Seeing them standing under their umbrella as we walked by; feeling the rain made me wonder if they knew what they were missing…
Mist in their hair, drops hitting their faces, fresh water running down their necks – No they missed all of this.
The Magic of Rain isn’t for everyone rinsed through my mind every time I said, “Come on, let’s go get wet” as we headed out the garage door to walk in our weather.
“Hey there”, she said after our common friend introduced us. I went from sipping a beer and people watching at Doc’s Tavern (minding my normal – alone business) to shaking hands with Christa. A sparkle in her eyes showed me something unexpectedly bright in the otherwise dark familiar place. A couple of rounds and few slow songs later – things changed. The lies that I had told myself about destiny and being alone, walls that time built to lean against and pretend, the words “Not for me” said out loud as if to protect. Dissolved. She stole them all with one kiss.
I attended a Memoir Writing Workshop of thirteen Oregonian’s and myself – taught by Matt Love at the Fort George Brewery in Astoria, OR on May 9, 2015.
This former car dealership showroom turned brewery conference room was great for sitting amongst some kegs of aging beer and learning more about writing.
From the various handouts and prompts a few standout for me:
I chose from a list of Writing Quotes “I hate writing, I love having written.” –Dorothy Parker
From this choice I wrote:
I completely agree – I hated writing and all “English” classes all the way through school. Too many rules! I saved Writing 101 for my last class of my Twenty-Year Two-Year degree.
When life cracked me open after my dog died I started writing about her to preserve my memories. I love that.
Another exercise was to choose a utensil from a pile of spoons, forks and knives. I chose a damaged fork with an ornate handle.
From this I wrote:
My writing about life with Sarrah covers one part perfectionist, one part bent, another damaged and lastly ending realigned differently – All working together for a carved cause.
Some other prompts of interest to me were:
A turning point
Start with a line of dialogue/conversation
A lie
Bliss
When conversations not yet had
Let others Down
Becoming – Missteps
Feelings get Tarnished
Rumor has it there was a small town brothel located somewhere in the Oregon Territory with a need. Business was growing and they wanted a place for visitors to sit while they waited in the parlor. Some kind of deal was made and a few sections of chairs from the church were relocated. As times and hypocrisies changed these easily recognizable seats became a bit of gossip around town. Apparently the folding furniture was the same as that used by the funeral parlor and often shared back and forth to accommodate larger crowds, rendering it unclear exactly where to place the blame.
When the town died all of the seats were acquired by a man on the board of directors for an insane asylum and a prison. The seats typically sat in an auditorium where doctors and scientists smoked and discussed the abnormal and treatments for those afflicted – on the occasion of executions, sections were loaned to the prison for the witness room spectators.
As times changed again the asylum closed and these seats made their way to Seattle to be used in a theatre.
All of these institutions and the characters involved are long gone; no one can confirm any of this story.
Is any of it true?
How did this section of garish seats end up in an eclectic household?
Does anyone even care?
Insomnia is frosting on the turd cake of Chronic Pain
Can Bryan Write? 