*This is a very very very rough and incomplete draft...in case anyone is reading.
Ushered in from the elbow of a freeway, we arrived by road, rail, wings and wheels, to materialize in small, gentle swarms, surrounded by cicadas and crickets, tall evergreen cathedrals, and sturdy stone structures that would harbor our lives for the next two weeks. We clutched our shiny wireless technology, chargers tucked carefully inside our bursting bags, and marched confidently across the hot turf. We had the power to make history on our various i- and non-i- gadgets, yet the unspoken verdict: ballpoint pens and spiral notebooks were essential. This was writers' camp. Ahem. Writers' boot camp.
Things happened. We moved into dorm rooms. Unpacked suitcases, or made a conscious choice to live out of the suitcase. We pulled crisp white sheets over unyielding mattresses. Those of us spending our second year here reunited with old friends. First-timers met everyone. Not gradually--no, not at all--workshops commenced in the glare of fluorescent lights. We talked. We read. We laughed. We wrote. We read aloud. Through the contagion of commentary, we related.
Now that furious fortnight has slipped from our grasp, a kite lost in the clouds, and we find ourselves packing, saying good-bye. Tomorrow, we leave this carefully staged world to chase the abyss of uncertainty that orchestrates our real lives, where each day, we must wake up and reinvent ourselves: teachers, parents, journalists, critics, dancers, painters, musicians, athletes, foragers, architects, doctors, dramatists.
The page is blank. Your cursor is blinking. An audience waits.
Ushered in from the elbow of a freeway, we arrived by road, rail, wings and wheels, to materialize in small, gentle swarms, surrounded by cicadas and crickets, tall evergreen cathedrals, and sturdy stone structures that would harbor our lives for the next two weeks. We clutched our shiny wireless technology, chargers tucked carefully inside our bursting bags, and marched confidently across the hot turf. We had the power to make history on our various i- and non-i- gadgets, yet the unspoken verdict: ballpoint pens and spiral notebooks were essential. This was writers' camp. Ahem. Writers' boot camp.
Things happened. We moved into dorm rooms. Unpacked suitcases, or made a conscious choice to live out of the suitcase. We pulled crisp white sheets over unyielding mattresses. Those of us spending our second year here reunited with old friends. First-timers met everyone. Not gradually--no, not at all--workshops commenced in the glare of fluorescent lights. We talked. We read. We laughed. We wrote. We read aloud. Through the contagion of commentary, we related.
Now that furious fortnight has slipped from our grasp, a kite lost in the clouds, and we find ourselves packing, saying good-bye. Tomorrow, we leave this carefully staged world to chase the abyss of uncertainty that orchestrates our real lives, where each day, we must wake up and reinvent ourselves: teachers, parents, journalists, critics, dancers, painters, musicians, athletes, foragers, architects, doctors, dramatists.
The page is blank. Your cursor is blinking. An audience waits.
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