Saturday, 06 October 2007

• Danger Dat Solove Piece

  
  
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  The past two weeks have rekindled my lost love for the art of creative writing.  Surely, I enjoy every aspect of writing but none has captured my heart as much as writing with the sole purpose of just writing.  In my current business field, the only writings allowed are my weekly analyses of budget reports, quality control documents pertaining to laboratory specimens and other scientific jargon not well suited for English majors.  Summations and power point presentations have allowed for opportunistic bursts of flair and dynamics but the bottom line is still: How creative can one be when discussing partial account billable turnover rates for the West coast region?

              My English professor challenges everyone to think critically in class.  Apprehension is a powerful word, even more so when it overcomes you.  My brain, in the matters of critical thinking, is a bit rusty and while I can feel the gears cranking, my expectations remain somewhat slim.  To provide sufficient evidence of my lacking in the English language, the assessment test required before one can take any courses at Mesa caught me red-handed with a lower than average score.  When I was a high school senior, however, I had aced the same assessment test and placed in English honors accordingly.  Ten years is a long time to be out of such a reinforcing environment.

              Being back on track now has prompted a desire to return to my roots and reread everything written in my youth and misshapen adulthood.  The majority of those writings occurred when I was a dancer on tour and subsequently turned out to be journal entries, blogs, and even scribbles on napkins from different airline carriers.  To think critically, to delve deeper into why I wrote what I did on a particular occasion prompts an urge to continue writing on the same or similar topic. 

              One entry in particular I wrote on the back of a copy of my Red Bull independent contractor agreement.  People always dream of traveling the countryside and doing what they love, and dancing was what held my heart then, but after four states and a dozen cities, hotel rooms tend to mesh and blur reality.  In the journal entry [journal entry a loose term], I had complained of being incessantly homesick.  While writing, my daughter had called and talked famously of her first days at preschool and that redirected the focus onto her.  Abruptly I had begun reminiscing of when I took her to a dance competition and she had fussed about as I had been ignoring her. 

              To quote directly:  “My daughter’s short black hair barely kissed the top of her ears and she pulled her flower hat further down past her red, swollen eyes.  She knew I was mad at her and said nothing more.  I fumed, impatient, not wanting to leave her but upset that if I stayed, I would only become more infuriated.”  A father and a dancer are a tough mix and both sides pulled me in opposite directions.  Later that night, my daughter had asked me to win for her and I did, acquiring the right contacts there that led to my Red Bull tour stint. 

              I’ve always tried to immerse myself in literature and to maintain the common ground required to keep pace.  Life has a way of distracting, I suppose.  I hope the next few weeks in English will more than ignite the love I once held for writing and to heighten the feelings to another level and ultimately, cause my brain to create.
  

  DangerDat
  

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