Painting. A Painting. The act of painting. Painting what? A painting of what?
It used to be that my admiration for art was so great that the idea of painting, the act of doing, felt far beyond me. In many ways it still does. It does when I look at the artwork that attracts my attention. The great Dutch Masters, Leonardo DaVinci. My own preferences range widely, and over a lifetime, my tastes have changed. What I rejected as a young woman, I now find value in, much like I do with certain pieces of literature. As I grow, the works grow on me. My appreciation sees below something I didn't notice or understand earlier.
Still, to make even the smallest attempt to paint, to do the act, has been beyond me. That is until I had a grandchild. It was my great pleasure and responsibility to be with her almost daily from the time she was about a month old until she entered pre-school at 4 1/2. That made me the one who got to have all the fun...including playing around with paint. I learned at that time, that my attitude would have an impact on her, and so wanting that impact to be positive, encouraging, and devoid of my own psychological hang ups, I listened to how I talke to her about paints and painting. I painted with her, and listened to myself as I began mentally berating myself about how I was painting. I stopped myself from expressing those cruel thoughts, and instead changed my thinking. I looked for what it was I loved about the experience.
What I found was pleasure. Pure pleasure in getting paint all over myself as I used my brush to swipe the thick, viscous paint across the surface of the paper. Swirling the brush on the surface, and turning the brush handle in my hand, to use the very tip of the brush to plot raindrops on the garden path I sloshed about on with my wide edge of the brush. Using colors and mixing blues and yellows to get greens. Reds and whites to find pinks. Blues and pinks to find lavenders, and mixing it all together to make a messy soddy brown. Remembering what I'd learned as a child about the spectrum of colors. Recalling too what I'd learned about taking care of my tools, staying in the lines, and later, of breaking all the rules to find new paths.
Now painting is a pure pleasure, I combine with other parts of most days. Daringly, I have taken a class or two, and have allowed painting to enter my vernacular--as part of my vocabulary of life.
While the artists I love, whose work I most admire, include new artists who live near me like Jill McVarish, Robert Paulmenn, Noel Thomas, Erin Gafill, Cindy Kerwin-Cori, and Shirley Novack--their talent, gifts, and crafts though not mine, do not prohibit me, any longer, to avoid touching paint to canvas, brush to pad, or imagination to the paints on my canvas.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Thursday, May 4, 2017
May Photo Challenge, Day 4 Hotel
Has there ever really been a moment in a hotel, when I felt I would rather be there than at home? Moments that stand out regarding hotels are the ones that were out of the ordinary for one reason or another.
The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.
Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.
A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?
Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.
A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.
A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.
Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.
The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.
Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.
I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.
In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.
The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.
Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.
A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?
Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.
A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.
A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.
Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.
The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.
Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.
I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.
In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.
May Writing Challenge, Day 3 Photographs
A photograph captures a moment in time. It tells a small piece of a narrative, it records an event, or it glimpses into a relationship. Imagine if you will, a photograph of this very moment, or this one. What would that photograph capture?
This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life. A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.
Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.
Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.
A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.
A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.
Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.
In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale. Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.
This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life. A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.
Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.
Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.
A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.
A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.
Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.
In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale. Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
May Writing Challenge, Day 2 Brunch
Brunches are lost on me. The massive display of food items, the alcohol-fueled, mid-morning weekend gorging are not my thing. And kind of ruins the whole idea of a resful weekend. The idea of a brunch, a combination of lunch and breakfast, sounds good at first. Eating at a reasonable hour, having a choice of anything to eat, and spending time with loved ones, family, or friends. Not to mention, brunch is usually served in a very nice hotel and environment. How could anyone not like that?
Easy, that is if you don't like to eat a lot. Having 16 choices of dishes, rashers of bacon, sausage, or ham, and piles and plates of pastries, fruit, side dishes and Mimosas galore is about as appealing as facing the freeway during rush hour. Love the idea of eating mid morning mind you, however too much food and too much drinking do not always lead to a good result. My personal problem, though it's not really a problem is I don't like to eat that much food. Preferring small portions, and much lighter food than is usually found at a brunch, I find it hard to face the prospects of a brunch invitation. Also, if I did drink with my meals, I wouldn't want to get sloshed at 10 or 11 on a Sunday morning. Something about that feels all wrong to me. Partly because it is traditionally Sabbath time, but more so because its' too early to drink alcohol. For me, a glass of alcohol in the morning would not go down well. And sitting at the brunch table with people who are overeating and drinking, can only end badly.
Are my opinions based on never having experienced the joys of a brunch? Not at all. Mine are based on my own experiences. When I used to go to brunch with my husband or with friends, I would initially be seduced by the aromas and artfully arranged pork products and the handsome chefs making omelettes to my exact taste. I would sip a Mimosa or two, and that would lead me into a haze of feeling bloated and woozy. Normally, I'd pile too much food on my plate, and then not be able to eat more than 3-4 bites of anything. Worse than not liking brunch is hating to waste food. Throwing out food is painful to me, because I think of all the starving people. I heard about them at my dinner table growing up (There are people in China starving who'd be grateful for what's on your plate) and I witnessed them myself on the streets and at the end of the month when my cupboards are as bare as my wallet. No, wasting food is high on my list of priorities of what not to do.
Too much food, too many choices, and too much waste. Often any alcohol is too much, especially at mid morning. That brings me to the residual fallout from brunches. The experiences that come to mind are none too pleasant. On one occasion, my husband (#1) and I were invited to play tennis with a couple who we thought were our friends. We met at their house for brunch, at which we were served Screwdrivers (the early version of Mimosas without the sugar). On the tennis court, we were beaten soundly...the result my husband declared of them "gettng us smashed before we hit the courts". Whether that was true or not, I will never know. At my 50th reunion, I didn't bring it up when I met the wife of that couple. Her husband had just died, and I didn't think it was the proper time to bring up old grievance.
Another chilling brunch event stands out in my mind. My husband (#2) and I used to enjoy driving out to the 'farmland' where a Hilton or Sheraton was on Sundays for the brunch. Normally, it had been fine. The day before he was set to leave the country for a stint in the military, we made the mistake of going to brunch. Due to the impending gloom of the separation that faced us, we both had too much to drink and probably weren't that interested in food, feeling instead the need to say everything we had to say before we ran out of time. Big mistake. All I remember is walking out on the golf course with him, taking my shoes off, and crying. I doubt I would have ended the brunch like that had alcohol not been involved. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Two small glasses of anything is way over my limit, so I abstain from drinking most of the time now.
When the topic of brunch appeared, I had no trouble coming up with examples of what a disaster brunches have been. I love going out to breakfast however, where I can pick and choose what I want without feeling any guilt. If by brunch you mean a late breakfast, then I think some of my favorite meals have been brunch, sans the buffet, sans the alcohol. The Park Pantry by Cherry Park in Long Beach used to have the best Huevos Rancheros. I have not found a place since that beats their wonderful breakfasts. Going out to breakfast with my Daughter has always been a favorite pastime. Going out with her family now still is. Better yet, making breakfast in the kitchen together and eating around our table, is the best place for any means. Brunch may be nice for many if not most, but for me, it's just not my cup of tea. Rather fix that cup of tea at home, and enjoy the ambiance of my own table or that of my family.
Easy, that is if you don't like to eat a lot. Having 16 choices of dishes, rashers of bacon, sausage, or ham, and piles and plates of pastries, fruit, side dishes and Mimosas galore is about as appealing as facing the freeway during rush hour. Love the idea of eating mid morning mind you, however too much food and too much drinking do not always lead to a good result. My personal problem, though it's not really a problem is I don't like to eat that much food. Preferring small portions, and much lighter food than is usually found at a brunch, I find it hard to face the prospects of a brunch invitation. Also, if I did drink with my meals, I wouldn't want to get sloshed at 10 or 11 on a Sunday morning. Something about that feels all wrong to me. Partly because it is traditionally Sabbath time, but more so because its' too early to drink alcohol. For me, a glass of alcohol in the morning would not go down well. And sitting at the brunch table with people who are overeating and drinking, can only end badly.
Are my opinions based on never having experienced the joys of a brunch? Not at all. Mine are based on my own experiences. When I used to go to brunch with my husband or with friends, I would initially be seduced by the aromas and artfully arranged pork products and the handsome chefs making omelettes to my exact taste. I would sip a Mimosa or two, and that would lead me into a haze of feeling bloated and woozy. Normally, I'd pile too much food on my plate, and then not be able to eat more than 3-4 bites of anything. Worse than not liking brunch is hating to waste food. Throwing out food is painful to me, because I think of all the starving people. I heard about them at my dinner table growing up (There are people in China starving who'd be grateful for what's on your plate) and I witnessed them myself on the streets and at the end of the month when my cupboards are as bare as my wallet. No, wasting food is high on my list of priorities of what not to do.
Too much food, too many choices, and too much waste. Often any alcohol is too much, especially at mid morning. That brings me to the residual fallout from brunches. The experiences that come to mind are none too pleasant. On one occasion, my husband (#1) and I were invited to play tennis with a couple who we thought were our friends. We met at their house for brunch, at which we were served Screwdrivers (the early version of Mimosas without the sugar). On the tennis court, we were beaten soundly...the result my husband declared of them "gettng us smashed before we hit the courts". Whether that was true or not, I will never know. At my 50th reunion, I didn't bring it up when I met the wife of that couple. Her husband had just died, and I didn't think it was the proper time to bring up old grievance.
Another chilling brunch event stands out in my mind. My husband (#2) and I used to enjoy driving out to the 'farmland' where a Hilton or Sheraton was on Sundays for the brunch. Normally, it had been fine. The day before he was set to leave the country for a stint in the military, we made the mistake of going to brunch. Due to the impending gloom of the separation that faced us, we both had too much to drink and probably weren't that interested in food, feeling instead the need to say everything we had to say before we ran out of time. Big mistake. All I remember is walking out on the golf course with him, taking my shoes off, and crying. I doubt I would have ended the brunch like that had alcohol not been involved. I'm such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Two small glasses of anything is way over my limit, so I abstain from drinking most of the time now.
When the topic of brunch appeared, I had no trouble coming up with examples of what a disaster brunches have been. I love going out to breakfast however, where I can pick and choose what I want without feeling any guilt. If by brunch you mean a late breakfast, then I think some of my favorite meals have been brunch, sans the buffet, sans the alcohol. The Park Pantry by Cherry Park in Long Beach used to have the best Huevos Rancheros. I have not found a place since that beats their wonderful breakfasts. Going out to breakfast with my Daughter has always been a favorite pastime. Going out with her family now still is. Better yet, making breakfast in the kitchen together and eating around our table, is the best place for any means. Brunch may be nice for many if not most, but for me, it's just not my cup of tea. Rather fix that cup of tea at home, and enjoy the ambiance of my own table or that of my family.
Monday, May 1, 2017
May 5-Minute a Day Writing Challenge
Today one of my writer friends, Susan Ito from the Bay Area in San Francisco, invited me and others to a May writing challenge. I love to do these challenges sometimes. They help me develop discipline that I need to keep my writing fresh and on targe. They also help me take a break from some of the bigger more serious projects. I decided to record the challenge here each day, and I invite you to join the challenge yourself.
The idea is to use the list of prompts, and to write for 5 minutes using the daily prompts. That's all there is to it. Ready? Set? Let's get started.
Day One, Writing Prompt-Pour.
Pour or poor are or were supposed to be pronounced differently. At least that's what I've been told. In particular by one very highly charged drama coach I had in high school. I met Mr. Rashkovski when I was in my first high school drama class. I took all the classes I could take from him throughout high school. In 10th grade he told us his last name was Rashkovsky. In 11th grade, he'd shortened it to Rashkow. and by 12th grade, he'd anglicized his beautiful name to Randall. He said, in passing, "I didn't want to deal with the 'are you a rash cow?' jokes for the rest of my life." He changed it to fit into his new culture. I wish he hadn't, but it was his life and his name. Who can tell another person what they should like to be called? I've changed my name often enough, so I understood.
He was a Russian Jew who had escaped the harsh conditions of Russia some time during or after WWII. By the time I met him, he was probably in his late 50s or 60s, I'm really not sure. He was grizzled though, and one of the very best teachers I have ever had.
We, the drama students, were his cast. He treated us like a director would treat his actors, and demanded our best. We all loved acting and learning from him. My favorite roles were the nasty women of Arthur Miller, Eugene O'Neill, and Chekov, of course Chekov. We did scenes from the Cherry Orchard, I recall. What I most remember though was the day I was doing a monologue. I don't recall which scene or which play, but I was in front of the class all alone on the stage. Mr. Rashkovsky, or Rashkow, or Randall or whatever he was calling himself that day, was sitting at the back of the room. He stopped me mid-scene and began asking me questions. "Say the word P-O-U-R." so I said it, in my best stage voice, modulating and projecting my voice. Then he said, "Now say P-O-O-R." So I did. This exchange went on over and over for about five minutes. Finally, frustrated, he said to me, "Can't you hear the difference in the two? Pour is Pour, not Poor." "No, sir, they both sound the same to me." He finally gave up, waving his hand in the air, "Go on with your monologue."
After that, I became more and more concerned about the pronunciation of poor and pour. I still can't hear the difference and was amazed when i read an article last week about the evolution of the pronunciation of the two words. Evidently in my own lifetime, the words went from two distinct sounds to one. Evidently, it is now considered okay to pronounce the two words as if they were homophones--words that sound alike though spelled differently.
However, for Mr. Rashkovski, that would never have flown. I, on the other hand, have accepted that I have been riding on the edge of the evolution of the language. Two other experiences highlighted the fact that my pronunciation is different from the norm in many ways. My husband, a non-native speaker, picked up the way I said "mountain" and pronounced most all his English with a British prep school kind of dialect...all but the word mountain which sounded like a twangy southern accent. Like a cowgirl. I pleaded with him not to say the word the way I did. That only insured he would say it and make it even twangier.
Recently, while visiting my Daughter and Granddaughter in San Francisco, my Granddaughter and I got into a discussion about the proper use of language. My 10-year old granddaughter informed me, "Yaya, language changes. What is polite or proper is now different. That's the way it is."
Pour might not be poor, but they're both the same to me. Life and language indeed do change, and if we can, we might learn something new by changing with both.
The idea is to use the list of prompts, and to write for 5 minutes using the daily prompts. That's all there is to it. Ready? Set? Let's get started.
Day One, Writing Prompt-Pour.
Pour or poor are or were supposed to be pronounced differently. At least that's what I've been told. In particular by one very highly charged drama coach I had in high school. I met Mr. Rashkovski when I was in my first high school drama class. I took all the classes I could take from him throughout high school. In 10th grade he told us his last name was Rashkovsky. In 11th grade, he'd shortened it to Rashkow. and by 12th grade, he'd anglicized his beautiful name to Randall. He said, in passing, "I didn't want to deal with the 'are you a rash cow?' jokes for the rest of my life." He changed it to fit into his new culture. I wish he hadn't, but it was his life and his name. Who can tell another person what they should like to be called? I've changed my name often enough, so I understood.
He was a Russian Jew who had escaped the harsh conditions of Russia some time during or after WWII. By the time I met him, he was probably in his late 50s or 60s, I'm really not sure. He was grizzled though, and one of the very best teachers I have ever had.
We, the drama students, were his cast. He treated us like a director would treat his actors, and demanded our best. We all loved acting and learning from him. My favorite roles were the nasty women of Arthur Miller, Eugene O'Neill, and Chekov, of course Chekov. We did scenes from the Cherry Orchard, I recall. What I most remember though was the day I was doing a monologue. I don't recall which scene or which play, but I was in front of the class all alone on the stage. Mr. Rashkovsky, or Rashkow, or Randall or whatever he was calling himself that day, was sitting at the back of the room. He stopped me mid-scene and began asking me questions. "Say the word P-O-U-R." so I said it, in my best stage voice, modulating and projecting my voice. Then he said, "Now say P-O-O-R." So I did. This exchange went on over and over for about five minutes. Finally, frustrated, he said to me, "Can't you hear the difference in the two? Pour is Pour, not Poor." "No, sir, they both sound the same to me." He finally gave up, waving his hand in the air, "Go on with your monologue."
After that, I became more and more concerned about the pronunciation of poor and pour. I still can't hear the difference and was amazed when i read an article last week about the evolution of the pronunciation of the two words. Evidently in my own lifetime, the words went from two distinct sounds to one. Evidently, it is now considered okay to pronounce the two words as if they were homophones--words that sound alike though spelled differently.
However, for Mr. Rashkovski, that would never have flown. I, on the other hand, have accepted that I have been riding on the edge of the evolution of the language. Two other experiences highlighted the fact that my pronunciation is different from the norm in many ways. My husband, a non-native speaker, picked up the way I said "mountain" and pronounced most all his English with a British prep school kind of dialect...all but the word mountain which sounded like a twangy southern accent. Like a cowgirl. I pleaded with him not to say the word the way I did. That only insured he would say it and make it even twangier.
Recently, while visiting my Daughter and Granddaughter in San Francisco, my Granddaughter and I got into a discussion about the proper use of language. My 10-year old granddaughter informed me, "Yaya, language changes. What is polite or proper is now different. That's the way it is."
Pour might not be poor, but they're both the same to me. Life and language indeed do change, and if we can, we might learn something new by changing with both.
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