just returned from my first Sculpting the Story class. it was actually the second meeting for everyone else; i missed the first in favor of non-literary delights in SF. needless to say i don’t regret it. i didn’t have any trouble fitting in, either, or at least it seemed that way. the teacher is wonderful. the anti-lisa cohen, as it happens, which is not to say the indomitable l. cohen is unworthy or that her lessons were unappreciated. this woman’s style is just very different and i think i instinctively respond to it more/better.
tomorrow i have the 3rd — my 2nd — meeting of the New Faces, More Voices workshop (motto: “turning the world feminist one co-ed at a time”). hopefully the adrenaline rush from this writing thing will carry over into that. since it starts at 9 a.m. and goes til 1, i can’t think of much else that would keep me going. but the first meeting was wonderful and i have continued high expectations for this as well.
johnny drove me home tonite and spoke of a godfather marathon/festival this weekend. that would be wonderful. i’m craving distraction in all its forms: cinematic, classroom, food. it’s all keeping me busy, tho not spotlessly happy — i suppose that’s as much as i could hope for what w/ SF all the way across the goddamn country (who designed the bloody thing anyhow?). and on that note, b/c ben gave his blessing thru laughter and liz got all misty-eyed when she read it, here’s one of the three poems i’ve been working on the past few days:
The sun sets,
like a woman gently laying her bruised body
down, over me on the runway
while I think of your next girlfriend:
the lights of the runway forecast the
smart, tidy shine of her hair;
its length, the length of her thighs.
Maybe she will be a fireman�s pole like you:
I�m always shimmying up and sliding down you; maybe she
will simply lie there
nobly.
Maybe she will not tell you to smile more
or anything so frivolous; she�ll encourage
the growth of a goatee, turn your chin into a
bonzai tree that she can cultivate. She will be spiritual
and serious and tall, so you won�t have to stoop
to kiss her, and composed, so she�ll never laugh
during love when you cover her mouth to stifle
her impassioned �ah�s. She will not �ah.� Perhaps
she will say �Yes.� Perhaps �Precisely!� Perhaps
she will orgasm in japanese. Regardless,
she will be suave.
She will you call Benjamin.
She will not have a stomach like a rabbit curled up
beneath her skin or breasts like pots of water for which
your hands are lids; she will not have a stomach,
and her breasts will be perky-tight like
dashboard dolls. And it goes without saying
she will never wear the same outfit twice.
I cannot compete with her. Superiority is her nature:
it would be foolish to try. You may grow old with her
but Ben, oh Ben, if you want to be young,
come find me in this plane, lost in the night as in
the shadow of a lover leaving, flinging me hours states
months away from you.