Sometimes at the end of the workshop, we have time for one more short-short write, a stream-of-consciousness free-association write, a pour-it-out-on-the-page-as-fast-as-you-can-cause-we’ve-only-got-2.5-minutes write — usually I just throw out a word or a short phrase, and then we *go* into it, whatever pops into our heads. This is what came for me in response to the word ‘pierce’ at the end of Tuesday’s Declaring Our Erotic workshop:
pierce: stick the needles just under the skin / there/ where no color or sharp is supposed to be and / run your tender weaponry there against the swell of flesh / staining me with ache and art / asking for my steadiness in the face of assault / and in return you offer me the glory of your creation / but before that art has healed / while it is still coming hard on my canvass / you’ll pause / lift the device / you’ll spray me with cool water and you’ll brush away the blood / you’ll wash me with adrenaline and tell me how good I’m being / and I’ll / then / I’ll want / I’ll want to open my legs and my / every bit of my / self / to you, a blessing for the stopping / the starting again / of such a wash of pain
Read on for more information about the upcoming Declaring Our Erotic and Write Whole workshops with Jen & Writing Ourselves Whole!
Declaring Our Erotic-Reclaiming Our Sexuality
Eight Tuesday evenings, beginning 8/11/09
Open to queer women survivors of sexual trauma!
Have you been thinking about exploring some new edges in your writing? Are there longings you’d like to find language for?
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I met her at the door wearing nothing: wearing, I guess I should say, nothing but my words.
The night before I had taken myself out again, finally, to the fancy art supply store in mid-town, the one covered in wacky paint smatterings, asymmetrical sculpture spelling out its name, a forefront of allegiance to the madcap struggling artist but that solidarity ended once the starving reached the store’s front doors — the prices were so high that it was difficult to imagine anyone I knew (all folks trying to stretch ends to meeting) actually being able to afford anything in there.
It was my favorite porn shop.
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This is what I love about writing: the physicality of it and the mess, the rush of words and the trying to keep up with the flood how I got a new pen with fresh ink and so I’m trying to reclaim my wrist this fat fast smooth ache —
what I love about writing is harnessing what’s intangible, impenetrible, the desperation to get inside fully the thing that has no words, not really, the truth is writing is a chase, trying to catch the breath of the words, the thought, the fist thing that flashed across behind the tongue of my imaginings before it’s snipped away by loss or ego or don’t say that or reconstructive tendencies.
What I love is this reaching, teaching myself to breathe, to drink, to eat while I write keep the wrist aching, move through that burn into the true good stuff, how the words aren’t more important than the race, and they are.