Friday, May 29, 2009

May 30 2009 Writing Marathon

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Elizabeth Parker said...

The Visit

I don’t, but if I did visit the gravesites of those I’ve loved that have gone to eternal life in heaven, what would I think, see, say, remember?
Would I recall all of the habits I loved that made them them, or those traits that annoyed me and caused me to walk away at times?
Would I share the memories that only I recall of times that we shared a good solid laugh, or would I tell them about the times I wanted to scream because their opinions didn’t match mine?
Would I cry because I miss their smile and hugs, or would I praise God for bringing them to the ultimate home?
Would I catch them up on what’s happening in the lives of people they shared a love for, or would I allow those memories of their lives as they left them to linger?
Would I bring fresh flowers to lay at their head and dust off their name, or would I appreciate the way in which they have become comfortable in their earthly home?
Would I come on a birthday, holiday, or just as I ride by on a Tuesday afternoon with time to spare?
Would I come for a moment and leave, or stay for a while with endless thoughts to impart?
I don’t but if I did visit their gravesites, what would I think, see, say, remember?

Amy Hudock said...


Well, here I am, sitting in this quirky little coffee shop called Kudu's. My first impression of this shop was that I loved it! The ambience is quite relaxing which is what I needed as I am a bit nervous today, this the first day of the Institute. I am about to take part in a Writers Marathon, something I have never done before. I look around and observe jungle, plants, animals, and canopy. I smell the different blends of coffee, am aware of the idle chatter of the patrons many of whom seem to frequent the establishment, and listen to music with appropriate beats lending itself nicely to the atmosphere. My eyes are drawn to the movie screen that continuously shows video of animals in the wild. Quite fitting, I love animals. Back to the relazxing atmosphere. Am I still nervous? Yes. Am I inspired? Probably, hopefully. How do I feel? Like one of my students when given a writing assignment. Where do I begin, what do I write about? I take comfort in the fact that I am not alone and that, as Amy said, we are all writers. Let the juices flow!

Amy Hudock said...

Marion Square -- Farmers' Market

The rickashaw driver sits back in the passenger seat of his rig, one leg forward, the other back, arms up on the sides -- slouching. He is trying t o look unconcerned with the girl standing in front of him, another rickashaw driver with a walk-talkie at her hip, sunglasses perched on top of her head, slim hips swaying. He is beautiful - she is handsome. She stands too close for them to be strangers, but not close enough for them to be lovers. Her body almost touches his knees. She leans forward. He purposely keeps back, maintaining the personal space she seems eager to enter.

Other rickashaw drivers are parked around them, sitting, waiting, watching the one-sided flirting. I can only imagine this is the best entertainment offered in this job. I think of rickashaw drivers in Vietnam, other far away Asian countries. The dirt. The sweat. The poverty. The hunger. The demeaning nature of the job, using leg energy to pull another human being around in a cart. I don't see any of that reflected in this American import of an ancient trade. These indolent teens share little with the people who drive rickashaws to barely survive in places where survival is not likely. In America, even the rickashaw drivers carry cell phones.

Amy Hudock said...

Sat., May 30, 2009 10:35 a.m. Cindy Hollis

When Peachy led us through the first gate, I couldn’t imagine the treasures within. I have always loved old cemeteries – the one in Key West being a favorite. My imagination runs as I read dates and names. “Everyone has a story,” or so the proverb goes; what a pity that so many untold stories lie in wait in this sacred spot. Who were these people? What did they see? Whom did they love; was it really the person whose name shares their stone?

So much of the charm of this place is tangled in the under and overgrowth of the trees, bushes, flowers, and vines. How different and less interesting it would be if it were mowed and trimmed.

What a great place to be a cat!

Who was Jeanne Hamilton Alexander 1927-1998 (one – with all due respect -- of the relative “newbies”) under the concrete stone where my favorite old black Clarks clogs are resting?

The sun tries to break between the trees and, thankfully, cannot. It’s so much more interesting to watch the patterns drizzled by leaves (no fewer than fifty or so shades of green) and Spanish moss. The breeze wafts scents of flowers I can’t name in oranges, pinks, and purples I can appreciate. I honor the brave little weed, the one that appears so determined and dignified as it tries to push between the blocks of concrete that mark the last rest of Ann Werner and a husband whose name I cannot read because years of the elements have acted as an eraser. What appears to be 1766 is nearly invisible.

A fat brown dove waddles ahead of me on bricks worn by who knows how many pairs of shoes. I’m glad she didn’t immediately take flight, secure enough to feel the peace that I hope the souls around me are experiencing in their silent repose.

Amy Hudock said...

Musings by Megan Gilbert

I always find interest in how much people differ. What one person finds scary, I find absolutely thrilling. I love to explore the dark, haunting places that some people swear against setting foot in. I love gothic clothing and people daring enough to wear multi-colored hair. Piercings and tattoos aren’t gross, scary, or a distraction to me. They are just a form of personal expression- or culture and religion in some parts of the world. Others run from people who have them or look at them with disgust. Some even label them to be in league with the devil. I look at them with interest briefly then go about my business. Some people love pink things, bunnies, puppies, and warm, fuzzy sayings. Me…I’d rather wear my earth tones, blacks, and reds in a room with maroon walls and read books about vampires and fae. I still commune with God in my own way. I still value goodness, fairness, and think Hitler was sick.

What about people like him- Dahmer, Manson, Bundy and the like? They are what I think of as evil. What shaped them? What turned them? What colors did they like? I know that Hitler loved his dog. I’ve loved all the dogs I’ve owned (or most of them anyway). So what is that turning point? What makes everyone tick so differently? Where does evil begin?

jan said...

Venturing off the path

Can give you a rash
Can give you a rush

Rocky paths through blowing grasses high above the ocean
Sand paths under moss-bearded oaks
Shortcut paths across empty lots, lines on a baseball diamond

Maybe the rash was under the skin
Red and itchy to get out

Find a path
Venture off
or not

Emily, Flannery, and Eudora
Followed familiar paths
Into unfamiliar places.

trupeach said...

unitarian church cemetery
peachey trudell

the shadows play on the path as well as the tombstones. such history hiding away: tucked under dangling moss, dressed in ivy. we look at names and stop on mable, a name not common now but once was. it makes me think of my own name and the names in my family that, to me, when the sounds drop from my mouth, bring me warmth and a sense of connection. zenia. frances. mildred. nancy. women who loved me, hugged me, taught me silly rhymes and how to catch crabs and shuck corn. women with soft hands that did rough work. i wonder how many women like that are buried here and what they taught their daughters and granddaughters.

Helen Brandenburg said...

The Journey Begins

From Kudo’s, my fellow-travelers and I wander from morning to afternoon. Together, we walk the grounds of the Cathedral of St. Luke and St. Paul—experience its fire ants and dog poop, its rosemary and weeds, organ music and gravestones. At the College of Charleston, my new friends and I sit to write in posh leather chairs in its Addlestone Library, the new library built on top of another decade of my life. A miracle of memory—what is absent is also present. I journal but also sit in bleachers, see the Cross process at mass in Bishop England’s high school gym. At the same time, outside, in the Library’s courtyard, a circular fountain intermittently spews. Beneath it lies the dust of the demolished BE Annex along with fragments of its asphalt parking lot-- and beneath that, four graveyards full of the bones—those of black Charleston freemen.