Category Archives for InkTober

InkTober 2017: Day 15 – Mysterious

One of my favourite things to do when I was a teenager was ride the subway in my city from one end to the next, for hours, while writing. I would sit on a seat that gave me a wide vantage point to watch people as they entered and exited the subway car in which I rode. Watching people’s movements inspired my poetry and prose writing. Trying to see beyond the clothes and blank expressions, they wore, made my mind work to create personas or circumstances I felt suited each man, woman, or child as they moved briefly toward me then permanently away from me out the train’s sliding doors.

On one occasion, I wrote a short poem about a man whose presence caught my attention. He was tall and he stood in the doorway of the train’s car with one shoulder leaning against the Plexiglas-enclosed entryway. However, I couldn’t read too deeply into him because he wore sunglasses, which prevented me from seeing his eyes and made him more mysterious than he probably was. Not being able to see a person’s eyes always makes it difficult for me to read them and in this case, his sunglasses made it impossible.

As the man continued standing in the doorway, I was unable to hide my interest in him. Although I couldn’t see his eyes I knew he was looking at me. As he stood there, I wrote about him and I wondered if he knew he was my subject. I got my answer when the train arrived at his stop. Before he left the train, he looked directly at me and smiled. I was so taken aback by that sudden unexpected connection that I smiled back. I smiled back not knowing for certain why he smiled at me.

As silly as it may sound: to this day, thinking about that experience unnerves me. Why did that man, whose eyes couldn’t be seen, smile at a teen-aged girl while they rode on the same train?

 

InkTober 2017: Day 14 – Fierce

I had trouble drawing my sketch and writing my thoughts coherently, for this prompt since I read it a couple of days ago. I knew what I wanted to draw to represent the word ‘fierce’ and I knew exactly what I wanted to say. However, I’d never drawn a lion before and, on top of that, I had some writer’s block too. I tried a few times to start the sketch but it wouldn’t take shape the way I wanted it to. I did a lot of erasing and had to sharpen my pencil many times. I wanted to draw a lion that looked like a creature to be feared, instead of a stuffed animal but that’s not an easy thing to do when you’re not an accomplished artist.

Why the words wouldn’t come is a different and very personal matter. What I was trying to truthfully articulate is something I’ve struggled with in my life: putting on a façade to appear tougher than how I feel because I don’t want others to know that their attempts to wound me have landed with painful accuracy. As a woman, I’ve done that repeatedly to push through and past situations, while pushing away the someone(s) who felt they had the right to betray my trust or recklessly harm me. I did it so many times that it became second nature, while showing what I truly feel and how deeply I feel it became gruelling work.

I assume we all like to believe that we are or can be fierce when a situation makes it necessary. I say “necessary” because the human body’s nervous system is not designed to be on constant alert. Being fierce at all times requires a hyper-vigilance that takes a toll on one’s body and mind. We are designed to sense danger, get ourselves to safety, then shut down that alert system so our bodies return to a (relative) state of calm. Moreover, the measures needed for keeping out the bad, mean not allowing enough of the good to find its way through; and it can be exhausting to keep this cycle going.

My fierce demeanor was so well-practiced I could probably teach how-to classes and make a fortune. First, there’s the posture one must take where your back and shoulders are held with such stiffness your body oozes aloofness and an air of I don’t give a f…, which may send a message that feelings – if it’s believed one has any – can’t be accessed or hurt. Then there’s the sharp cutting glance that takes years to master and to an untrained eye may resemble the batting of an eyelash. The sender must make sure the receiver feels the whittling sharpness of the look to their core in an instant. While the accompanying words – their calculated pitch and timing between them – further build the effect of an impenetrable stone structure that towers protectively above one’s physical frame.

Many years ago, I had to look at my life and figure out how well this strategy was working for me. The primary question being: Was my fierce demeanor attracting the people and the experiences I wanted in my life? If it wasn’t, what did I have to change? Although, I didn’t have to overwrite who I was completely, it took years for me to unlearn and untangle myself from these exhausting self-protective practices. Furthermore, the work is ongoing because there is no single action or magic pill that can give you everything you want overnight.

 

InkTober 2017: Day 13 – Teeming

I love words. However, the word ‘teeming’, from the InkTober prompt list, did not conjure up a single image I could easily draw nor that I wanted to – yes, I did know its meaning immediately. I had to think long and hard before coming up with something that wouldn’t take me hours of detailed line-drawing to sketch or make my skin crawl. When I finally did think of something – it wasn’t a swarm of maggots 😉 –, it was more about a story than an image. After thinking for a while, my brain began teeming with words and memories. I hope that my sketch for the prompt makes sense to more people than me.

My brain is always teeming with words. Partly because I have a tendency to overthink EVERYTHING, but more likely because I learned to read at an early age: I learned to read sometime before I turned four years old. When I started attending junior/pre-kindergarten classes in elementary school, I was already reading. My mother has told stories about being upset because my teacher(s), and school administrative staff, questioned her about whether she had made a mistake and might I be older than what she listed on my registration form.

My mother was not amused that anyone, let alone a young kindergarten teacher, could think she didn’t know the age of her own child. Her annoyance intensified further because that same teacher and the school administration continued questioning, for some time, the likelihood of a four-year-old child learning to read as well as I could so much earlier than what was considered “normal” by academic standards. My memories of that situation aren’t clear. However, I do remember that my mother was not thrilled that when we went out, I felt the need to put my literacy skills to use. I would read EVERY billboard, poster, and road sign as we drove along in the car or traveled by public transit; and while it made my father proud, it drove her bonkers.

As I grew, so did my love for words. When I was a teenager, I was such a word nerd that I used to sit in my room and read the dictionary for hours at a time. No one who knows me well should be surprised by that admission. Additionally, I always gave myself summer-reading assignments. Not to punish myself, but to help the time pass more quickly and to keep my mind occupied. I was also the type of kid that carried a book wherever I went. In case I was the only child at an event I could prevent myself from dying of boredom, or if we were spending time with a family or friends whose children I didn’t quite like I could pretend I was reading homework.

The gift of learning to read at such an early age might be the reason that words are so important to me. I’m interested in their history, how to spell them, how to use them together, whether we use them correctly or incorrectly (e.g. there’s no such word as ‘irregardless’), when to emphasize them, and how they sound. I love writing and listening to long lines of alliteration. Can you see and hear what I did there?

I also know that words can hold tremendous power. Depending on how well one knows another person, we can choose the right words to express affection towards them and make them feel loved and secure. Alternatively, words can deeply wound at exactly the right moment with lasting traumatic effect. This, to me, means that we should always choose the words we speak to each other with care; and these last points may be the most important thing I know about words.