Today I had the opportunity to write with the Pittsburgh Memoir Project held at East Liberty Library. It was my first time and I enjoyed every second of it. (The Project travels to a new Pittsburgh location about every 6 sessions if you are interested.)
I heard many inspiring things today:
What would happen if we acted like magic really existed?
We are all living witnesses to history
A story shines when it intersects the universal, historical, and personal.
One of the prompts we were given was one on Appetite: How do you nurture your appetites? Name your hunger. Give it a color, a texture. Describe what appetite is to you with concrete images.
Here is what I wrote about Dance:
I would say it was red. The color of Aries, alive and pulsing under the skin. It feeds on blood and rampant desire. It throbs and electrifies. Spiky and crimson, shaped like a cobweb made out of Twizzlers. When activated it melts and relaxes neck muscles and itchy soles of feet.
Most of the time I beat it back, crumple it like a piece of wasted writing in the corner. Not now. There are people around. Not today, you need to clean the bathroom and take the clothes to Goodwill.
But she persists. Sending forth incessant images of burlesque halls and Spanish parties. The hearty thump of a character shoe. The undulating fingers of flamenco. The lively springiness.
And when I let her free. She thanks me. Emerges from the pores in colorless drops. She unwinds and bursts forth.
What kills her?
Worry over how my long body looks.
Does-this-look-right checks in hallway mirrors.
A red, seared hunger yes. Wide but spreading further and further until it is as close to me as a DNA strand. Twisting, attaching and holding on for dear life.
She is Life. If I will have Her. Buzzing Life. For-sure Life.
Pining for hours of uninterrupted dance floors and a steady drop-down beat. She is my friend but I treat her tangled self like the Enemy.
She is lurking and sometimes I let her fly.