Monday, February 27, 2006
Pommes For The Soul
I am not trying to be the photographic equivalent of Cezanne or Matisse. Certainly not. But I'll tell you a secret I've never admitted out loud--I love to arrange fresh things of beauty-- fruit, flowers--to discover just the right angle, just the right composition.
So, this morning after I watched the sun rise over Colombier Pointe, I reached in my refrigerator and pulled out everything you see above. I suppose it's a metaphor for the deep nourishing that a place and time like this can offer.
Since I've arrived, I've written one story for my class and constructed the elements for another. They're still rough and probably will take much more work, but I've got the bones. Even that is easier down here where there are few distractions.
My professor talks about working on a piece untill it's as smooth as ice. Somehow, here, I have the patience to re-tool a piece without judgment, just trying to find the perfect verb or sentence structure.
I'm reading The Master by Toibin. It's the story of Henry James' life and in it, Toibin, an Irish writer, writes in James' voice about finding the sentences. At one point, James realizes he can no longer write without extreme pain. So, he hires a stenographer ( this is 1895 ). At first, James finds it hard to "talk" his sentences but then it becomes easier, until, he says he can create whole sentences in tact. That's a writer's dream.
So, not so much travelogue today. An interior one, I suppose, full of pommes and every other manner of fruit for the soul.