OK, this is it!

Okay, this is it.  The new plan, that is, to meet a 30 day challenge by national
poetry writing month (napowrimo.net/), to write a poem a day during April,
which is, fyi, national poetry month.  We can do this!  You can too!  You can
read my poem a day right here in my blog, but there are ever so many poets
signing up to meet the challenge at the website mentioned in brackets above.
Welcome spring, welcome poets, welcome poetry!

And please note that the Rice Creek Writers and Northwords Writers' Groups
of the Banfill-Locke Center for the Arts in Fridley, MN, will host a public
reading of member work on Friday, April 8, at 7:30 p.m.  The center is about
a mile north of 694 on East River Road, in Fridley.  Yours truly will be
the emcee that night, as well as read a couple of poems (already written and
vetted by peers).  It'll be fun. Be our guest!!

Hmm, now what shall I write tomorrow's poem about....

How's Lent?

So, how's Lent going for you?  This year I seem to have defaulted into not giving up
anything. I have embarked on a six lesson Interpersonal Communication unit at my
Toastmasters' club--nothing I've not heard before, but the process forces me to
'own' such skills even more intentionally by giving a speech and role playing in a
spontaneously assigned scenario, on each of six topics.  I suppose you could call
that my lenten discipline, although the way things are scheduled it'll last well into
the Easter season... May my learning continue beyond that!!  The way my
communication slips into 'Cherry Pitfalls' (sorry, Candyland) from time to time,
the discipline can use constant upgrading.  So, help me, God!

---

Of course, plans are ideal....

But reality and too much inertia often have their own way(s). I compose in my head ad infinitum, but getting it on paper is 'hit and miss.' My goal is to write everyday. Well, if you count grocery and to-do lists, notes scribbled on previous writings, sticky notes, calling cards, page margins, and printed program, I might come close. (Of course, e-correspondence puts it over the top. But will I ever go back and actually record highlights of my extensive correspondence???)
The last six weeks have brought fresh motivation, in the form of adequate rest, familiar surroundings, an extended period of silence, daily meditation, writing discipline somewhat renewed, enquiries from accountability peers (You know who you are, and I love you!), the freeing-up that accrues from physical exercise, and faithfully organizing/discarding SOMEthing, most every day...even a little bit frees up space in the mind (not to mention the desk!)
'THE play' has enjoyed a read-through. Unfiled notes are being processed. Poetry writings are now organized (whew)  in a single file. (I notice the pun in that...the second seems to be a reminder to get those MSs moving out!...) Old unused files are being deleted and single-side copies relegated to a 'paper drawer' in order to be used for printing draft copies. My (realtime) voice is finally finding itself again. It's nearly spring.
This blog calls out for renewed effort...and recently told me the direction it wants to take. Lordwilling, I'm ready to roll with it.  Stay tuned, and I'll tell you what the direction is. Promise.

Today's Thoughts on Corruption, Weather, and Storytelling

By God's grace, and careful, at-home eating etc., we are well. Even as unseasonal

rains make us soggy AGAIN this week, and a deteriorating house is constantly being cleaned and just kept up enough to manage through it all.  (I'll spare you the details for now!)  It has rained for 3/4 of the last 36 hours, with no sign of let up.  Evening falls, hardly a different from the level of  daylight all day...More rain on the way.                                                                                                                                                                                         We're hoping it will clear enough for a safe ride to Rajupalem next weekend..In rural areas, the problem of washed-out roads is so common, there's a name for it, waaagu.  And there are some, in that direction, this week....'hope we can make it for our secular (trying to remember that your average Indian English speaker does not understand the word correctly, mistaking it for sectarian--oh my!!!  Evidently the politically correct term is social project) project's teacher workshop on Saturday...I'm not used to giving such presentations, but should be able to do so, lordwilling...wish me luck                                                                     
 Our computer is down again, so I'm at the corner shop...all orange and blue inside, soft ambiance, with music in the background...It's glassed in and air conditioned, but the door is open today, we hear all the rain and traffic sounds right outside the door...a sleepy old building across the street with old fashioned fretwork on rooftop balcony, fanciful second floor windows (half-covered by a huge, blue sign with a photo of a 'hunk' proffering a Pepsialong with Telugu letters saying "Lord General Stores and Fancies," above a jam-packed shop, hardly the size of a single car garage, opening onto the street.  A bright red telephone on a stool outside the shop is available for public/pay use. .                                                                                                         
Rain moved our little Nirmal Hriday class to an upstairs verandah this morning.   I trod carefully, leaning on the low, shiny stainless steel railing of the children's winding, outdoor ramp to the second floor, reassuring my fragile bones with the realization that it has a non-slip coated surface. A dozen children at the far end of the verandah were singing softly and gazing out over the dripping garden.

Most Precious whooped upon seeing me, called for chairs, and  five other children joined us, forming a tight semi-circle literally at  my knees.  An older teenager who has grown up in Nirmal Hrudays lifted MP into the last chair, and she promptly propped her elbows on one of my knees. I've been
priming them to think beyond the listen-and-repeat and stock-answer methods so common in Indian education (fastest student often dictating the pace and the responses) ,  I ask who will tell a story today, a new story, not one they already know.  (Belatedly aware that I do not know the Telugu words for 'create,' or 'make up.') MP of course is the first to say she doesn't 'know' any, and John wants to repeat a story his sister has taught him, which he has already recited at least four times.  With a bit of prompting and reminding that everyone is to share in the story-telling, we come up with a reasonably satisfying story of a little girl overcoming several little dilemmas.The children are pleased, and ask to hear it again.  I write it down in English, promise to type and print copies, and challenge MP, particularly, to re-tell it tomorrow. She is glowing as she shrugs and says, "Maybe," but I suspect she is up to the challenge.

Too soon, it is their lunchtime, but the children press me to stay and open one of the books I've brought along today. Their lunches have been brought up from the kitchen, and waft delicious curry smells our way, but the children are adamant.  We close with the reading of familiar Telugu rhymes, MP and John peering into my book and Ramya good-naturedly slowing her pace to match that of the beginning readers.

I am glowing too, never minding the rain, as I descend the ramp in the rain and crunch across the watery gray crushed-rock yard, to the unobtrusive brown painted gate, 'Good bye, Auntie' ringing in my ears.

A Writerly Discussion

Shall we add yet another subscription from the emails already flooding our inboxes? I'm sure everyone using the 'net has sighed over this question more than once. But today I've added writerunboxed.com, the promise of which is a mix of writers from beginner to best seller, discussing what it is that makes good writing work tick. (Did I state that right?) And what's not to like about a writing site whose values include hilarity and elegance of prose??
Today's entry was a totally timely call to reconsider goals. Eager to exchange my usual 'never have time' excuse for not writing, for renewed, enduring, proactive, productive writing habits, I offered my 2011 writing goals as a comment thereon. My goals will need tweaking til they are as specific as Roxanne's (another commentator), but here's a start:
I will write every day,
concentrate on developing and completing one larger writing project at a time -- while not neglecting to 'work the ground' for other projects, and
write a blog entry, and/or make a submission at least once a week .
Additional resolve, which a young grad student recently suggested to me, is to write these goals out and post them where I'll see and repeat them every day.
Lordwilling, this will most certainly be true! Happy 2011 everybody, happy writing!

Recorded of a Sunday morning, Guntur, India, November 21, 2010

This morning Franklin and I walked to church (3 blocks) because the driver wanted the day off. The loudspeaker was so loud, that too inside a concrete building, that my ears tingled. I like it better when we sit outside! (They have a shamiana outside one wing regularly.) I've developed a ruse of pressing a finger into one ear while appearing to be resting my head on my hand, changing sides periodically to give the other ear a break as well.

We sat in the wing that's mostly occupied by families and couples, opposite another one which is mostly used by women and children, both wing off the main section where women and men sit on different sides of the aisle. People filtered in (and a few out!) throughout the service. A few rows ahead of us, a dad came in following two young teen boys, and very intentionally plopped himself on the pew between them ...There wasn't going to be any nonsense there!...LOL...families!! A little girl and boy in front of us drew on paper, dropped pens behind the pew, the girl slipping around her mother and past us to retrieve them, twice, until Franklin picked it up and handed it back the third time; she tried to fold a handkerchief on the pew...toward the end of the 50 minute (!) sermon, the boy grabbed her, she grabbed his hair,and their father set them straight...ignoring them thereafter,
while she sat back and tried to chew sequins off the edge of her mom's saree...

(Obviously) I couldn't really follow the sermon today...It was too loud, and wide ranging, and lost me after the opening anecdote. Pastor seemed to keep repeating something about oil and cd's, which, my husband told me later, was not really the case. I think I got more from looking out the open window, where a bush pushed a bright red, hydrangea-like 'manmatha baarnamulu' (cupid's arrows) flower against the decorative metal grating, and a large group of people, maybe fifty, sat on plastic patio-type chairs under the shade of a tree nearer the gate.

A young mother with an infant in her arms sat between
an active toddler, who sat next to (evidently) the dad, and a grandmother. The poor mom must have been so tired; she sat the whole time, rubbing her eyes and (surreptitously, under her saree) her breasts, and looked like she was first sleeping, then crying into the baby's receiving blanket, with which she wiped her eyes now and then. The toddler got down from his chair and patted her arm, then went to his grandmother, who gave him her purse which he was hardly able to lug over to his chair. Except for this, the father and the grandmother were passively involved only in the service. I wanted to go and say something empathetic, a blessing, to the mother after the service, but by the time we came out they were gone.

We walked over to the nearby hotel for our usual after-church coffee, but Raja Rao did not show up (he had called earlier, but gone to a different church...he usually joins us) and, although the coffee shop is named '24-7' it was not time yet, so we walked out into the intense mid-day sun and scrunched under the vendor's umbrella with another thirsty family, standing while we ordered and each drank the refreshing, restorative water of a 'special Kerala' (large, yellowish) coconut through a thin straw, thrust into the heavy, freshly machete-slashed fruit. My gosh, they were HUGE; there was about a pint and a half of liquid in mine! Not an exciting taste-thrill, but especially good for beating the heat and sustaining health. Like the touch of the toddler, sustaining love of life.

A Walk in the Stadium

A Walk in the Stadium Thursday, January 6, 2011

We need to walk more: We are getting a bit spoiled, living in this India society where most every-one who has a car has a driver to drive and take care of it, as well as drive them (us) places. Ours is a cream-colored, 'standard' Indian-made Ambassador, bought second hand last year. Our driver, Raghava, is a soft-spoken man with typically insightful Indian networking skills, besides generous portions of general helpfulness, quick thinking, and a penchant for vigorous stick-shifting, the latter probably accrued from previous employment as a city bus driver. This evening, Raghava drives us to a stadium in another neighborhood for an evening walk.
Night falls early and quickly this near to the equator; it is already dark at six thirty as our headlights join bright lights of traffic and shops along a bustling main road during the busiest, evening hours. Fruit stands lit with bare light bulbs, lights of open-sided refreshment cafe's and bakeries shine upon the road, silhouetting customers standing at their counters. One of the first of the best, "Baker's Fun" is a large, brightly lit pink box sporting an evening fast-food section opposite gleaming glass cabinets of cakes, cookies, and curry-, chocolate-, or cream filled pastries. Next door, strings of white lights outline the "Little Planet" gift shop, the exterior of which is highlighted in hues of ultra-violet. Clusters of Chaitanya students, incognito in deeper shadows under a tree and around the now-darkened entrance of their franchise high school and college steps, seize the opportunity to chat while waiting for friends' or relatives' vehicles, or the school's bus, to take them home.
Every kind of commerce is doing a brisk business; even more people are walking than there are vehicles, along this stretch of road. Raghava turns a corner at the uber-busy intersection of four different neighborhoods, slows past a couple dozen garage-size shops including pre-packaged snack store (where open carts prepared hot snacks to order, last year), a barber or two, tire repair-while-your-wait shop, and a 'dollar' jewelery shop. He drops us in front of a watchman who swings the tall iron-grating of the stadium gate open, just wide enough for us to enter. Raghava parks the car beyond a small sea of motorcycles outside the compound wall, and joins us for a short while, before we have even made our first round.
Inside the stadium, there is an orderly, purpose-driven bustle. Undeterred by a limp and a cane, we step right in to the flow of a couple hundred walkers already immersed in the medium to brisk strides of their evening constitutionals, making rounds on a track which would fit comfortably around a football field.. Wearing sandals or tennis shoes--incongruous but practical below flowing sarees and comfortable salwar-kameezes--, ignoring the occasional rock jutting up from the burnt orange, beaten earth perimeter path, single, pairs and groups of women, singles and pairs of men, some on cell phones, chat comfortably with their peers. Life's burdens are lifted, problems solved, advice shared in the coolness of January evening air and anonymity of this public place. Husbands and wives (the older and younger ones walking abreast of, middle-aged ones walking behind, their husbands ), young and old, singles, pairs, and groups of women and men are in constant fluid movement around a three story concrete building and two large play areas. They flow around us too, sometimes with a side-or backward glance, but never with annoyance, as we move at a slower, but comfortable, steady pace.
Inside one corner of the track a concrete surface, further divided into a roller rink and a basketball court surrounded by benches and a four tier concrete gallery, is well lit by multiple stadium lights, while a larger ground encompasses a second, single, straight track ranging along one side of the building at the center of the rectangular campus,and a still-larger maidan...
Lights high up on the light green,three story concrete building, which houses a gym and a variety of fitness and activity rooms, are muted by the time they near the ground, casting latticed shadows from trees and shrubbery along two sides of the larger track. The dimness and shadows are reflected in the muted voices and relaxed demeanor of the walkers. The maidan is dim, backlit by the brighter rink and court behind a small group of youth attempting to organize casual contests on the straight track, and families sitting and chatting, smaller children cavorting, on the maidan as though they were in a park.
The third side of the perimeter track backs a private high school, the fourth runs along the backside of shops on the main road, punctuated by a secondary gate toward which some of the walkers veer at the end of their walk. Nestled behind shops at the busy intersection we passed on our way here, is another, smaller exit. Nearer that part of the track, a low divider corrals bicycles and a few onlookers...mostly men...
Brighter, stadium lights blaze over eight or ten youth of varying ages, engaged in a session of pick-up basketball. Next to them, a dozen earnest, helmeted in-line skaters bend to practice their skill, speeding and slowing as they weave gracefully in and out of each others' paths, today's newspaper report of district youth skating competitions no doubt fueling their determination. The youngest appears to be about eight, the oldest and tallest, a shorts and t-shirt clad girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
Older gentlemen sit and gab with each other on a series of concrete benches on two sides of the roller rink. Their heads and eyes turn casually toward us and back, a few of them with arms flung casually over the back of the bench and their neighbor, as we pass. They seem to be scanning for information, and perhaps for the possibility of new faces to join their accustomed evening coteries. Young mothers with children too young to allow free roaming, wives waiting for their husbands to finish walking, and grandmothers, some of them evidently babysitting, sit on the triple-tiered bench at the end of the rink, beside a column bearing details of the stadium's creation and namesake.
High in a velvet sky, a sliver of new moon graces the scene that bears ample witness to the wisdom of the stadium forebears. A young man, once gatekeeper at a small school near our home, materializes out of the crowd, toward the end of our walk. He now works security at the stadium compound, and is as obviously enthusiastic about this new assignment as he is to greet us after a year or so of our absence from town. We must definitely come again.