How to be Alone

The Creeklings are off on a wilderness hike this weekend, so I'm back to home, family, studio and garden.

Week one was filled with the group's boundless energy and creativity - scribblings of dreamscapes, wishes, fairytales, nighmares, and all the world's wonders and faults. I can't wait to see what Monday will bring.

In the meantime...this is for the Creeklings and for you. Tanya Davis' gorgeous poem, "How to be Alone." Have a wonderful weekend. "Take silence and respect it."
- Ami

The Crucible...it's a rap.

After attending a stellar Two Planks performance of The Crucible, The Creeklings were given the task to write a rap based on Arthur Miller's timeless play. Check it out...

Arthur Miller wrote a play called The Crucible,
It was about the witch trials, and it was full -
of characters, plot lines, lots of Goods -
Tituba, Tituba, dancin' in the woods.

It's set in Salem, a pretty freaky place,
Everybody's Christian, "Devil don't dare show your face!"

Poor Mary Warren...

When something goes wrong, who's to blame?
Abigail, Abigail, that's her name.
She loved John Proctor, but he didn't feel the same,
So she rounded up the witches. It was no harmless game.

The women were depressed (you would think they were Goth,)
Goody Putnam had a baby and it's head popped off!

Poor Mary Warren...

Elizabeth Proctor was John's faithful wife,
She didn't trust Abigail (who tried to take her life.)
Abby wanted John, and Johnny felt the lust,
so E-Proc put her to the curb - she did what she must.

Poor Mary Warren...

By this time, the town was going mad.
They were sure it was witches, which was very very bad.
Mr. Hale put his foot down, he said, "I quit this court!"
"There's no such thing as witches - abort, abort!"

Poor Mary Warren...

Goody Nurse, she wouldn't confess,
no matter the consequence or the stress.
When the time came, John wouldn't sign,
so he ripped up the paper and said his goodbyes.

Poor Mary Warren...

That's a rap.

Between today's writing sessions, The Creeklings raided the Ross Creek rec. director's goofy props locker and performed the rap on the bleachers of the Two Planks outdoor stage! (Stay tuned for a special RC re-mix in the days to come...)

Common Ground

The writers spent their morning writing reaction pieces to the work of textile artist, Pat Loucks. While sitting with the art in the gallery at Ross Creek, they were invited to "enter into a narrative" with one or more of the artist's works. Their pieces include personal observations, descriptions, and freeform fiction.

This is the artist's statement for the installation, Common Ground.
"the works in this exhibition are intended to address my response to the landscape around me as I encounter it on my daily walks through the changing seasons of the year. I am interested in exploring the marks, patterns and forms that remain visible on the surface of the landscape as a result of human activity as well as natural forces."

"In my work I try to suggest a remembered mood of feeling, to communicate something visceral I have experienced while spending time in these locations, rather than create a literal representation of a particular place."

Wild Barley, Wild Poppies

I see the storm. Raindrops are blown like strips of fabric. Lightning lights the blackened skies on fire. Thunder cracks the windows.
As the storm drops lower, it releases its hold on rage. The rain claps are suddenly just a tap. The thunder is no longer directly overhead. Lightning sheets the skies behind my back. The absence of fury sends me into the deepest trance. I'm floating. I'm myself again.
Suddenly the wind gets stronger and the rain gets louder and the light show dooms me blind. The windows shatter and my eardrums tumble and i can't feel my toes anymore. The monster inside takes over. Until the storm passes, I'm here no longer.

-Becca

Old Stones, New Vines

I see the hayfields, the center garden, and the pasture where the cows they graze. I feel my footprints in the sand, and know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. My husband, my daughter, and me. We live by the glistening sea.

-Becca



Wild Poppies (Portugal series)

The red reminds me of sadness, of people hurt, of broken hearts that are shattered like mine. Sometimes I forget but the pain is always still there. I attack myself, saying I must be strong, but I will tell you this deep dark secret, I'm not tough at all and being sensitive hurts.

The piece I saw seemed dark and sad. Blood red as a bleeding heart like mine, scattered into pieces - forever hurt, broken, full of fear and pain. Sometimes it feels healed but it is not (and might never be.) Only a few people and things tie you to this earth so you do not die, or run.

It speaks of people who run, people who get hurt easily, people who need space yet someone to cling to, and people who are scared.

Scared of making friends and having them leave, scared of being hurt, scared of friends turning out to be false, scared of letting people down, and most of all, being scared of myself.
- Kit

Barbaric Yawp #1

"The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me...he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed...I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

- Walt Whitman "Song of Myself" Leaves of Grass

Today's morning exercise was "learning to sound your barbaric yawp."
Inspired by Whitman's verse, we walked to a hill and gave our best yawps to the nature that surrounded us. Each writer then spent the next twenty minutes writing a short observation piece, commenting on the landscape and their place within it.

Here are two examples of their work.
- Ami McKay


The trees answer me with rustling leaves.
The dogs in the distance respond with barks and howls.
A bird flies away.
The flowers and grass appear to be smiling.
An empty wooden shack seems happy and full again,
no longer abandoned,
because my voice has filled it up with love and freedom.
I feel like a goddess,
I am free.
Bugs are buzzing around me,
the wind is at my face.
I am graceful.
My blanket flies behind me like a cape,
and now I am Superwoman.
These scraps, they are not garbage.
They are treasures. Nets, wood, a striped pole.
Everything tells a story.

by Ivy Charles




Observation through a lens is unfeeling and fake
to be real is to see your skin in the grass, and feel the wind on your body
to hear the earth speak and scream your response with the dogs
act like animals and become one
we are not made of clay, we are painted life surrounded by colours of perfection

by Ruby Reed

Five Words

For our first project, we did an exercise called Five Words. Five words are written on cards, one on each card, and passed around. Each writer has five minutes with each word. The word needs to be the basis of a section in a short story. By the end of the exercise each person should have a short story.
This project I think was a perfect way to start the workshop. It was quick, easy, and we had to rush and put down the first thing that came to our heads. Just WRITE,WRITE, WRITE! Every ones' stories came out totally different, which I thought was really neat.
Our five words for the day were stars, shoes, magician, duel, and myth.

-Becca

This is my world. People say this is nothing more than a fantasy. They say it’s but a myth. But not in my world. Not in my life. In my wake, I bring destruction. I’m not a kid’s story. I’m not a monster under the bed. I am not a myth. I am a dragon tamer.

I step out into the night, blinking back tears as the chimney smoke assaults my fragile, newly opened eyes. I look behind me at my little stone cabin. Moss has made its way onto my windowsills, leaving the windows ajar. Smoke comes drifting up out if my chimney, making the black-blue sky turn a dull grey. Millions or trillions of stars rest in the sky like diamonds. I like the stars. They’re someone peaceful, yet energetic. They wake me up with their magical presence.

I suppose you’re wondering why I’m only getting up now, when the sun has gone to bed and the moon has come out to play. Last night, my faithful companion and I were out saving a local village of women and children from bandits as their men were out hunting. They give me no credit, the people I save. They never do. How could a redheaded woman on the back of a beast possibly be a hero? Only men can be knights.

I lace up my shoes and kick off some of the mud. They’re more like work boots than mere shoes. Steel-toed and made of the hide of several of the toughest oxen. Fur sticks up from inside, warming my freezing toes. I may be a midnight heroine, but even I get cold.

I grab my chainmail vest off a nearby rock and throw it on. I look up at the sky and whistle my loudest. The wind picks up and like a hurricane, my companion arrives. Desdemona, my familiar.

I was but sixteen years of age, three years ago, when the Magician of Knox came to my door. He said he had come for he had sensed a great power emanating from this place, like an aura of light and hope.

The magician was an old man, so I let him stay on my sofa. I had lost both my parents in a war some years ago and I enjoyed his company. It was one night, late in May, that he told me of my true power.

I was a dragon tamer.

After much persuasion, the magician got me to partake in the ritual to call my dragon. When we were done, Desdemona appeared, fire blazing from her mouth. That’s when the magician told me we were to duel.

It was a tiresome battle. I had no idea in the slightest how to go about duelling a dragon. I was losing miserably. Desdemona had me pinned under her forepaws. So I did the one thing I could. I pleaded for my release.

My tears wet her dry, crackled scales and with my tears, mine and Desdemona’s bond was formed.

Desdemona became my dragon.

My familiar.
- by Ainslee Adams

Welcome!

Welcome to The Creeklings - the official blog for the 2010 writing academy at the Ross Creek Centre for the Arts.

Over the next two weeks, the teens in this year's writing intensive will be posting here. Stay tuned for prompts, exercises, and brave new words!

Cheers,
Ami McKay, instructor.