Monsters. Ghosts. Metaphors.

Dear Friends,

I have been writing MONDAYS ARE FREE for about six months. It has been a source of joy. It has been the best challenge in the way that precision and economy and beauty require reflection, voices are excavated and discovered and cherished, and time is remembered and polished and held.

Mondays are Free is writing calisthenics. It’s a gym for writing muscles. I share my writing exercises, hoping my commitment to going public with my emerging journal joyfully and lovingly reinforces my desire to write and find poetry in paying attention. In the Mondays are Free introduction, Ross Gay mentions creating community as a project goal. I want a writing practice that makes me a better writer. I want a writing practice that creates community — with intention, attention, creativity, and care. I want a writing practice that helps us find what we love in common. 

Love,

Katie

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 066 — 070

Monsters. Owls. Honor.

EXERCISE 066: MAKE A MONSTER

all the things the monster can do

Make a monster by taking a known animal or critter and multiplying one of its body parts (600-eyed horse; two-tongued pigeon; four-armpit uncle). Describe all the things the monster can do that it couldn’t do if it only had the conventional number of body parts.

A 1000-ear owl lives in a tree outside my house. I have always been fascinated by owls. Their wisdom and perception. Their serenity and beauty. Their stoicism and humor. Think about how an owl with 1000-ears could listen and hear. What if their majesty was matched by their ability to listen and hear? In a world where information comes at us every minute of the day, making the distinction between listening (giving our attention to a sound) and hearing (the faculty of perceiving sound) is important.

I struggle with listening and hearing. My thousand-ear owl could teach me about it. What could I learn from a thousand-ear owl? I could better understand the connection between wisdom and listening and hearing. I could appreciate silence more deeply, having developed my capacity to discern and distill and separate information from noise. I could practice the moment when I take a breath before reacting.

If an owl had 1000 ears, they could hear into the future and warn of storms. If an owl had 1000 ears, they could hear conversations from great distances and learn secrets and decide to keep them, or not. If an owl had 1000 ears, they could compose beautiful symphonies of earth sounds and magical voices. If an owl had 1,000 ears, their world would be live and in stereo.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 071 — 075

Home. Falling. Ghosts.

EXERCISE 071: GIVE ROUNDABOUT DIRECTIONS

how to get somewhere

Write a poem in which the speaker gives narrative directions to the reader, i.e., how to get somewhere, infused with stories.

How to get there from here.

Thank you, Natasha Trethewey. When I read your words, “You can get there from here, though/ there’s no going home.” I thought about home differently. When my parents sold our family home — which they had owned for 40 or so years, in which I had not lived for many years, but always returned — a few years ago, I newly understood your wisdom. I thought about the coordinates of joy and grief and change. I thought about waves of time and story and the river’s flow. I thought about how everything looks bigger in our mind’s eye, especially the chapel in my childhood church. I thought about how I define home as a grown up. I thought about the persistence of the thought that one day I would not remember where to turn left onto Longview Drive, or how to ride our bikes to Dairy Queen on summer afternoons, or how to get around when Utica Pike which flooded every spring, or how to find fossils in the Falls of the Ohio, or King Fish on the River, or manicotti at Lentini’s Little Italy, or Tumbleweed beef and cheese burrito enchilada style, or the Louisville Slugger, or Cats at the Kentucky Center in an emerald velvet dress. I close my eyes and let me shoulders relax.

You tell me, “Bring only/what you must carry—tome of memory/ its random blank pages.” That feels important in the way that healing is important. That feels important in the way that clocks mark time. That feels important in the way that blank pages scare and invite, tremble and breathe, tense and release. A Balinese healer once told me, “You don’t have to carry that weight.” He must have understood about weight, too. We can never really go back.

Read entire post here.

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MONDAYS ARE FREE 076 — 080

Navigation. Metaphor. Voicemail.

EXERCISE 076: NAVIGATE WITH YOUR BELOVEDS

a small axis

In the middle of a blank page, draw two perpendicular lines, a small axis, each point of the axis representing a compass direction. A large piece of paper will work best./ Place the name of a person you miss at each point of the compass./ Around the name of each person, write phrases that describe not just qualities but physical attributes of that person. Be specific./ Write a four-part text, each titled with one cardinal direction and one name. The body of each section begins with “I am going towards….”

I am walking toward N. Silver curly hair. Always perfectly coiffed. Set weekly. Before the stories. Avon skin. Always summer kissed. Hugs that left me breathless. Your house knew generations. Wood frame stood time. Until the airport. We never talked about you. Some much I don’t know. So much I will never know. So much I never asked about. I create stories to embrace the contours of my love. About first dates and floods. About French speaking mothers with brothers who ran books. About square dancing and jackpots. I sew patches and wrap myself in cotton dresses. I put plates back together making brokenness gold.

I am walking toward J. Your brown eyes tell the truth. Your heart holds the world. Your back remains straight. The river flows. Falling apart is sacred and strong and beautiful. Your friendships are friendships. Your loves are loves. Your beliefs are beliefs. Your secrets are secrets. Noxema and Jadoré. Smith Corona love letters set a high bar. Crooked fingers are mine, too. Eyes that don’t quite see. Ears that don’t quite hear. When do we lay it all down?

I am walking toward L. Your fierce curls bounce joyfully. Snack and Lennon and celebration. Time Warp and glitter and Yoda. Care and story and excellence. Laughter and glow and currere. Running fast and chocolate cake and narrative. Belief and enthusiasm and blue-eyed clarity. Public defense and private truth. You were my person. Years brought tragedy twice. Sharp mind softening.

I am walking toward G. Tall and glamorous. Bridge and stories. Toni perms and Tripoli. Measure twice and cut once. Never leave the house without your lipstick. Air popcorn and chicken cacciatore. The blue metal car riding up the hill. Prom dresses and play costumes. We never talked about you. Some much I don’t know. So much I will never know. So much I never asked. I create stories to embrace the contours of my love. About aunts and uncles and cousins. About German prayers and family recipes and picture windows. About children lost and faith found and what matters. I sew patches and wrap myself in cotton dresses. I put plates back together making brokenness gold.

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