. writing as a practice that deserves time and dedication. storytelling as an art that one fine listener last night said can't be taught, but one that he recognized in me. an art that demands time and attention and deliberate work.

after the reading i sat on the beach with some friends from the center - purveyors of art, orchestrators of social movements, readers, writers, fine human beings - and we were happy for one another and for creativity. for taking risks and surrendering to the mysteries of life. i became the token southerner, which i mind about as much as getting the whole summers off of work, and in true form passed around a bottle of bourbon and asked folks to say what they were thankful for. thankfulness ranged from creative compatriots to being lucky enough to call ourselves part of the Fine Arts Work Center community to the shooting stars that were effortless to discover. We toasted to poetry and reclaimed the sea.

here are two fragments from what I read yesterday evening.
it was an exercise in class that asked us to recall a conflict and tell the story.
then tell the same story from another person's perspective. good exercises...challenging in all the right ways.

***

1.

The smell alone sent my eyes to watering. My sisters trained me this day though.

“Stand up, little thing,” ordered Eva.

“Stop tugging on your britches! Now, what are you going to say to him?”

My thoughts had drifted to the plastic bin of Now and Laters peering out from the cabinet door. I had forgotten everything. “Hellooo? Lily. Remember how you are going to help today? What are you saying?”

“Um, It’s either your liquor or its us?” I proudly remembered through my snaggletoothed smile.

“Good. Now don’t smile and don’t cry and don’t screw it up.” Ellie ordered pouring the last of the brown and the clear into the sink, standing on the stepstool we used for brushing our teeth.

Daddy came home that night to three little samurais on the lower steps. Me on the fifth so I could look him in the eyes.

**************************************************************

2.

“Yell-o?” Millard answered the phone.

You thirsty, Mill? I need a drink. You won’t believe the shit I came home to. That old bitch wife of mine, brainwashed my own damn kids and that rotten ass step-child into a Come to Jesus sort of intervention.”

“An intervention?” Millard asked. “What sort of intervention are we talking here?”

“Well I come home to my little girls on the steps all crowded together like some sort of Indian Tribe ready for battle and the little one...

“Lily?!” Millard doubted.

“Hell yeah, little old butterbean gets nudged in the ribs and says, ‘alright daddy, it’s either us or the alcohol.’ and all this before I put down my goddamn cooler!"

“Well, what the hell did you do?”

"Hell, I laughed at ‘em. Silly bitches. But then I went into the kitchen to get me a drink and I got madder n’ hell because they had poured out my booze. So I left their sorry asses right there on the steps."