incessant- and perhaps incoherent- verbosity from an optimistic misanthrope.

7.30.2007

singularly exquisite corpse 1.

As part of the bailee. life-overhaul, I signed up for a fiction/short story writing class at the UW's Experimental College. I've been once, and while I'm annoyed with my fellow classmates, I like the teacher and I look forward to blowing him away. Judging by my competition in the classroom, I don't think that will be too hard. We started a true exquisite corpse exercise where we were in groups of four and each person contributed a sentence to a tiny short story, and where I felt like my sentences opened up the narrative (as did two others in my group), there was this one girl who just kept throwing a wrench in the works... Every single time. Let me give you some examples (her contributions are italicized):

When the clock struck midnight, Mark knew that nothing would ever be the same…
But although this was what he wanted, he felt hesitation and then paralysis.
He knew he was supposed to make this call, to press this button, to “change the world,” just like they’d always said.
But he wouldn’t go through with it. Breaking up with Paris Hilton just isn’t something you “do.” She usually does it for you.

I was standing at the kitchen sink when it happened.
I saw the flash out the window and was momentarily blinded.
“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “Yes, it is I; I was wondering if you could recommend an esthetician, for my beard is rather out of control.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, for I am a skilled stylist… but there’ll be a price, and it shall be steep!”

It seemed like the ice had formed instantaneously; every step he took down the stairs was so slippery and unsure, it was like one step closer to death.
Her mother’s icy expression confirmed what she expected already: her mother was now fully aware of the fact that she’d been amorous with the pool boy.
The only problem was the pool-boy was her ex-husband’s love-child.
After contemplating a moment, she decided it wasn’t a problem- if Woody Allen could marry his wife’s adopted daughter, she could do anything.


     It was really discouraging. Everything she had to offer seemed to change the direction the exercise was headed and we all had to adjust to her low-brow sens of humor accordingly. No fun.
     Anyhow, I'm going to be posting the personal exercises here. Feedback from strangers is all well and good, but I'd also appreciate some from people who know me, and probably have a good sense of what I'm aiming for. This was an in-class exercise; the instructor basically said "Write for ten minutes straight." The ten minutes went really quickly.
     The phone is ringing. Again. It's an old-school 80's era rotary dial, all coffee-brown, dial yellowing with age. The ring is loud and harsh and everytime I hear it I tell myself to get rid of the phone. But I haven't yet. I also haven't cleaned my bathroom or my kitchen in weeks. Sure, I straighten them up and wipe down surfaces, but I've yet to give them the deep scrubbing and sanitation they need. I'm running a little behind on my spring cleaning.
     I think about my apartment a lot, about how it has become this ode to mid- to late-century decor, thanks to cabinets that haven't been replaced since the 60's, along with my penchant for buying random bits of furniture at yard sales. I like my apartment. I like that I don't use air freshener or incense or candles, but every time I open my door it smells fresh and clean and slightly sweet, regardless of whatever bacon or marijuana smell is permeating the outside hallway.
     It's tiny and it's mine and it's perfect. Or it was until a month ago. The dogs that have taken up residence in the new kennel just across the alley from my bedroom window have tainted the unit's perfection, ever so slightly. The barking begins before dawn, but even worse than that are the girls that work there, whose only method of placating the animals (heaven forbid they should play with them or take them for walks!)is to walk into the kennel area and yell, "Hey! HEY!" until the beasts are still. The I hear the gate shut, and silence, until usually a smaller pup starts whimpering, and then a larger one begins bellowing, until finally it's a chorus of canines, and the routine begins anew. I want to complain, I want to go in there and ask those girls why they work in a kennel if they hate dogs so much.