A Connected Day

I have often thought to myself that I wished I had asked more questions of my grandmother sooner, but I wouldn’t have understood it all because I didn’t know all the Spanish words she used. She spoke in Spanish only, and I in Spanish with her when I could, and English when I couldn’t find the Spanish words. I told myself that I would learn Spanish fluently before she died, but I didn’t try hard enough. I thought time would keep going. I’m not hard on myself about it. I know that if I wanted to I could, but perhaps it was not my time to learn it more fluently. I wouldn’t have anyone to speak with and practice. There may be other things waiting for me.

I tried to ask her about our Indian origins, because I figured we had them, and she told me of two tribe names: Coras and Huichole. I know that though she was a devout Catholic, from stories that my uncle has conveyed, she also possibly consulted “nature doctors” to combat an ailment that he once had as a young boy. I don’t recall the name he used. He remembers the experience well and said it most certainly did not work. Eventually they took him to a regular doctor.

I do know that part of my love of nature stems from my grandmother and though I’m not born into a tribe, I very much feel that I belong to one—to the tribe of Nature in all her glory. It is a feeling inside. Sometimes these feelings come out, and sometimes they show themselves in the glance of an eye, in the way a person stops to bend over and look at the beautiful intricacies of the soil, the twigs, branches, birds—and how when one looks up into the sky and remembers this is the great temple—all of it.

I am a feeler, as we know, and in the end it’s unimportant to me what “I know” or what “they” say. What’s important to me is that I can feel my pulse in the pulse of this great world and that I can feel my pulse in others and that I tread lightly and take in the moments—and even when I’m feeling sad or angry, honor those moments too—honor all feelings and know that nature is there with open arms.

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I bid you a wonderful day and weekend, always.

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Here is an Indian poem that I love that beats with my heart.

From “The Literature of California: Writings from the Golden State.” Edited by Jack Hicks, James D. Houston, Maxine Hong Kingston, Al Young.

Prayer for Good Fortune (Yokuts)

My words are tied in one
With the great mountains,
With the great rocks,
With the great trees,
In one with my body
And my heart.
Do you all help me
With supernatural power,
And you, day,
And you, night!
All of you see me
One with this world!

Beginning Scriptwriting ~ Notes/Reflections I

First class I arrived 10 minutes early and took a seat in the front center row. Students began piling in and soon all the seats were taken. I couldn’t see everyone, since they were all behind me, but I did see lots of young faces, some older. The instructor sidled in through the tight desks. An older gentleman, up in his years. I seem to keep finding myself amongst the matures. That suits me just fine. This day he was wearing one of those caps, the sort I could see a writer wearing in a French café.

We began talking about character. He said that, “Most people think they can visualize film, but it does not happen in the obvious description, but in the character—the character’s wants and desires.”

I thought it interesting too that he said most cultures go through the emotions, that is except for the French. They tend to go through the mind. It made me think about the few French movies I have seen. Yes, I can see that—the mind.

A character chooses to go for something or is forced into something—forced into an adventure. We are reminded that, “Characters are not people.”

Another reminder, and something that most storytellers and writers know is, “First thing is to grab an audience and have something that ‘pays off’ in the end.”

Why do we see films? He says that everyone goes to see a film for the emotional experience. Some people like the same experience over and over, while other’s like new experiences.

We talk about the differences between characterization and character. Simply put, characterization is what we can observe in other people. As he says, they are the “External accoutrements of our life.” A character is what a person or a character will do under pressure. We need to put a character under stress to see how they will react.

The book for our class is Robert McKee’s, Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. I’ve had this book on my shelves for about 12 years when a friend mentioned it back then. I only read a few passages here and there and it stayed on the shelves collecting dust. Now, the book reenters my consciousness. Everything is going along fine in reading up to the point of when McKee talks about story, which is early on. I realize I’m in over my head, but hell, I’m here, so I may as well stay and get what I can out of the ride. I’m a reflective writer, a journaler, an observer. Sometimes an essay, a poem, maybe a story. But, I don’t believe I’m a natural storyteller in the sense of creating characters. I observe characters, but I’m afraid to put them through conflict. I’m afraid because I feel out of control with this scriptwriting business, but I feel that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I can already get glimpses that my prose writing is going to pose conflicts to fit myself into this container that seems so precise, where I need to dig deep into my characters who don’t even exist right now. What I’m finding is I keep coming back to my own experiences and I don’t want to do that. My personal material usually finds its way into my reflective and essay writing. But to bring it to this container feels naked, feels scary. It’s difficult to explain, especially since the class has only begun, but I can feel a resistance within myself. And even McKee cautions against the “personal story.”

I only know how to write truth, with the few exceptions where a tale has come out of me.

Two statements that McKee makes in his book that ring loud in my ears and make me ask myself if I’ve got what it takes are: “A storyteller is a life poet” and “Story talent is primary, literary talent secondary but essential.” I am hopeful that I at least get a glimmer of what it takes.

In the end, will I be able to create a story with characters that are real, multi-dimensional, and make the audience feel? I operate from my emotions, but I don’t know that this will be enough to help me with the story aspect.

A Man In Wheat Colored Slacks

We board the shuttle for our destination and the mature gentleman who is our driver welcomes us and tells us where we are going. I am fixated on him and his words—steady and kind. He is tall, but not too tall and stands upright. He has silver hair topped with a ranger style hat. It’s his light blue eyes contrasted against the maturity of his silver hair and the comfort he finds in his own body that draws me in. When he’s finished speaking, my eyes are glassy and I look to my friend and say how beautiful that man is and I feel a lump in my throat. She agrees. She is equally mesmerized.

It is then that a recent image comes to mind and I recount it to her. I am sitting at the stoplight that is parallel with a shopping center. Waiting, I see a mature gentleman crossing the walk moderately with a slight limp in his leg. Each step he takes, he has to bring the right one around with just a little extra effort. He is clad in wheat colored slacks and matching hat and jacket—this man rests upon my eyes as if the sun is shining brightly on a wheat field. In his arms he is carrying a large bouquet of wrapped flowers, yellows and reds peek out from the wrap. I am nearly brought to tears at the sight. Where is he going I wonder. I imagine, he is headed to present some lucky someone with this lovely bouquet and looking dapper.

If he were a young man, dressed causally, or even a man in a business suit, would I have the same emotional response? There is something about those in their mature years that touches a part of me, humbles me and also brings me a sad happiness. Something more profound is brought to his gesture.

I was thankful the light was a long one. When it turned green, I crooked my neck, soaking in one last breath of that moment.

Moments with Squirrel

There is something about the openings of trees such as this. They conjure images of little worlds to be discovered, of the unknown.

This was a great oak, old and wise. "There aren't any critters here. Keep walking."

I walk in the other direction and see this squirrel blending into the grass and leaves. He is one with his surroundings I watch him dig in the crusted soil.

When I walk back, he's more alert.

And then he becomes aware of me and peers, dropping what he was nibbling. We are aware of each other.

This one was on the other side. There one moment,
gone the next.

Hawk

Hawks circle the mountain top, hunting. In the years that I’ve been here, it is the first that I’ve noted so many hawks in one spot on a regular basis. They circle by morning and dusk and it is quite a sight. I see them on my drive to town, over the hill, I do look and I keep my eyes on the road, but I keep stealing glances because I want this moment to stay with me, of the wheat colored grass, against the sky—whatever shade of blue or grey it is that day—and the freedom and strength of these massive creatures, that hunt with grace, that fly with ease and circle round and then swoop down. They cooperate with each other, circle round each other.

In my own little space, one hawk does fly and swoop—hunts to stay alive.

Stillness of the Mind

It began with a song, a classical piece that I heard streaming through the classical radio station at work a few weeks ago. It was new to me. I clicked to see who the composer was, what the song was, and wrote them both down: Korzeniowski, A single man. Stillness of the mind. At home, I entered the composer and song into Google to see if there was a YouTube and there it was. It turns out this piece is from the soundtrack for a movie called, A Single Man. I minimized the short clip, and each time it would stop, I would replay and replay over and over, to stay in the haunting beauty that Korzeniowski created—this composer whom I had never heard of, a movie unknown to me. I wrote while I listened and I felt that his music infused my writing, entered into my veins and touched what I wrote.

I wasn’t interested in the movie for some reason. It was the song I was after. A few days went by, and I kept coming back to this piece of music at different moments. I finally clicked to expand and read what the movie was about. It sounded promising. A movie that deals with the loss of the male protagonist’s male significant other. It turned out to be the most elegant portrayal of grief and life. It also felt as if the first time where I listened to the director speak about the movie after I finished watching it, and what he described is exactly what I felt. He, Tom Ford, fashion designer, accomplished his task, in this—his directorial debut. This isn’t always the case. Often it seems a director tries to take on too much, and the nuances are lost—the message isn’t fully conveyed. I don’t want to say much more. If you are curious and listen to the clip below, you can read a small synopsis of the movie. If you have not seen the movie, I think you will be moved in some way.

When I added the movie to my queue, and it arrived, I held onto it for days, a week, before I found just the right time to watch it because I knew it would be sad. It would bring me to a place that I had to be prepared for. Do other’s do that, I wonder? Hold onto things until they are ready to submit to a sadness that they know will be found on the screen? Or do others altogether avoid it and stick with other types of movies?

I have not read the book. Perhaps one day I will.

Here is the beautiful song below that captivated me and brought this movie to my awareness.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm5pbLMn8j8

The Shining Moon

On one of my walks close to a year ago, I saw the moon still out in the morning and this airplane. The combination of the two moved me to take this photo. Usually, I will snap away, snap, snap, snap, until I have several photos to choose from. But on this day, I only took this one. There is something about this photo. It could be that the moon looks alive, three dimensional, not flat as I would have imagined it to show up on the screen. I feel the moon smiling upon me. This photo belongs to a series that I call, "Connecting with Nature." It is a very personal and universal connection.

Right now, as I type this, the Sun has decided to come out and play. She shines deeply from the hillside through the branches of Great Redwood and pours in. The branches turn from dark green to a glistening green kissed by the light of the sun. As the morning progresses, she will be shining right in my face. When she does this, I close my eyes and allow her rays to drench me with love.

Today is Friday, August, 13, 2010. For some reason, I enjoy it when it is Friday the 13th, so I bid you a magical day for today and always.