Georgia Scott's Blog, page 2

Fountains of Truth

A thought came to me walking in the mall yesterday. Polish malls are, to put you in the picture, places you walk to in cities. They have libraries in them, art exhibits, cafes and good sources of fresh fruit and vegetables, besides meat, for my cooking. So, I'm sitting by a fountain in the mall - this time of year, the ones in parks go off, silent before winter descends with all its force - and the water with its steady pulse made me think. Strength is not a well that never goes dry. It is a cup that might need refilling.

When I left, I was revived. If poetry is pain distilled, prose is a meal with many courses.

Time to cook and write.

On Balance, Writing in Excess

I used to spin to see the room go around. I did what all children do. But now, as adults, we are told that is wrong. We need balance in everything in our lives. Our diets, our feelings, our thoughts need to be kept in check. The prescribed way is like a river ride, controlled and making no waves in contrast to the open sea where boats leap like fish and come down with fireworks.

Imbalance is freeing to a writer. It feeds us as fun feeds a child. Remember seesaws with a friend? My muse can get mischievous. Up, then down with a bang. Pencil in hand, I fly or fall. Keeping on is all I can do.

When I get off, I'm still in the air. Walks help but never drive words away long. Sleep, too, is broken by their calls.There is nothing balanced about being a writer, only excess. And I wouldn't want it another way. No, not at all.

Rain in July

I just heard the news of Milan Kundera's death. Lover of music, writer, philosopher. He gave us so much. What more can be said? Let his words speak for themselves. He'll be missed.

"Beauty in art; the suddenly kindled light of the never-before-said. This light that radiates from the great novels time can never dim, for human existence is perpetually being forgotten by man, and thus the novelists' discoveries, however old they may be, will never cease to astonish us."

(from Milan Kundera's The Art of the Novel)

Happy Dancer

In my party days we had an expression which we used a lot. "The second life" was what returned to us after dancing til we would drop. It came unannounced. It was just suddenly there. We felt it at once though we couldn't say how or why. Where it came from, we didn't know. Yet, it was strong as a pair of arms. Pulled to our feet again, we rose as if with wings. Seeing us spin, others would join us, inspired by our flight. Spirits rose. Bodies warmed. Soon, the room like a field roused from winter burst with happiness. T. S. Eliot was right. "April is the cruellest month." But May has come overnight and with it comes "the second life."

Crime Scenes and Cookies

This year's batch of Kourambiedes came out melt in your mouth. They are a shortbread-like butter cookie snowed over with powdered sugar and placed in a frilled paper cup. The latter is damning as evidence of what's eaten. The number you consume can be traced. A plate topped with empty paper cups is the give away. You didn't stop at one. Every Greek home has its crime scenes. Mine is still being swept up.

Now, the tins are empty. It's back to work. My desk is waiting. Happy New Year to All. Friends, Followers, and Everyone on Goodreads. You remind me of the power of words. So, this one's for you and the words that wait you in the months ahead. Just some musings to my kindred spirits.

xxx Georgia

If "words are the daughters of earth,"
as Samuel Johnson says,
then let them be agile and dance.
Let them stand on the soles of their own two feet
and on toes when looking up.
Let them speak in a voice not too high or low
but straight from the heart.
Let their strength be their beauty
and the message be plentiful as befits our appetites.
Let it be so at tables with many or just us.
Let words come as good daughters (or sons)
bearing oranges in a winter month.
Let them come as pockets of sun from the darkness.
Let them bring their delight in the year ahead
whether what we do is read or write.

And a Red Coat

Dreams change with books. That house in American Girl: Memories That Made Me no longer haunts me. The sea doesn't threaten to pull me under as before. I swim out happily. Unafraid.

My new writing has a beach. But with different dangers and other pleasures. I wake from dreams with my legs aching as if I had worn high heels and a red coat.

Soldiers to Flowers

We've all heard of method actors. They immerse themselves in their roles. Daniel Day Lewis is one. Dustin Hoffman played another. for laughs when the part of "Tootsie" takes over his life. Well, I've come to realize I'm a method writer.

My last book, I began in a small cabin. Toy soldiers stood watch on the log walls. "This is what every child dreams of" a friend said as I let her enter. "Let" is the key word. This was my space alone. I felt safe here. And at a child's desk (raised higher so my legs would fit) I wrote my childhood memoir.

This new book is different. It's a love story. My desk had to grow up. Watching me now is a vase with white flowers. They're a beautiful bunch.

Heat

Heat is an aphrodisiac for the muse. Heat of summer. Heat of fevers. The connection between illness and creativity has been well documented. Temperature less so. Suffice to say that the writers I know have circulation problems from sitting too long. They consume copious amounts of tea or coffee, wear woolly socks, and possess boot-like slippers for warmth. That's me all year. Not any more.

Summer has come to Poland.

The beach is a tram ride or half hour walk away. In this I feel blessed as I have been nearly all my life. Born in a seacoast town near Boston, the first air I breathed was seasoned with sea salt. Sharp, acrid almost, New England air smarts the visitor who can recoil. It's the same with Logan Airport's low flying planes whose landing gear drops like a birth as you watch and makes you want to look and duck at the same time. Miraculous as flight, the urge to write makes me tremulous and happy as a new parent.

I am writing my next book.

That kid in American Girl: Memories That Made Me is going to fall in love.

Spring Customs

I once got stopped in Munich airport. The guard was polite but firm. My suitcase was searched. Inside were two AK-47s. One was lime green. The other was a luminous orange. Gifts for my young sons.

Now my sons are men. Poland has its own weapons. They are out this spring as surely as mushrooms will village the forests come autumn. Super soakers. High capacity. Long firing range. They're the most popular. Pistols, though, still have their place.

All this is because the biggest water fight is coming. And people remember when all they had to use were buckets. So, here in memory of those earlier wars is my poem "Wet Monday" from The Good Wife.

"Wet Monday"

Feet slap in the hall.
Voices hush. Hands cover mouths.
A sob of muffled laughter, then silence,
heavy as the arms that hang out of windows,
'Him, get him.'

Doors shut. Stairs clear.
The air fills with screams
as water pitched from pails
hits like stones against a shield
and morning comes
smelling of cold and the smoke of dining cars
jiggling glasses of tea and medals on uniforms
express for Warsaw.

Easter done.