Playa Freewrites

I recently started coaching a woman on her writing (thank you email and Skype!) and the process has been making me think about how I can be better about quick, daily, unconstrained writing. While we were on the Northern coast of Ecuador, at the beach, we had no internet access. I was surprised (not really) by how much better able I was to just sit and write. I am not saying what I wrote was "good" but the process certainly felt good.

Playa Freewite #1 (June 1, 2010, 10:46am, 15 minutes)

Being here, on a fine pale stretch of sand, remarkably soft given the pounding of the surf (I guess that's what daily pulverizing does), makes me think of St. Pete Beach, Florida.

That beach of my childhood had the promise of Don Ceasar's ice cream sundaes a long mile to the left.  The pink behemoth of a building anchored that side of the beach, pulling my short legs along with the promise of a cool sticky treat. A shorter mile to the right, the beach petered out into a rocky outcropping and mundane condominiums.

My grandparent's building was in the psychological middle.

Being here, on the fine, pale, clean stretch of beach also makes me think of the Gulf Coast. St Pete Beach was on the gulf side, although maybe what side you're on doesn't matter anymore. Even here, in another ocean, I feel the oil seeping.  I feel helpless and guilty; all our hands have some of the black stain. No amount of walking and biking can make up for all my air travel over the years.

My Spanish teachers, Marco grande y Marco pequeno, explained that Banos' culture of tourism is only a few decades old; before, it was a small farming village like the ones on the other side of the mounatin, the ones that get washed away every few years when Mama Tungurahua clears her throat. But Banos has always been beautiful and perfect. What happened a few decades ago? Ah, cheap oil. . . more mobility accessible to more people.

Yes, my hands are dripping with black stuff too, as I explore the world, type on plastic letters, and read through plastic frames.

I guess I could stop writing, but silence isn't helping much, and I wonder, is this fake guilt?  Guilt for show? No, I don't think so.

God, I dread the label of the hand wringing, overly self aware, consumer who bemoans the draining of resources even as her own straw is in the  tank. But I think the real problem for me is the dreading of labels, true or false. What does it matter what others think, as Karen reminds me. There are much worse things to be dreading.

I am pissed and heartbroken about the oil gushing into the Gulf of Mexico. I could wish for it to be another wake up call to, if not end, then at least seriously temper and taper our addiction to cheap oil. Maybe that's happening, and an ocean away we are not feeling the shifts in discourse. I can hope.

Free write #2 (6/1/2010 2:44pm, 20 minutes)
The ocean waves are scrambling my brain; before I can complete a thought in the sucking back stillness, another curl, roar and crash unsettles me. For the past two nights, my dreams have been vivid, but my sleep unsatisfactory--plunged up and down like laundry in a bucket, dangling from strong, impatient hands.

High tide has been early in the morning. The waves march all the way to the bottom of the bluff this house creaks on. The first morning, I thought for sure they were eating away at the foundation and the house was going to fall.

It reminded me of when my  bedroom looked over the blue line tracks, approaching North, Damen and MIlwaukee.  I was able to relegate to the background every train but the 3am one. I woke up each night, fearful of "Armageddon" which is silly as I don't really know what that word means. Ah, Christian? literacy via cultural osmosis.

These ocean waves seem serious and strong like a train on schedule. I am impressed, but a little sleepy. I never imagined there would be anything not to love about sleeping right by the beach. Perhaps I am more of a Great Lake person--you get the broad expanse with more of a slurp and glug. Big lake waves are saved for big weather.

The waves here are louder and more relentless than the volcano's rumble we left behind, which is right and good, I guess, as the waves are behaving as they should, whereas if  the volcano erupted every 3 seconds, there would be serious trouble. And that's a ridiculous comparison anyway; we are meters from the shore here and were kilometers from the crater in Banos. I can't imagine having my ears much closer to Tungurahua's mouth.

Spoke to Mayra this morning. She thanked us for leaving the DVD player and new kitchen equipment upstairs. School was canceled today in Banos and tourists have emptied the town. Tungurhua keeps shaking her shoulders and clearing her throat. I asked about Jim and Marshia. Tranquilo. Patient.


Playa Freewrite #3 (June 2, 2010, 15 minutes)

How many moths can a frog smaller than my hand eat in one sitting?

We've spent the last 15 minutes watching a frog cling up our window. We are the only guests in this sprawling bluff-top complex. When we turn the lights on, all the moths come our way. Like a lonely diner in the middle of a 2nd tier highway.

This little frog, whose underbelly I have studied for two nights now, also follows the light.

Her body is about about as long and wide as two of my fingers. Her limbs, iridescent, small and strong, remind me of new growth on a tree. No, no. She is all animal, even if her fingers and toes make me think of a climbing plant. How does she hold herself up for so long on this very unnatural pane of glass?? Her belly, bulging with at least 5 months now, must do some of the work. She makes me think of child's pose, core muscles, chickens, lizards, Kermit, Gollum and us.

Another one down the gullet.

When we came home tonight, she was on our outside windowsill, as if she was waiting for us to turn the light on. We obliged and exclaimed. Miguel climbed to the top of the table to watch. She did nothing much but adjust her pupils, oblivious or indifferent to our tapping on the glass.  A few  minutes later, she lept a foot into the air, grabbed the window and gulped down a moth. Just as easy and fast as blinking.  All three of us were amazed; I don't know if that says more about nature or our lack of exposure to it. She proceeded to slowly explore the window, angling for more treats. We could see the moths working their way down into her belly.

As I wrote this, she fell down.  She was going for another moth and slipped. I was confident she landed on the ground just fine, anchored by a very full belly. Then, in a blink, she was back. On the bottom pane, carrying some dirt on the belly, ready for more. Wow.