by Pat Pattison
Home beacon, I can see it, little light calling my eyes to its tiny star calling from the mountains. The gas big E pointer finger red and thin, a babbling exhausted metal body chugging as though it will only take a few more breaths, as the carburetor sings a eulogy, swollen and sullen.
So many possibilities here. So many kinds of songs. And in the mouth of a carburetor …
You give it a try.
Autumn Remembers
CHANELLE DAVIS: Autumn remembers you dancing in its fallen leaves and wonders where you have gone.
Raking leaves into a pile under the oak tree, falling in it, waist deep, buried, brown and crinkly they scratch my skin and get in my mouth, spit them out, chasing you round and round the pile till we’re dizzy and fall over …
SUSAN CATTANEO: Every year, autumn opens its scrapbook and remembers the color of decay, turning the page of each yellowed leaf and fondly tracing the sky with bare finger branches …
Leaves kicked up by a childish wind, smoke curling lazily out the brick chimneys, pulling the wool jacket in closer, a ghost of breath comes out of open lips in the morning …
This prompt personifies autumn. It’s up to you to find the memories. If, on the other hand, autumn is the direct object of remembers, you’ll look for a collision using the form “___________ remembers autumn.” Just make sure the noun you choose doesn’t actually have the ability to remember.
Now, give it a try.
Handkerchief Pleads
ANDREA STOLPE: My handkerchief pleaded for allergy season to pass as I released an army of pollen-induced explosions into the worn cotton weave.
I remember my dad’s handkerchiefs, soft from months or even years of washing and the faint powdery scent of the dryer sheet tumbling and caressing it in the washer. Like his T-shirts, the fabric would gradually thin until the tan of his skin would lend a darker hue to the white as he wore it.
SUSAN CATTANEO: Balled up in the old man’s pocket, the wrinkled handkerchief pleaded for a good ironing.
Chess pieces set up on a green park bench, the crowd leans in close watching him think, cardigan sweater with tortoise shell buttons, a cigarette juts out of thin lips, ash burning down, palsied hands and yellow nails …
Note that plead is an intransitive verb. It doesn’t require a direct object, so handkerchief needs to stay in subject position. It could take an indirect object, introduced by a preposition: pleads with, pleads for….”
Your turn.
Yup. Verbs. More tomorrow.
DAY #5
FINDING VERBS FROM NOUNS
Today I’ll give you noun prompts, and you’ll find a verb to create the collision. Again, don’t just grab anything, but take your time and look for provocative, productive combinations. As you did yesterday, for each combination, write a sentence or short paragraph illuminating the metaphor. Then do a ninety-second piece of object writing, using the combination as the prompt.
Remember, the noun can also come after the verb as direct object, with another noun providing the subject.
Crossbow ___________
JESS MEIDER
Crossbow tongues: The crossbow tongues arrows like a fire tongues a wick.
Soldiers scurry in ant chaotic style, red dots rampant, almost flamboyant across the dreary fields of Pennsylvania. Native crossbow; a quick and lethal ringing sound impales a young man’s rib cage.
SUSAN CATTANEO
Crossbow smiles: A crossbow smiled with tension as the archer placed the arrow in place and pulled it back.
Horses stamp and whinny nervously, straw is crunchy underfoot, chain mail hangs heavy on the broad chest, vision narrowed in the metal helmet, the tickle of sweat trickling down back and neck, aiming out the parapet opening …
The shape a crossbow takes when it’s pulled back is like a smile. There’s some real tension there, because the smile becomes sinister. When you tune your vision to metaphor, things like that jump out at you. And the arrow as a wick in the flame of a crossbow? Nice. Shapes are evocative. Notice them.
Your turn.
Kettle ___________
BONNIE HAYES
Kettle laughs: The kettle laughs merrily on the stove and then shrieks its little song of readiness.
Outside, a chainsaw snorts and then cackles gleefully. A jay screams at some joke the squirrels tell him, and overhead, the clouds skip through the sky. My tea is hot and sweet, and day is clear, nothing hurts right now—for the moment, I’m happy.
SUSAN CATTANEO
Kettle screeches: The kettle screeches on the stove, a hot-aired harpy spewing steam.
Blue flames taunt her metal belly, the pillow of tea bag, a raspberry sachet, tossed into the steaming vat, water swirling with brown, hands cradle the china mug then pull away when the heat overwhelms …
Once the kettle laughs, the entire Disney movie begins, with chainsaws, jays, and even clouds joining the orchestra. Next door at Susan’s house, the kettle isn’t quite as happy. Notice both Bonnie and Susan keyed into sound to find their verbs; keying into shape might have brought out something like squats.
Your turn.
Waitress ___________
CHANELLE DAVIS
Waitress battles: The waitress battles to keep the heavy dinner plates on her arm as she weaves in and out of the overcrowded restaurant.
Waitress twists and turns, sucking in her stomach, squeezing through gaps, lifting plates almost above her head, hum of conversation, laughter, jazz band in the corner, clapping, pasta with creamy sauce and mussels …
SUSAN CATTANEO
Waitress storms: The waitress storms the dining room, her hair a tornado of tinted blonde. She pours on the charm and flashes lightning white teeth.
Menus sticky with maple syrup, Elvis on the radio, eggs getting cold on the fry cook’s metal counter, smell of bacon lingers in the air like mist, playing pick-up-sticks with toothpicks …
Once Susan finds storms, other members of its family come rushing in to join the party. That’s the beauty of collisions: each side brings entire families to elbow into the other’s business.
Now, you try.
Summer ___________
SUSAN CATTANEO
Summer waltzes: Summer waltzes on daisy feet across the open meadow’s floor, sweeping away spring in the folds of her emerald gown.
A lone hawk circles and catches an updraft, bees lumber from flower to flower, a lizard bakes on a hot stone and then is gone, breathing in clover and overturned earth, a brook skips over …
ANN HALVERSON
Summer buckles: Summer buckles under the weight of wilting fruit, mounds of petals, lawns as far past thirsty as tumbleweeds.
Easter-blue sky and khaki horizon—but at night the light is yellow crime lamps, the air streaked with particles, shoes always white, breath clogging from a two minute run, the dust dried into in the seams of every joint, eating her …
I wonder what would happen if these were reversed: “_________waltzes summer … ”, “__________ buckles summer ….” Try it. Then do your own.
Graduation ___________
CHANELLE DAVIS
Graduation stretches: Graduation stretches out across the afternoon, sighing during the final photos and lingering good-byes.
High heels sinking into the lawn, sipping champagne, face hurts from smiling for photos, itching to take off my black gown, holding pink roses …
SUSAN CATTANEO
Graduation plods: Four hundred graduates, three hours of speeches, ninety degrees in the shade… On hot, swollen and heavy feet, the graduation ceremony plods along through the dwindling afternoon.
Programs waving back and forth as makeshift fans, mosquitoes buzzing like miniature helicopters, hard wooden folding chairs, heels sinking into wet grass …
I didn’t have the high-heel experience, though it must be a common experience, until now. Both Chanelle and Susan personify graduation, then give it an action. Nice.
Your turn.
More with verbs tomorrow. Excit
ing, yes?
DAY #6
FINDING NOUNS FROM VERBS
Yesterday was interesting, finding verbs from a noun prompt. Today you’ll reverse that and find nouns from a verb prompt, nouns that create collisions with the verbs. This will be unfamiliar territory—it seems easier to know the noun and put it into action than to know the action and find something that does it. Or not, I’ll let you judge.
As you did yesterday, for each combination, write a sentence or short paragraph about it. Then do your ninety-second piece of object writing.
VERBS
Flush
Indict
Paddle
Operate
Soar
_____________ Flushes
CHANELLE DAVIS
Company flushes: The company flushes out its underperforming staff in a recession.
Pulling the chain, swirling water, dirty waste, cold sterile porcelain bosses.
SUSAN CATTANEO
Dusk flushes: Dusk flushes out the daylight, draining the color from the sunset and washing the sky clean.
Watercolor clouds drip on the horizon, streetlamps buzz on, the houses on the street huddle close in the silence, the moon is a hangnail in the dark …
What quality does flush have? It removes, gets rid of. So find some things that remove or are removed. Since flush is primarily a transitive verb—it asks for a direct object—you’ll have to find two nouns: x flushes y. Dusk flushes daylight.
Hot spots: “porcelain bosses,” “the moon is a hangnail in the dark.”
Now, do your own.
_____________ indicts
BONNIE HAYES
Lilacs indict: The lilacs indict me with a few sparse flowers.
The garden is unhappy. My roses are reproachful, my iris refuse to bloom in their overcrowded beds. Even in my place of respite, I am coming up short.
SUSAN CATTANEO
Gaze indicts: As he tiptoes in the back door at 5 a.m., her stern gaze indicts him, sentencing him to a long dawn of arguing.
Clock ticks by the stove, she paces the linoleum floor, nerves jangle like wind chimes, she hears his car in the distance, tires turning on gravel, he cuts the headlights, hoping their lighted eyes won’t gaze in through the curtained windows.
Another transitive verb. Both Bonnie and Susan use a pronoun as a direct object. The collision is between the subject and the verb. The direct object comes along for the ride.
Your turn.
_____________Paddles
BONNIE HAYES
Moon paddles: The moon paddles in a river of clouds streaming across the sky, bubbling up around it.
The stars are already underwater, drowning in the sudden flood of darkness, rising out of nowhere and obscuring the possibility of clarity on this night.
CHANELLE DAVIS
Fire paddles: The fire paddles its way across the ground, waves of heat and embers are splashed amongst the native bush.
Moves quickly, helicopters buzzing with water buckets trying to stop the fire racing like a team of rowers, leaves a trail of smoky mist, coughing, burnt orange sky, flames drown the houses, flood the trees …
Aha! An intransitive verb. No direct object necessary, but you’ll probably use a prepositional phrase like Bonnie and Chanelle did: “paddles in a river of clouds” and “fire paddles … across.”
Both use the water imagery that paddles suggests and apply it to the nouns’ families with startling results.
Now, you try.
_____________Operates
SUSAN CATTANEO
Spider operates: The spider operates on its delicate web, threading the silk and stitching together nature’s lace.
Monkeys chatter in trees, a mango yellow snake coils around a tree branch, footsteps crash in the undergrowth, a pioneer cuts boot prints in mud, rifle glinting in the blade of sun coming through the canopy of leaves.
ANN HALVERSON
Rumor operates: Rumor operates as if it has its own army.
Its marching orders move the troops to every venue, battle ready, weapons sharpened for maximum result, responses set to engage and surprise and destroy. Sneaking into darkest spaces, leaving land mines of doubt behind them … the damage whispers in ears across barbed wire.
Hot spots: “rifle glinting in the blade of sun,” “leaving land mines of doubt behind them.”
Now, your turn.
_____________ soars
BONNIE HAYES
Party soars: The party soared around my ears, boosted by the wild energy of a full moon and kamikazes.
I could almost feel it in my hair, like wind, in the tingling of my fingertips like adrenaline. I let it lift me up and floated ever higher, with a kind of internal silence the way it might feel to be high high in the sky …
CHANELLE DAVIS
Wasabi soars: The wasabi soars through my nose and into my brain, flapping around, trying to escape through the top of my scalp.
Scraping inside of my head, intense burning, pulsing shock waves, pecking my nose, scrunch up my face and hit my forehead with my fist trying to shake it out, watery eyes.
Soar, like operate, is intransitive. You understand the difference between transitive and intransitive verbs, right? Right.
Now, do your own.
You use lots of nouns and verbs in your writing. As in music, surprise at the right time matters. Find opportunities, when you have your noun, to audition a whole chorus line of verbs until you find an exciting collision. And conversely. It’ll keep your writing fresh and interesting. You know how that is. You just did it for two days.
DAY #7
EXPRESSED IDENTITY:
NOUN-NOUN COLLISIONS
Something new today. You’ll work with expressed identity: noun colliding with noun. Remember the three forms of expressed identity:
1. x is y A poem is a zipper
2. The y of x The zipper of the poem
3. x’s y The poem’s zipper
In your collisions today, try some of these constructions and see how they fit. Here are your nouns:
NOUNS NOUNS
Wince Cargo ship
Frisbee Zipper
Poem Evening
Summer Captain
Restaurant Wineglass
For each noun/noun combination, write a sentence or short paragraph. Then do your ninety seconds.
A wince is a cargo ship
SUSAN CATTANEO: She stubbed her bruised toe on the chair leg, and her wince was a cargo ship, holding a ten-ton pile of pain.
Ache radiating in waves, cutting through all other thoughts. Eyes dripping salty tears, she casts around her mind looking for a really good swearword to use …
KRISTIN CIFELLI: Her wince was a cargo ship that hauled along emotions from years past. The sudden reaction, though quick and sharp, was also heavy with fear.
Trudging along through the dirty waters of your past, a slow reaction to fear, a wince, though quick and reactive, slows you down, full of heavy boxes of emotion, packed and stacked neatly inside your head …
Note the water language in Susan’s, drawn from the family of cargo ship. Kristin loads the ship with stacking boxes, cruising dirty waters. Note that Kristin’s “the dirty waters of your past” is also an expressed identity is the second form, “the y of x,” “your past is dirty waters.”
Your turn.
A Frisbee is a zipper
GREG BECKER: The Frisbee flew through the air and zippered up the wind behind it as it spun itself forward.
Frisbee spinning wildly, crazy hippie disk toy on acid trip, barefoot flying from the patchouli fingers of torn jeans, grown child in the grassy sunny field of irresponsibility in the parking area for summer concert, with bandana dog chasing it, slobbering chewing it. Zipper on the hoodie of the Frisbee player with cracker and Dorito crumbs in the pockets …
KRISTIN CIFELLI: A Frisbee is a zipper that opens your grown-up world back to your kid planet.
With a simple toss of the Frisbee, he forgot all about the stress
of his job, bills to be paid. The freeness of the Frisbee unzipped him from planet grown-up back to a fun and carefree kid-planet.
Both Greg and Kristin transformed zipper from a noun to a verb. Part of zipper’s family is the actions it can perform. Note Greg’s “sunny field of irresponsibility,” the second form of expressed identity, “irresponsibility is a sunny field.” And Kristin’s “planet grown-up,” using an adjective-noun collision (grown-up is the adjective).
Now, try your own.
A poem is an evening
ANNE HALVORSEN: A poem is an evening on the front lawn.
First stanza myrtle green, quaggy underfoot with sinking toes in the new-mown smell renewed by a flash of thundershower; then four lines for the dusky, emerging dance of the two facing silhouettes … finally leaning in to lift and roll the frayed badminton net, taste of longing versed with after-rain, rhythms synched, first firefly fingers touch …
KRISTIN CIFELLI: A poem is an evening quietly settling your day inside you, and feeding you a hearty dinner.
Twilight—after the sun sets, the poem brings us to gorgeous gentle light, and eventually to starlight. Its rhymes and patterns are constellations of words in the night sky. Sparkling, twinkling …
Kristin’s “Its rhymes and patterns are constellations of words in the night sky” creates two layers of expressed identity: The first version—rhymes are constellations—and the second version—constellations of words. A version of words are constellations. Anne’s “taste of longing” is also a lovely example of the second version.
Your turn.
Summer is the captain
ANDREA STOLPE: Summer strode in as a decorated captain, marked by the stripes of all the knowledge and experience I’d accumulated during the year.
Come July I’d have T-shirt tan lines and wrinkles at the corners of my eyes from squinting in the blazing beach sun. This summer I’d avoid the french fry station and the burger flipping, and move right up into the position of lifeguard. I was sixteen, and all I wanted to feel was the sand dust layer on my toes and a stingy layer of salt. Grape slushes dripped down the chins of toddlers and …
SUSAN CATTANEO: Summer is the captain, ordering the daylight to stand at attention until way past 9 p.m.