Exercises in scaffolding (1)

The following poems (exercises 1 and 2) were written as part of practice in scaffolding.  The imagery, rhythm and mood of the original are dissected line by line and reflected in a rewrite with a twist on subject and/or theme.

The first poem is my piece, the second is the original inspiration.

Fragmentsville (after Billy Collins: Schoolsville)

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,

I realize the number of projects I’ve left undone

could fill a thousand planner’s days.

I can see them lurking in dusty corners,

half-sung melodies thickening the air

for gesturing figures suspended in step.

The would-be works inch meekly toward the half-light

in the hopes of being noticed,

each one for its initial glory, 

earning a line and coveted check on the page.

Once in a while, the spotlight illuminates

a listless plot line,

promising to straighten its hunched hero,

to reanimate its tender theme.

But time is impatient, the weary scribe

moreso, and the story is cast back

to amend the shadows once more.

Schoolsville 

Billy Collins

Glancing over my shoulder at the past,
I realize the number of students I have taught
is enough to populate a small town.

I can see it nestled in a paper landscape,
chalk dust flurrying down in winter,
nights dark as a blackboard.

The population ages but never graduates.
On hot afternoons they sweat the final in the park
and when it's cold they shiver around stoves
reading disorganized essays out loud.
A bell rings on the hour and everybody zigzags
into the streets with their books.

I forgot all their last names first and their
first names last in alphabetical order.
But the boy who always had his hand up
is an alderman and owns the haberdashery.
The girl who signed her papers in lipstick
leans against the drugstore, smoking,
brushing her hair like a machine.

Their grades are sewn into their clothes
like references to Hawthorne.
The A's stroll along with other A's.
The D's honk whenever they pass another D.

All the creative-writing students recline
on the courthouse lawn and play the lute.
Wherever they go, they form a big circle.

Needless to say, I am the mayor.
I live in the white colonial at Maple and Main.
I rarely leave the house. The car deflates
in the driveway. Vines twirl around the porch swing.

Once in a while a student knocks on the door
with a term paper fifteen years late
or a question about Yeats or double-spacing.
And sometimes one will appear in a windowpane
to watch me lecturing the wallpaper,
quizzing the chandelier, reprimanding the air.

Exercises in scaffolding (2)

see scaffolding explanation in post (1)

Omens of an Affair 

(after James Tate: Consolations After an Affair)

My keys are rattling to one another:

whispering a secret leaked

by the borrowed key from his ring.

I have records in their sleeves

that think the song is still ours.

They know nothing of the broken, bygone player.

For them to be heard in memory

is gratification and needle enough.

My step awakens a creak in the floor,

a vulnerability worth noticing,

but I’m distracted by the fox 

creeping just beyond the window.

I am chilled by the static of unformed words,

haunted by this house of secrets.

Consolations After an Affair

James Tate

My plants are whispering to ona another:

they are planning a little party

later on in the week about watering time.

I have quilts on beds and walls

that think it is still the 19^th century.

They know nothing of automobiles and jet planes.

For them a wheat field in January

is their mother and enough.

I’ve discovered that I don’t need

a retirement plan, a plan to succeed.

A snow leopard sleeps beside me

like a slow, warm breeze.

And I can hear the inner birds singing

alone in this house I love.

[fiction] City Walls

This selection is a {semi} autobiographical selection for my creative writing portfolio, written in an interior monologue narrative.
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     Next stop, 18^th & California.  The doors are closing, please step to the center of the train to make way for boarding passengers…..   This is my stop.  I push my way through the protruding limbs, around a pair of giggling Hello Kitty backpacks, and stumble down the stairs to find myself lodged precariously between a ticket box and its adjacent platform pole.  While the short sightedness and apparent small stature of whoever planned this space is lamentable, my critical energy is better spared to focus on making my connection.  I wriggle out of my backpack and squeeze into the lane of travel, where after a short distance of strategic twisting and dodging, the sea of people breaks open and spits me out on the empty sidewalk.  With no time to spare, I break into a sprint only to cast a few steps before my bus whizzes through the next intersection, mocking me with the diesely growl of its accelerating engine.

Damn!

  The abrupt block of momentum exhausts in the form of an agitated sigh.  That spark of energy wasn’t enough to raise my pulse, but I feel my cheeks flush with sudden embarrassment at my gratuitously pushy display.  A quick survey of passers by reveals no critical gazes, a small relief from my humiliation, and I breathe deep to get my bearings.  The aroma wafting from a nearby pizza joint snaps my focus back to the downtown bustle.  I’ve always liked the city, I’ve got nowhere to be but home, and the next bus will be along soon enough.  Might as well make it enjoyable.

  I take a minute in the fresh evening air to adjust: checking pockets, fidgeting with my jacket (off?... on?... off), tightening my backpack, and retrieving my dangling headphones.  I know this block, I walk it nearly every day, but under influence of a soundtrack the sights take on a transformation of almost cinematic appeal.  The taxi cabs, bike messengers, and pedestrians, all stand-ins on the urban set.   And in the golden autumn sun, I am the enamored observer, both fascinated and detached, waiting for the story to unfold.  I don’t think about my day, no missed busses, no scowling people, no extra baggage.  It’s just me, encapsulated by the tall buildings, the beautiful buildings, free to move unnoticed amidst the hustle of a city in transition.

  My bus stop is only a short journey around the corner, but I linger, wandering through a public garden, taking detailed notice of the progress on the new sky-scraper, stretching overhead.  Eventually I arrive at the designated waiting area to find a loose group of expectant travelers.  They stand idly as scripted, making as little eye contact as possible, never speaking except to ask the time of the next bus arrival.  I see the empty bench, and spend only a moment inspecting it for suspicious moisture or other telltale residue before deciding to sit.  

  A few uneventful minutes pass by, when a burst of distant movement catches my eye.  The woman down the block takes no shame in making her presence known, clutching and waving the collar of her shiny blue jacket, stepping her puffed-up sneakers in a rhythm somewhere between strut and stumble.  It becomes apparent that she is headed straight for us, and I pretend not to notice, pulling my dark glasses down to hide my gaze.  The others do the same.  She sets her sights on the empty end of the bench, plunking down with an exaggerated slump so heavy it creaks the anchored metal supports.  Her hands flutter around, signaling that she is talking, and I respond by expressing urgent interest in the most recent email that chirps for attention from my phone.  She carries on with her display, undaunted by my lack of concern, and unaffected by the growing number of bothered stares from silent onlookers.

  I try desperately to ignore her, as though her humiliation would somehow be reduced by my willingness to overlook it.  But she continues to invade my space, begging for my attention, breaking down the barriers that I so tactfully erected.  I think she’s singing now, I can feel a slow rocking disturbance in the air next to me and I’m afraid to even glance sideways under the cover of my glasses, so I drill my attention harder into the digital distraction in front of me.  Within seconds, my ears begin to burn, and I have only an instant to recognize the claustrophobic wave that rushes over me as her head suddenly nestles in my lap.

                                                                                                                                                                                 Shit !!!!

  The shock renders me speechless - only the click of a thought escapes the back of my throat.  My body wants to lurch backward, but the fixed bench keeps me still, and I am frozen in a gesture of surprise: mouth gaping, arms halfway raised, one leg slightly up as if searching for an invisible hold from which to spring forward.  I peer up above my glasses in a desperate search for help, only to see the swift snap of gawking bastards turning their backs.  The potent aroma of Aquanet spiked with Zima brings my attention back to the woman stretched languidly in my lap, and my body sucks away, as though trying to get out from underneath a spilled drink.  I’m definitely not getting the smell of booze out these clothes any time soon.

Before my brain can manage to spur my body into action, she sits up, primps her blonde nest, and grins at me sheepishly through baby blue eyes, her mouth forming words in the shape of a half-slurred apology.  She lays back down, not touching but still unbearably close, and my nose crunches up in disgust at the smell, at her, at the people around us, at myself.  I turn away and stare at no one, examining my better sense of social decency to determine if it’s worse to walk away and pass her off to the next unfortunate stranger, or to hold my ground and suffer.  I make a compromise, staying put, but still pretending to ignore her, allowing my attention to be distracted by a wall of windows reflecting the setting sun.  I only pray that the power source holds and keeps the soundtrack running; it’s my one remaining vestige of isolation.

  She keeps talking, this time into the distance.  The song in my ears is angry.  It matches the tension she carries in her jaw, and I start to wonder what she’s going on about, what her life is like.  She curls up tighter and stares at the ground.  I can feel a bristle in her demeanor and make no guesses as to whether it has anything to do with the man approaching in a heated gait.

  “Julia!  Get the fuck up!  Don’t make no more trouble with people!”  He connects with her arm and yanks her off the bench, whipping the air next to me into a chilled torrent.  

Fucker.

  I grit my jaw and slide my glasses up over my head, staring daggers into his squinty brown eyes, which he shifts shamefully away.  In perfect timing, the bus pulls up, and the gawking bastards jockey eagerly for boarding position.  They pile on one by one, followed by the unphased, giggling woman and her aggravated companion.  I am the last to board, taking a seat near the front where I don’t have to watch the sad story unfold behind me.  A melancholy melody floods my ears, lulling me into forgetful calm as the film rolls on.  The scenes cross and fade, past the beautiful buildings, beyond the railyard, and into the projects, where a man cries on his front stoop.  It’s here that the music finally dies, but I keep my headphones in place, still pretending to ignore.

[fiction] The Quarry - rev

Here is the edited final version, based on the feedback I received in the workshop.  Enjoy!

========================================================================

     He swore he could hear a tick coming from the dashboard clock as he stared through the moisture accumulating on the glass.  He focused in on the numbers, willing the time to disappear, but they glowed proud and still, issuing a wretched provocation in their insistency.  The dark car was parked at the edge of the overlook, the engine silent, still he pressed his boot hard into the brake.  Every few minutes he unclenched his jaw when the tension had risen so high he feared cracking his teeth; a fissure that resembled the one in the windshield before him, he imagined, and would slowly fracture down through his bones and into his soul, leaving only jagged, crumbled remains.  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the impending action, steeling his resolve, cold as the barrel he fingered in his left hand.  He could still hear the ticking.

It was no surprise to see the headlights turn into the lot below, but he sat at full alert, opening the door slightly as he ground his left heel into the gravel.  A timorous figure emerged from the vehicle, glided discretely between the misty shadows, and finally stepped into the pallid light, standing with her back to his vantage.  He didn’t need to see her face, he recognized every curve of the silhouette, her graceful stride, the muted confidence with which she carried herself, even now when she was so visibly uneasy among the lithic walls.  He sat back at the thought of her, of everything they had been through, of everything they had sacrificed for each other, and wondered what affliction could drive her to such unthinkable betrayal.  He shook his head to rid it of any remorse and slowly clicked the bolt back over the firing chamber of his rifle.  No, she had made her fate, it was his to seal, it was his directive.  

He crouched forward, nesting the long barrel on the door hinge, focusing his scope for a fatal mark.  He was relieved by her facelessness, by the fact that he could remember her as she once was, that he would never again have to meet her deceitful gaze.  In those seconds, as he held his breath, she seemed motionless.  The fog cleared and the world was still.  He steadied his nerve and delicately tightened his index finger over the trigger, counting between heartbeats to time the shot.  As he squeezed tighter, she turned suddenly, staring deep into the weapon aimed against her.  There was no way she could have seen him perched in the shadows above, but the shock of her crystalline eyes caused him to recoil, sending an errant bullet into the stone face beyond her shoulder.  

The snap of the impact caused her to spin in alarm, and she started toward her car.  Something snapped in him as well.  Her unwitting confrontation stirred every vengeful desire he had fought to conceal.  In an instant he stashed the rifle, hoisted himself from the car, and descended the flaking walls of the pit with a stealth not known to human creatures.  He covered nearly 100 meters of ground before she could reach twenty steps.  He pulled a pistol from his side holster and aimed it at her as they paused only briefly, staring into the darkness.  She had yet to see him, but instinctively gave chase, and he charged furiously.  Within moments, he was upon her, snagging her arm and causing her to lunge face-first into the rubble.

He froze outside the greenish halo that lit down from the lamp above, waiting intensely for her to move.  Instead, she sobbed, her hand clutching at the rocky shards beneath her face.  His lip pinched into a sneer as she wiped her eyes and struggled to her knees, facing her attacker.  He pointed the gun at her and stepped back further into the shadow.

“Who are you?  What do you want?”  Her attempt at making a command was betrayed by the warble of fear in her voice.  She breathed hard and scrambled to her feet, gingerly wiping the blood that had begun to run down her temple.  He stood silent.

“Listen to me, please!  Whatever this is, whatever you need, I can help.” She paused impatiently. “Just tell me what you want.  Why did you call me here?”

He growled low as he stepped closer, and she shuddered.
“Who-” she squinted her eyes to focus into the shadows.  “Eli?!”  Her deduction was spiked in tension between relief and bewilderment.  He made no recognition, but began to pace around her, staying one step ahead of her gaze.  

“Not who you expected?” he toyed.

“No, not, …. no.  Please, you don’t belong here-”

“Neither do you!”  He switched the direction of his stride, and her head swiveled back.

“It’s not what you think, you’ve made a mistake.”

“I have no reason to believe you anymore.  I know what this is.  I’ve seen the evidence-”

“You don’t know how deep this goes… there’s a history, Eli.”  She began to cry.  “Just listen to me, you need to know the truth!”

“STOP your foolishness-” he stops circling and stares with contempt.

“Please, Eli, you weren’t there, you were called away, I had to make a choice!”

“You made the wrong one!” He roared as he impulsively struck the butt of the gun against her cheek.  She crumbled to her knees, sobbing.

“Listen, please,” her cry was soggy with desperation.  

He grabbed her by the chin.  “Get up!”  He sneered again at the sight of blood staining her ivory skin.

“Listen to me!  You don’t have to do this, it’s not too late for us,” she shouted, clutching at his shirt.  He shoved her away.

“It’s too late for that, it’s too late for you.” 

“No, Eli, please!”

He stood as hard and cold as the towering walls around him, glaring at her with disgust.

“Please,”  she begged once more as she bowed her head, silently weeping for only a few moments before growing still.  He heard no more weeping, no more gasping, and the trembling stopped.  The silence paralyzed him.  She straightened her body and took willful, steady steps forward, until he could feel the heat of her presence.  As she raised her eyes, his mouth watered at the leaden scent of the blood that he had drawn from her skin.  

“Do what you must, but don’t be foolish enough to think you can win this.  Not this way.  The truth can’t be killed.”  It was a cold reprimand, the last warning she could issue.  She uttered one final word to him, hardly an audible breath.  He spoke no response and made no expression, but his eyes betrayed a sudden terror that gripped his heart.  She breathed a sigh and reached for his arm.  Her glare never faltered as she raised the weapon, but her face lost all character, her eyes all color as she pressed the gun, in his hand, hard against her temple.  She stepped back slightly, burning her gaze into him as she issued the guttural command.

“Do it…… DO IT!”

testing 1....2.....!

Feedback time!  We workshopped the story in class.  It would take up far too much room to post everyone's input, but here's my response to what they gave me. (I'll post the final portfolio draft soon... ish).

ps.... the actual story is in the last blog entry below (the quarry).

2/6/11

Writer response

For me, one of the most important aspects of creative writing is engaging the reader.  Because ideas are more wholly developed when looked at from more than one perspective, I am always grateful for the opportunity to run my work by readers who look at the piece from a writer’s point of view.  The feedback provided during the workshop and on the class blogs was both very encouraging and very revealing.  I also ran the story by a few trusted friends for some additional input.

Most reviewers were very complimentary about the mechanics of the story.  The flow of the plot and integration of dialogue was not a sticking point for anyone, and most readers did not have a problem with the diction, although I am aware that I should be cautious about using any flashy wording that calls attention to itself.  It appears as though I was relatively successful in maintaining the suspenseful tone of the story.  I do believe that part of the tension in the narrative was because of purposeful omission of backstory and motive, but the most common suggestion for improvement I received was to answer some of the questions.

Readers wanted to know what the woman had done, why the man was angry, why the murder was taking place.  They also wanted more specific physical descriptions, about the setting and about Eli.  To be honest, I was a little hesitant about spelling out the character motivations to the letter because I didn’t want to interrupt the reader response.  I really enjoyed hearing broad extent of people’s ideas about what had happened between the two characters (was it an affair?  what did she know that he didn’t?) as well as who Eli was (vampire, soldier, assassin), and I didn’t want to take any of that exploration away.  I was also worried about how I would add setting details without interrupting the build-up of the story, although one person pointed out a major continuity error involving his use of the gun.

In the end, I did receive a couple of very useful suggestions in how to achieve clarity without intrusion.  I can add some physical context by inputting small description tags within character action.  I have also started to work on specifying the dialogue to provide some more clues for the reader.  The mystery will stay in place, but hopefully will be a less confusing and more provocative ride for the reader.

Fiction workshop draft

This is a short fiction narrative for my creative writing class.  This particular version is the draft I wrote to present in class workshop (get feedback, editing input, etc).  Enjoy!!!! Comments welcome.

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

The Quarry

He swore he could hear a tick coming from the dashboard clock as he stared through the moisture accumulating on the glass.  He focused in on the numbers, willing the time to disappear, but they glowed proud and still, issuing a wretched provocation in their insistency.  The dark car was parked at the edge of the overlook, the engine silent, still he pressed his heel hard into the brake.  Every few minutes he unclenched his jaw when the tension had risen so high he feared cracking his teeth; a fissure that resembled the one in the windshield before him, he imagined, and would slowly fracture down through his bones and into his soul, leaving only jagged, crumbled remains.  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the impending action, steeling his resolve, cold as the barrel he fingered in his left hand.  He could still hear the ticking.

It was no surprise to see the headlights turn into the lot, but he sat at full alert, opening the door slightly as he ground his left boot into the gravel.  A timorous figure emerged from the vehicle, glided discretely between the shadows, and finally stepped into the pallid light, standing with her back to his vantage.  He didn’t need to see her face, he recognized every curve of the silhouette, her graceful stride, the muted confidence with which she carried herself, even now when she was so visibly uneasy.  He sat back at the thought of her, of everything they had been through, of everything they had sacrificed for each other, and wondered what affliction could drive her to such unthinkable betrayal.  He shook his head to rid it of any remorse and slowly clicked the bolt back over the firing chamber of his rifle.  No, she had made her fate, it was his to seal, it was his duty.  

He crouched forward, nesting the long barrel on the door hinge, focusing his scope for a fatal mark.  He was relieved by her facelessness, by the fact that he could remember her as she once was, that he would never again have to meet her deceitful gaze.  In those seconds, as he held his breath, she seemed motionless.  The world was still.  He steadied his nerve and delicately tightened his index finger over the trigger, counting between heartbeats to time the shot.  As he squeezed tighter, she turned suddenly, staring deep into the weapon aimed against her.  There was no way she could have seen him, but the shock of her crystalline eyes caused him to recoil, sending an errant bullet into the stone face beyond her shoulder.  

The snap of the impact caused her to spin in alarm, and she started toward her car.  Something snapped in him as well.  Her unwitting confrontation stirred every vengeful desire he had fought to conceal.  In an instant he stashed the rifle, hoisted himself from the car, and descended the flaking walls of the pit with a stealth not known to human creatures.  He covered nearly 300 meters of ground before she could reach twenty steps.  They paused only briefly, staring into the darkness.  She had yet to see him, but instinctively gave chase, and he charged furiously.  Within moments, he was upon her, snagging her arm and causing her to lunge face-first into the gravel.

He froze outside the greenish halo that lit down from the lamp above, waiting intensely for her to move.  Instead, she sobbed, her hand clutching at the pebbles beneath her face.  His lip pinched into a sneer as she wiped her eyes and struggled to her knees, facing her attacker.  He pointed the gun at her and stepped back further into the shadow.

“Who are you?  What do you want?”  Her attempt at making a command was betrayed by the warble of fear in her voice.  She breathed hard and scrambled to her feet, gingerly wiping the blood that had begun to run down her temple.  He stood silent.

“Listen to me, please!  Whatever this is, whatever you need, I can help.” She paused impatiently. “Just tell me what you want.  Why are you here?”

“You are a fool,” he growled.  He stepped closer, and she shuddered.

“Who-” she squinted her eyes to focus into the shadows.  “Eli?!”  Her deduction was spiked in tension between relief and bewilderment.  He made no recognition, but began to pace around her, staying one step ahead of her gaze.  

“Not who you expected?” he toyed.

“No, not, …. no.  Please, you don’t belong here-”

“Neither do you!”  The sound of her voice sickened him.

“Please, it’s not what you think.”

“I have no reason to believe you anymore.  I know what this is.  I’ve seen the evidence-”

“You don’t know how deep this goes… there’s a history, Eli.”  She began to cry.  “If you please just listen-”

“There’s nothing you could ever say-” 

“Please, Eli, you weren’t there, you were gone, I had to make a choice!”

“You made the wrong one!” He roared as he impulsively struck the butt of the gun against her cheek.  She crumbled to her knees, sobbing.

“Listen, please,” her cry was soggy with desperation.  

He grabbed her by the chin.  “Get up!”  He sneered again at the sight of blood staining her ivory skin.

“Listen to me!  I don’t want to lose you this way, it’s not too late for us,” she shouted, clutching at his shirt.  He shoved her away.

“It’s too late for that, it’s too late for you.” 

“No, Eli, please!”

He stood still and hard as the walls around him, glaring at her with disgust.

“Please,”  she begged once more as she bowed her head, silently weeping for only a few moments before growing still.  He heard no more weeping, no more gasping, and the trembling stopped.  She straightened her body and took willful, steady steps toward him, until he could feel the heat of her presence.  As she raised her gaze, his mouth watered at the smell of the blood that he had drawn from her skin.  

“Do what you must, but you can’t win this.  Not this way.  It’s only going to get worse.”  It was a cold reprimand, the last warning she could issue.  She uttered one final word to him, hardly an audible breath.  He spoke no response and made no expression, but his eyes betrayed a sudden terror that gripped his heart.  She breathed a sigh and reached for his arm.  Her gaze never changed as she raised the weapon, but her face lost all character, her eyes all color as she pressed the gun, in his hand, hard against her temple.  She stepped back slightly, burning her gaze into him as she issued the guttural command.

“Do it…… DO IT!”