Hitting the Triangle at the Right Time

I'm in the dining room, the warmest room in the house, back on Blogger, tapping the keys, attempting to hit something, anything (maybe it's the coffee pot—which I've already too often hit—or, maybe it's the pavement that beckons me, walk! or, it might be—or should be—the books, or maybe it's my damn forehead) at the right moment. Smack. Harder. Smack. As it turns out, I hit my forehead more than anything else. And it hurts. 

This snippet, from a paper cutout taped to a black and white photo found on Bennington alum Mary Ruefle's website, was this morning's flash moment:

Mine is like the role of a triangle player in an orchestra. 
Every once in a while, I have to hit the triangle at the right time. 

British musician/producer/composer Nitin Sawhney's answer to How does the orchestra's triangle player earn a living? (From The Guardian):

No one in an orchestra is paid by how many notes they play. They're paid, and rightly so, for the amount of time they spend in rehearsal and on stage. You might think a triangle player's job was pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin, but just think of counting all those bars' rest and what happens if you come in wrong.

Sometimes, I experience extended moments wherein the weight of time flattens me. The brows are thinning, people! I don't want to come in all wrong, I haven't the time! Jesus, how long do I have to wait before hitting it? And can you imagine if a writer were paid for the number of hours she put in sitting at her desk? Rehearsing? Waiting? Smacking her head with the palm of her hand. Repeatedly. Rehearsing some more. Waiting, waiting, waiting. To hit it. Smack, smack, smack. It might actually be worth all those hours of self-flagellation.

I'm going for a walk...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

- - - - - - - - - - - 

I'm going to pick up the kids at school...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

On Bennington:

Here's the best thing about a writing workshop: You cannot escape from what you've failed to include. There's an (rhetorical) inquisition: Why has the shell hardened? Are you rich? You have kids(!)? Is it dead or gone? Are you ok? Are you wearing snowshoes to write? 

Mute answers: I'm not sure (maybe I used the wrong adjective—or the wrong WIP altogether). Hell, no. Yes. Both. Yes. Hahaha... um, bad metaphor. Really bad metaphor.

Writers are reading between the lines. They are scrutinizing the subtext. This is good, yes, but I'm thinking, They are all so much smarter than me. How did I get here? Perhaps I hit the send button, with my writing samples attached, at the right time. Yes, that was a triangle at-the-right-time moment!

My two essays were workshopped on the last day of the ten-day literary vortex that was my first residency at Bennington. Pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin. From there, I lunched and vortexualized with my new writerly vortexees (and, boy, do you ever bond quickly with writerly vortexees), and then set out (a little weepy) for my three plus hour drive back home. Counting all those bars' rest. Lulu kept me company on the phone for the last half hour stretch through Rhode Island, right to my front door. What happens if you come in wrong? There, she waited for me with a great big zealous embrace. 

I waited a long time for that hug.

(Lulu knows precisely how to come in right.)

Happy, happy I was to be back home with the orchestra. Waiting, rehearsing, even smacking the head. You see, what I've discovered is that, as impatient as I am, I can wait. And don't I enjoy being a triangle player. 

A Secret World — A Special Soliloquy

Inside the books...

Is where I find Lulu, in the family room scanning the tall shelves, the hundreds of books. Have you read all of these? she asks.

Ah huh, I nod, just about. Wait, maybe I didn't read Sister Carrie.

Wow! I don't know why I hadn't noticed these before. I never really looked at them all. 

Yes, I say, well it's not a big deal. I've had a half century to read stories.

Lu swipes her paws across the paper spines and smiles, Hmm, true, but it's still a lot of books.

These books have been my secret worlds. Each one of them, with their own special suns and stars, seas and rivers, pyramids, canyons, gulags. They are made from Poof! Just like this multifaceted planet on which we make our home.

Max tells me that it all started with a bubble, or foam, from which things popped. Or fizzed. I ask him where the bubble, or maybe the foam, came from. There must have been air. Was this the kind of foam in which you could take a bath? He shakes his head, up, down, Yup, yup, that's the question! Exactly.

Planets, universes, worlds, or books—the Poof! came from something. May I suggest, a mastermind?

This was the world before Poof: someone, something, yes, a mastermind conceived a plot, a situation, characters, conflict, tension, climax, resolution, catastrophe, revelation, and designed, created, this story within a dramatic structure, along a sweeping arc, born of a secret world, and put it (and run-on sentences, too) out there, in the air, in space, in the universe, on the planets, on Earth, on bookshelves, at Amazon, for us. For our pleasure.

This is true.

Poof!

This January I will be joining another kind of secret world. For the next two years, in this mystical, somewhat secluded bubble of a world (a/k/a  The Bennington Writing Seminars at Bennington College), I will be working with some brilliant and highly regarded authors, and will be reading no less than one-hundred books. And maybe, writing one. Actually, I'm registered, matriculated, and have already begun the work. January will bring the first of five ten-day residencies over the following two year period. This full-time process, in theory, should culminate with a Master of Fine Arts degree in writing and literature.

I'm pretty excited.

And terrified.

I am not a mastermind, but I'm hoping for a big Poof!

This, of course, will require a lot of dark (or white) space for a while. Not quite a vacuum, but a space with clear, colorless, odorless air in which to breath, void of fiery comets or space debris, or anything that has the potential to crash into my secret world and throw me off course. You know what I mean. It will require many days at the library. Cloistered. So here, my friends, may be my last post for a long while. I won't say forever. But, well, you know I'm no multi-tasker.

Saturday night, Michael and I went out to listen to Red Molly, a girl band (as they refer to themselves), a really fabulous girl band about whom I wrote, in a Frolic, nearly a year and a half ago. They were performing in a small town in Massachusetts. There, in an acoustically perfect coffeehouse, at the very end of the evening, past 11:00 PM and bordering on breaking some serious rules (wrap it up girls—our traffic detail needs to go home!), they sang their final song.

May I suggest.

And this song, I forward to you, a Thanksgiving of sorts, a Thank You. Until I once again emerge from my secret world...

Poof!

 May I Suggest by Suburban Soliloquist 

May I Suggest

By Susan Werner

May I suggest


May I suggest to you


May I suggest this is the best part of your life


May I suggest
/ This time is blessed for you


This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright


Just turn your head
/ And you'll begin to see


The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight


The reasons why /
Why I suggest to you


Why I suggest this is the best part of your life



There is a world


That's been addressed to you


Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes


A secret world


Like a treasure chest to you


Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerize


A lover's trusting smile
/ A tiny baby's hands


The million stars that fill the turning sky at night


Oh I suggest
/ Oh I suggest to you


Oh I suggest this is the best part of your life



There is a hope


That's been expressed in you


The hope of seven generations, maybe more


And this is the faith
/ That they invest in you


It's that you'll do one better than was done before


Inside you know
/ Inside you understand


Inside you know what's yours to finally set right


And I suggest
/ And I suggest to you


And I suggest this is the best part of your life



This is a song


Comes from the west to you


Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun


With a request / With a request of you


To see how very short the endless days will run


And when they're gone


And when the dark descends


Oh we'd give anything for one more hour of light



And I suggest this is the best part of your life