The important part is not the travel, it’s the new people
you meet and the experiences you have as a result of those people. Of course a
road trip is not necessary for you to be changed by new people, but it’s always
more fun because of the anticipation factor that builds as the miles slide by.
So, last week I took a road trip to a poetry/literary event
in Southern California, my foundation home—where my high school years formed a
good part of who I am. I lived there while I traversed some incredibly
difficult years—made even more difficult for those of us that don’t fit neatly
into molds.
A writing partner/friend, Sunny Frazier, and I traveled to
the San Gabriel Literary Fest to meet and be exposed (in a good way) to other
literary artists—poets and prose writers. And exposed we were. There is
something about the allure of the unfettered mind that attracts me. I love
people who don’t put a lot of limits on their thinking, who are open to new
experiences and not freaked out by the changes those experiences will wring out
of you.
A road trip always heightens my awareness,
forcing me to pay attention to details.
The
clouds hanging in a clear blue sky. A windy hill, at the roadside rest stop, on
the Grapevine, when you pull your jacket tight to your body to squeeze out the
chill mountain air. Breathing in the crisp, fresh smell, while closing your
eyes a moment, to anticipate the adventure ahead.
Ping! A
bright moment.
The poets at the venue changed me that day. I embraced the
mundane poems and was warmed by the more profound ones when they arose. I love
the spirit of the artist and always feel at home with people who stretch their
thinking to embrace that feeling, thought, idea that is just out of reach,
sometimes seeing it with clarity and sometimes only sensing it.
The anticipation of discovery.
The poets/writers during the day were mostly adequate, with
a few brightly lighting up the room. I bought a book from one writer who read
from his SciFi story that was intriguing and different.
Ping!
Another bright spot.
It was after dinner when things got dramatically different.
I lovingly say, it’s when the crazies came out—an affectionate reference to the
free thinkers who know few bounds. It was a step back in time to a beatnik
moment out of the past, in a dark basement with overhead lighting accentuating
the shadows that bring out images and allow pictures to form in the mind, as the sometimes
gyrating poets read and expressively performed their literary pieces.
One poet made reference, while reading her
erotic poem, to the basement as the ‘sex dungeon,’ which of course brought
me out of my temporary doze from a less stimulating prior poet.
What
was that she said, what’s going on, did I miss something?
Ping!
Pay attention.
If I was beginning to get sleepy (long day which began early)
up comes Brendan Constantine, an animated speaker who gyrated and performed his pieces
to emphasize his poetic phrasing like a Shakesperean actor playing to an
audience in the far reaches of a theater, not the small ‘dungeon’ which held
maybe 40 people. His poetry was compelling and reached inside, affecting me in
ways I haven’t fully assimilated as yet.
Ping!
Another moment that changed me.
After a long drive at high speeds on the L.A. freeway
system, we got to my writer friend’s house at midnight, where we stayed the
night near the beach at Marina Del Rey, south of Santa Monica. After fun conversation
in our PJs over tea, we chatted and told stories until we finally gave in and
succumbed to sleep after a long day.
Ping!
Good feelings from sharing, laughing, getting to know a new writer friend, MartaChausee.
I awoke at my usual early hour to write in my journal--all
the impressions and ideas coming to me from the stimulation of the previous
evening.
And cleansings poured forth to that young girl I left behind in L.A.
many years ago. Somehow this trip was a revisit to previous
unresolved emotions that being by the Southern California beach brought up.
Later that morning, after breakfast, I took a little time to walk through the
sand on the beach, the final element for the alchemical reaction and changes that finally hit home.
Ping!
Another moment that changed me,
after which I would come up
with the ideas for some short stories I have since begun. A changed approach to
writing. Or maybe a higher level on the spiral of writing I started years ago
when I lived at the beach for an unforgettable summer, not all of which was good.
The pings or sparks from people I was exposed to changed me,
whether in a greater or lesser way, forever—FOREVER. Think of that. I will
never be exactly the same person I was the day before that trip. Those kinds of
realizations can’t help but make you grateful for every positive person you
come in contact with in real life or on the internet.
My internet irritant (I say with loving affection), M Cid D’Angelo
has been prodding me about literary vs. genre. We’ve been sparring about the
value of each (me taking the underdog position (in his mind) of genre). And after
some lively banter, it has opened me up to accept another, closed part of me
that has been resisting change.
Ping! A
call to excellence.
I believe in the power of story, whether well written or
not, but the power of story can take a far deeper turn when everything is not
spelled out—as in genre where detail is king (a good thing). Writing in a more
literary style makes you work harder, pulls from deeper wells and plumbs the
depths from deeper stores inside yourself to find truths that sing. Sometimes
we just need story to entertain without all the work in our stress filled
lives. At other sometimes it’s good to work at finding the deeper messages, the more
esoteric truths that poets and literary writers bring to the 'game' of writing.
It’s easy to become lazy with genre alone. But devouring only
literary is like eating cake all the time, not good for the digestion. I think
you need the more gritty writing to clear the palate—just a good
entertaining story that changes you in some small way—like a good road trip.
When you have both in one story—well, then you’ve hit the
jackpot.
Ping!
