writing exercise

I'm taking a class at SVA called Autobiography into Art, so I've sort of been neglecting this blog. I know it's a big disappointment to the two people who actually read it. I'm working on a story about a client, and it's taking forever. I will hopefully post it some time this week. Until then, I'll post an exercise from class called a memory chain. It's actually a cool way to get some ideas flowing. Just write down one memory, which reminds you of another, and another, and so on. Like a free write. Don't stop and think, just write. Then you can generate a story or whatever out of one of those memories. Here's this week's assignment, my memory chain:

Liberty State Park. Bicentennial. Sitting on the lawn. Watching the fireworks directly above us. Felt like they were falling down around us like a cage.

My wedding night. Rooftop garden dinner. Unexpected fireworks. My dad saying, "This is for you, baby." I almost believed him.

Port Authority. 2am. Waiting for my dad to pick me up. About to be mugged by three thugs. Dad's Buick comes barreling down 8th Avenue and jumps the curb, straight at the thugs. Dad gets out holding a billy club casually. He walks over, takes my suitcase and puts me in the car without a word.

I am little. Fishing on the pier with my dad. There was an enormous sink hole at the end of the pier. Concrete and metal bars lay in a heap above the foamy river. My dad said, "If you fall in I'm not coming in after you. I can't swim that well. No reason we should both drown." I stepped away from the gaping hole, untrusting of my father.

Fishing with the homeless twins Georgie and Raymond. They smelled like pee and had dirty finger nails. I caught the biggest fish of the day and won the pool - five dollars.

Snorkeling in the Bahamas. Warm sun, soothing water. Crying inside my goggles, so grateful to be alive. The most gorgeous fish I've ever seen. Feeling a part of the sun and the ocean and the wind. I follow the back of a colorful fish and swim behind it. It turns to me. One eye and half of its face have been torn away, probably by a fish hook. I will never fish again.

Walking to Weehawken with a pack of Camels. The first pack of cigarettes I ever bought. I stopped at the gas station, didn't know which kind to get. "Unfiltered?" he asked. "Okay," I shrugged. Walked over the bridge to the marina and stared at the city. An enormous orange moon rose over the city and hung there like a medallion. I wrote someone a love letter that I would never send. I smoked a cigarette, unfiltered. My head spun and my chest felt heavy. I picked tobacco off my tongue, confused. Oh! That's what unfiltered means.

Montauk. Really high waves. Rough water. Jelly shoes wash up on the beach. Everyone screaming. My dad and another dad swim out, looking for two girls. They don't find them. My dad has to be rescued by men in a little rubber boat. We don't go back in the water.

Deep-sea fishing. I eat a tuna fish sandwich. My friend's dad catches a baby shark. I wonder where the mother is. It rains, the boat rocks violently. I cry and throw up my tuna fish sandwich.

Standing on the corner waving up at the hospital window. I see a figure in the window, a hand waving. My mom says, "Wave. It's Daddy." I wave but I'm not so sure. He's been gone a long time and I'm scared he's not coming home.

I'm sobbing and the snot is running into my mouth. I don't want to go to church. Something bad will happen there, but I don't know what. Maybe the roof will collapse on us. I beg my mother to let me stay home. She tells me to go stand on the stoop and get some fresh air. Stop crying. Your face is all red. I wait out on the stoop and hiccup. My dad comes out. "Come on. We're going fishing." I take his hand and bound down the stairs. I'm sorry my mother will die when the roof collapses, but I'm glad I won't be there when it happens. I will miss her.

I'm walking by the river. It's the spot with the sink hole, but it's not a sink hole anymore. It's a paved walkway, benches, kids on bikes, yuppies with dogs. Daylight, bright sun. He's sitting on the bench, looking nervously back and forth. He doesn't see me. I smile and raise my hand, about to call "Dad!" I stop, see him take a long hard pull from the can in the paper bag. I stop walking and stare, my arm still in the air. He looks around again, locks eyes with me. His face deflates. He looks at the brown paper bag. Then at me. He shrugs. I walk away.

I'm sobbing and the snot is running into my mouth. I don't want to go to church. Something bad will happen there, but I don't know what. Maybe the roof will collapse on us. I beg my mother to let me stay home. She tells me to go stand on the stoop and get some fresh air. Stop crying. Your face is all red. I wait out on the stoop and hiccup. My dad comes out. "Come on. We're going fishing." I take his hand and bound down the stairs. I'm sorry my mother will die when the roof collapses, but I'm glad I won't be there when it happens. I will miss her.

Okay. So a lot of this won't make sense to anyone but me. But it's a good jumping-off point for me to get some more stories done. I'll post them as they come. Thanks for reading, you two!