Navigation. Metaphor. Voicemail.

Dear Friends, 

Here is another MONDAYS ARE FREE. 

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

---

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. 

---

EXERCISE 077: A LITERARY SKETCH, PART I

use no metaphors

Describe the face and hands of someone you love tremendously and know very well. Be very specific. Use no metaphors.

Porcelain skin. A smart family nose. Blues eyes dance when joyous and doubt when things don’t make sense and break when tired and lock when focused on facts and information because that is what they do. A serious forehead that softens when smiling and cements when life gets hard. A chin that moves forward when certain and relaxes when sipping. From the front, your face tells the truth. Sideways, your profile remains firm. From behind, you hide your feelings. Large hands with computer cuticles. Big enough to hold the world and balance unusually complex and difficult concepts and render life beautiful and hard. 

---

EXERCISE 078: A LITERARY SKETCH, PART II

figurative language

Describe the face and hands of someone you love tremendously and know very well. Be very specific. Use as much figurative language as you can. Include the metaphors you erased yesterday.

Whiskers bouncing and balancing like circus wire. A wet pink freckled nose like a rose unfolding with each breath. The mouth yawns like sunrise itself simultaneously hopeful and skeptical. Ears pointing and clicking like a camera committing life to memory. Scratch post ready, front paws grip like bird of prey talons insisting on the catch, jumping full on body engaged in what it means to be hungry and young. 

---

EXERCISE 079: REFLECT ON LITERARY SKETCHES

the feeling of not

Write a no more than 500-word prose piece in which you describe the feeling of not being able to remember certain things about the face and hands of someone you love tremendously and know very well.

When I think about not remembering, I think of questions I did not ask. Attention I did not pay. Gaps of time that pass like molasses lightning. When I think about not remembering, I look at my hand for familiar lines and tell tale wisdom signs. My face for scars and wounds and beauty marks. My lips for secrets and jumps in logic and curiosity’s built environment. When I think about not remembering, I notice the curve of my brow. The world’s signal of my heart’s knowing. The space between my eyes that waxes and wanes. Softens and shakes. Elastic and fluid. The detail of my nose. 

I have lost stories. I have lost why. I have lost corroboration. I have lost connection. I have lost the communion. I have slid down romantic rainbows though clouds of nostalgia and romance. Never turning toward deep understanding if it hurts. Maybe not remembering means turning away from hurt. Hurting means healing and it takes time to heal. Not remembering complicates healing. Like playing the hand you are dealt. Like Buddhist sand paintings that briefly beautifully live. Like a green flash sunset off of Key West.

I don’t remember the last face and hands I don’t remember. I don’t remember the face that knew things for certain. I don’t remember the hands that built things. Or maybe I remember them sideways in blurred attribution and falsehood fantasy. Or maybe I remember them flat out wrong because truth is too painful. Or maybe I remember them in the dark where details are shadows. Or maybe I remember them from 20,000 feet above all the distraction and noise. Or maybe I remember them like great roots that connect giant trees. Or maybe I remember them like bees that work together or mole rats that share each other’s heat. Or, maybe I remember them like fireflies as glimmers of magic and light.

If I was going to remember. I would remember gently. Allowing the quiet to sit in my bones. I would remember fiercely. Brick by brick. I would remember sweetly. Letting joy taste like pepper jelly with right amount of whatever that is in pepper jelly. I would remember brilliantly like start dust and constellations and moon beams. I would remember deeply like ship wrecks that become coral reefs in ocean depths and worms that tend soil. I would remember silently like steeped tea and sunrise. I would remember loudly like Hallelujah and I love you. 

---

EXERCISE 080: RECALL

word for word

An elder you admire once left a long voice message on your phone in which they offered you three things: advice about food, a description of how the sky looked like that day, and a question about your door. Reconstruct the message, transcribing it word for word.

Wish we could come to your Derby Party. Remember when you were little and we would come to town to go to the track? You always looked beautiful. The year you wore your Esprit skirt and white eyelet blouse. You should make burgoo a day ahead of time so that the flavors cook together. There is never too much meat. Find the bourbon ball recipe from the Lynnhurst Cookbook. Remove the crusts from your benedictine and be careful not to burn your béarnaise. Don’t forget. 

I was headed to see LaVerne and noticed the dew on the roses. There was no cloud in the sky and the sun had not fully risen. The flies had not woken up and the tomato plants were smiling. I can smell the Double Delight from a mile away. Papa had been out in the garden for hours already, so I gave him some tea before I headed out. 

Have you had your door fixed? Replace the batteries in your lock. I always worried about you when you lived by yourself. For years. I am glad you are not alone now. 

---

Thanks for reading MONDAYS ARE FREE. Subscribe to The Wide-Awakeness Project for free Mondays, long walks, and paying attention.Subscribed

MONDAYS ARE FREE 001 — 003

MONDAYS ARE FREE 004 — 006

MONDAYS ARE FREE 007— 010

MONDAYS ARE FREE 011 — 015

MONDAYS ARE FREE 016 — 020

MONDAYS ARE FREE 021 — 025

MONDAYS ARE FREE 026 — 030

MONDAYS ARE FREE 031 — 035

MONDAYS ARE FREE 036 — 040

MONDAYS ARE FREE 041 — 045

MONDAYS ARE FREE 046 — 050

MONDAYS ARE FREE 051 — 055

MONDAYS ARE FREE 056 — 060

MONDAYS ARE FREE 061 — 065

MONDAYS ARE FREE 066 — 070

MONDAYS ARE FREE 071 — 075