Writer's Block (it's so bad I couldn't even come up with a better title)

Every time that I write anything the story always begins as the perfect story within my imagination.  Whether it is based on my own life or totally unrelated, it begins as a perfect story and with every sentence I write this perfect story becomes more and more damaged.  I am fine with this; I feel like as a writer my job is to try to do the least amount of damage possible, but some damage is inevitable.  Usually the perfect story consists of totally opposing ideas and situations that cannot exist simultaneously, but in my mind they can.  I never have to choose between them.  It's only when I write them down that I choose.  This semester I haven't been able to.  I think that I have sat comfortably with some of these stories in my head for too long.  Even before summer started, I had the idea for a character based on a real person; this character is the inspiration for both assignments one and two in my creative writing class, and I can't seem to write her at all.  I have seen her as a real person and I keep feeling that to write her would be to ruin her.  I can't write her in a way that does her justice.  In these stories I can only think of fragments; I write notes and ideas, but they don't seem to connect at any point. This post is a downer. Sorry.

Photo Walk

        I started the photo-walk from the comfort of my house.  I didn't really think that stepping out the door I could find ten things to take a picture of without going on a two-hour long walk.  My neighbourhood doesn't have the charm of the older neighbourhoods.  Large, old trees don't make canopied arches over the streets.  The houses don't have obvious charm, and they all look fairly similar.  Walking down the main street you can see the dividing lines between three different neighbourhoods, each one forcing its way further into the farmer's field.  Our house is stuck in the middle.  The first neighbourhood has older looking houses -- one-story buildings with aged white stucco and dark wooden accents, but without garages, and fewer driveways.  Our crescent was formed in 1994.  The houses are quite similar to the ones just a block further.  They are mostly stucco, with garages, some have second stories, but they were all built before the above-the-garage bonus room, and the colours aren't quite as dark, or earth-toned.  Before this third section was built, our house was right at the edge of the field. 

            Every winter a few mice would invade our house because we were the last to invade theirs.  I often wonder if the mice have moved on to the newer houses.  Three winters ago, one lone mouse made it into my basement.  We hadn't had any mice in the house for almost five years, so it surprised me.  I was lounging in the basement, watching The Cooler when all of a sudden a tiny (or perhaps regular-sized, since they are all quite small) brown mouse ran out from the corner.  I turned and stared into his eyes.  He stared at me, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.  Then he turned around and ran straight back into the under-the-stairs room.  I liked him.  I didn't want to kill him, and I was a little disappointed when he ended up in a mousetrap -- dead.  My dad bought some of the glue kind, but I always flipped them over or put the paper top onto the glue base because I didn't want to walk into the basement to see a mouse trapped on one.  I knew I couldn't squish him.  I liked this mouse. 

            It was kind of like a wild pet, like the fox out at our   cabin that would always sit in our yard or our neighbours yard.    They had a large birdhouse set atop a giant pole at the bottom of a hill and the fox would sit on the hill, waiting to catch a bird.  The first time I saw him do this, I was down at the lake.  Climbing up the stairs I saw him just sitting there.  He startled me when he turned in my direction.  He was only about ten feet away. I pictured him lunging at my neck, but as I stopped and then slowly began to walk up again, he just turned back to the birds.  He could have been a she, but I seem to picture animals as male most of the time, and I always referred to him as the Fantastic Mr. Fox.  He wasn't around this year.  I assume he died, but I hope not.  These little connections with nature are so rare, even at the edge of the city, but when I stepped out the door I decided to try to get into nature as much as I could on a brief walk.

     I left the comfort of my own space (my bedroom, basement, and bathroom); the places that I brainstorm and think in.  I always feel calm and relaxed in my room -- perhaps because if I am in there, I am usually lying in bed, day dreaming, actually dreaming, or writing cross-legged on my bed hunched over my laptop, which sits on my stool.  I have an old school chair, salvaged from the school my grandpa used to teach at, and then salvaged from the woodpile at my grandmas cabin.  It has initials carved in the seat, and it creaks when you shift your weight in it -- the exact kind of character that I love.  This chair sits at my desk, but is never used.  I use this desk to display my Nightmare Before Christmas lunch boxes, globe, cups, and water bottles.  It’s adorned with a magnet, which reads BRÜGGE, a souvenir from my friends European trip and a reminder of one of my favourite films, In Bruges.  I choose items and decorate my room quite carefully, but I usually could care less what it looks like.  My hair clippers sit on the desk top, hiding the books that sit there -- a Edgar Allan Poe anthology, below a beautiful, fabric-covered copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass (It looks old, but its not. I bought it last summer when I decided to finally read the book, since I love the old disney film so much), above that sits a colourfully illustrated copy of Winnie-the-Pooh, and lastly Tim Burtons poetry collection -- The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories.  Other items that mean something to me -- like my Sweeney Todd straight-edge razor blade replicas (bought for a Halloween costume, but too special to ever put away) sit among the pile of dvd's I took to and from the cabin at least six times this summer, a Rubbermaid jug that my friend forgot at this years annual garden party, as well as more books that I should probably read, a melted facial spa, and a couple bottles of rum I haven't bothered to put away.  The clutter doesn't bother me.  I keep it contained to my bedroom, and at times it even inspires me.  More than anything, the bright colours, and contrasts give me a sense of life, even the crisp white of my stool, or uncovered duvet seem brighter than the drab neighbourhood that exists just outside my door.  

            I wish I lived in the world of Pushing Daisies, where all the colours were just a little brighter.  

    

The basement I often write in.

The bathroom, where I paint pictures of cartoons. (Also referred to as the Sistine Chapel)

Unfortunately on my walk the world just looked grey.  It was cloudy and looked even more drab than usual.  The dull browns and washed out greys that characterize much of these photos seem to exist somewhere between a black and white and a sepia colour.  They remind me of old photos and convey my nostalgia for this place that used to feel like a part of my sphere, but no longer does. This park is a block from my house.  When I was little we spent a lot of time there.  It used to have a playground made of treated lumber that always threatened to give you slivers as it tickled the bare soles of your feet.  I don't even know when they replaced it with this new one.  I think I was there last summer with my younger cousins, and it was still the same old playground, but I can't be sure.  Now they have swings (which is nice) but they seem shorter than ones that were built before and when I was a kid.  They don't swing near as high.

  (Note: It is hard to swing while trying to take a picture.  I hope no one was watching.)    

This road beyond the park used to end right here.  Well, maybe not right here.  The crack across the road works as a great visual of the perceptible line between the old and the new, but in reality there was a large circular dead end.  I remember my friend who lived at the end of this street used to say that it was a nice place to live because they could never build houses further -- the road ended there and thick, wooden posts were cemented around the edges to stop cars from driving into the field.  Even then we kind of laughed at the idea that they couldn't pull out the posts and extend the road. 

This used to be where a small dirt road curved behind the houses, sitting beside the straight, sharp lines of the railroad.  Now it is filled in with houses, thats main characteristic is that they back onto a train track.  

The only living creatures I saw on my walk -- this ladybug and an ant on the same branch that you probably can't see in this picture.   

(Note: I didn't)

It almost looks like a small town from here, but it lacks the charm.  We used to walk along this road and further into the field almost everyday.  There was almost no traffic and we could let our dog run without worry as us kids picked up bottles and cans.  

Tracks always make me think of travel, even though it's far easier to travel by road.  I think I have a romantic view of train tracks, but not trains.  I've only ever been to Europe once and travelling on the train seemed like such an adventure.  Seeing the trains that travel this track ruins my vision of travelling train cars.  The cars are ugly and windowless, usually covered in graffiti, probably by kids and not true artists, like those who covered the Berlin wall or even those street artists who paint walls in downtown Regina. 

Now even these rocks remind me of the cobblestone streets in France and Prague.  

From far enough away this distant hill looks pleasant; maybe a nice place to toboggan or just to look out at the vast flatness that is the prairie landscape.  In reality it’s just the garbage dump.  

From certain angles this back-road looks like a nice field, perhaps a good place for a picnic, but the signs of the city and pollution are only a quick turn of the head or opening of the eyes.  

I had hoped to see some type of little animal scurry out of this hole.  

I even stuck the camera lens down the hole.  I didn't think I would see anything, and I didn't.  

I don't know why this pile of rotting apples is here, but I kind of liked it.  

 

 

At the edge of the grassy field, more signs of humanity.  It seems like no one walks beside these tracks anymore.  They just park at the edge of the paved road and throw out trash.  I thought the reflection of the glass against the green and straw-yellow of the wild grass actually looked nice.  The trash bags and condom wrappers however, were just dirty.  After this my camera died, but it was quite a short walk home.  I really don't think that I would have taken pictures of anything anyway.  Where the trash stopped the street began -- once again with the characterless houses and the lack of trees.  I think that this neighbourhoods lack of beauty, character, and charm forces me to look for it in tiny aspects.  It forces me to create my own inspirational spaces, or simply to imagine something different, and possibly write about it.  When I get home from my walk I am glad to be home and while at the time I didn't feel inspired, and although this is definitely nothing spectacular, I am glad to write it.