A Temple for Writers? What the...?
Yeah, and you know what's worse? I actually responded to the craigslist posting because it seemed like, if all else fails, I should have some sort of back-up writers' group to take me in.
Well, it turns out that this Temple is fairly exclusive, and I don't get to be part of it unless I "fit the circle." To determine my suitability in the Temple director's Venn diagram of struggling writers, I had to participate in a series of interviews. Unlike a group, where people ostensibly choose who they might like to hang with, a circle requires a massive amount of energy to construct, and all that energy comes from one woman who adheres to reality only in fits and starts.
Again, see, it's not a group, I remind you as I was reminded; it's a circle. In circles, I was told, four times, "people heal and explore and find the space to tack like sailboats across the bay of ideas." I also learned that "writing a novel is like traveling the desert: it is arid and difficult to sustain direction." Okay, and I picked up this gem: "there is no writing until there is 'conscious writing.' It is only through consciousness of the craft that the words on the page have any meaning." Or something like that.
I know, I know. I contacted the place. I chucked myself into that hog ditch and actually sat still for the interview while the circle shaper tried to "discover my inner being." Yeah, that's right, my inner being. And what's worse? She struggled with it. She fluctuated in her certainty during the exploration. First, I was a "darling" with a lovely demeanor. Then, I became "hidden and somewhat evasive." A bit later on, after some microwave-warmed tea, I "lost 10 years" and she was charmed once again. Suddenly, we were just alike, with similar histories and feelings and judgments and ideologies. As the tea became tepid, she lost me again. This time, she couldn't find my "motive or focus." Okay then. To my credit, I was hidden and evasive.
She may have had something on the motive and focus, but how was I to concentrate in that Sai Baba-looking compound? The entire house was scandalously white, but not hygienically so. Broken tiles lined the walkway to the front door but any Mediterranean flair was extinguished by the abundant exposed drywall. There were white doves on plastic columns and white swans on plaster columns, thankfully no angels, but also no marble and no crystalline waters in the distance. Inside the house, we listened to blaring orchestral music re-rendering Amazing Grace and Jerusalem.
Jerusalem is a song I joyously sang when I actually appeared at Chapel on Wednesday mornings in boarding school. My favorite line, "I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand," I belted with varying degrees of gusto directly proportional to the quality of the campus pot that week. "And was Jerusalem builded here, among these dark satanic mills?" Well, the mills were gone when I was at school, but we all got the point. It was a secular school, espousing a firm belief that faith had something to do with rising out of the torment of poverty and the despair of ignorance.
And this brings me back to the Temple. I suppose the director of the healing circle of endlessly tacking, thirsty, full frontal writers with motive and consciousness can build her Jerusalem wherever she wants. But I don't want to worship.
Well, it turns out that this Temple is fairly exclusive, and I don't get to be part of it unless I "fit the circle." To determine my suitability in the Temple director's Venn diagram of struggling writers, I had to participate in a series of interviews. Unlike a group, where people ostensibly choose who they might like to hang with, a circle requires a massive amount of energy to construct, and all that energy comes from one woman who adheres to reality only in fits and starts.
Again, see, it's not a group, I remind you as I was reminded; it's a circle. In circles, I was told, four times, "people heal and explore and find the space to tack like sailboats across the bay of ideas." I also learned that "writing a novel is like traveling the desert: it is arid and difficult to sustain direction." Okay, and I picked up this gem: "there is no writing until there is 'conscious writing.' It is only through consciousness of the craft that the words on the page have any meaning." Or something like that.
I know, I know. I contacted the place. I chucked myself into that hog ditch and actually sat still for the interview while the circle shaper tried to "discover my inner being." Yeah, that's right, my inner being. And what's worse? She struggled with it. She fluctuated in her certainty during the exploration. First, I was a "darling" with a lovely demeanor. Then, I became "hidden and somewhat evasive." A bit later on, after some microwave-warmed tea, I "lost 10 years" and she was charmed once again. Suddenly, we were just alike, with similar histories and feelings and judgments and ideologies. As the tea became tepid, she lost me again. This time, she couldn't find my "motive or focus." Okay then. To my credit, I was hidden and evasive.
She may have had something on the motive and focus, but how was I to concentrate in that Sai Baba-looking compound? The entire house was scandalously white, but not hygienically so. Broken tiles lined the walkway to the front door but any Mediterranean flair was extinguished by the abundant exposed drywall. There were white doves on plastic columns and white swans on plaster columns, thankfully no angels, but also no marble and no crystalline waters in the distance. Inside the house, we listened to blaring orchestral music re-rendering Amazing Grace and Jerusalem.
Jerusalem is a song I joyously sang when I actually appeared at Chapel on Wednesday mornings in boarding school. My favorite line, "I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand," I belted with varying degrees of gusto directly proportional to the quality of the campus pot that week. "And was Jerusalem builded here, among these dark satanic mills?" Well, the mills were gone when I was at school, but we all got the point. It was a secular school, espousing a firm belief that faith had something to do with rising out of the torment of poverty and the despair of ignorance.
And this brings me back to the Temple. I suppose the director of the healing circle of endlessly tacking, thirsty, full frontal writers with motive and consciousness can build her Jerusalem wherever she wants. But I don't want to worship.
posted by your friend at Thursday, April 20, 2006
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home