(no subject)
Some writing--unfinished, as usual. Someday I'll actually go back and work on these pieces I start.
The exercise: Create a place that you would love to live in. Pretend to walk around in it. Describe every detail.
Jasmine Harbor
Island town, near a local liberal arts college. Cobblestone roads, independent cafe, small movie theater, one small, decrepit but charming motel. No dance clubs. Dimly lit clubs and bars that play local music and jazz. One K-12 public school, enrollment 150 students--total. Well groomed park. A short drive over the bridge brings you "downtown." There is one small market where everyone shops. No chain restaurants. No Starbucks. One gas station that doesnt accept credit cards. Many people ride bikes. Some mopeds, vespas. Recently, some segues have appeared near the college. No shopping malls, only local boutiques (only slightly over priced). People walk dogs. The main street is McArthur Lane, named after the town's first mayor. The center of town is youthful, hip, and chic. The outskirts are a like a lean-to village of aging beach houses occupied by aging tenants whose families have owned the homes ofr the last century and a quarter.
I walk down McArthur. It is a quiet day. I am on vacation, so the rest of the world is working. The college kids are present, but not ubiquitous. Classes are still in session. I buy an iced cappucino at Genevieve's. The street-side windows are open, turning the front room of the cafe into more of a patio. The overhead fan circles lazily and does little to stir the humid air. Madeline, a college student with curly blonde hair down to her belt, a gold hoop in her nose, and a long paisely skirt over cordoroy pants is thumbing through a tattered copy of Dharma Bums. She glances up, greets me, takes my order.
I peer into the bakery case while she prepares my drink. I think to myself that Madeline whould probably wipe the oily fingerprints from the glass before she turns another page in her book.
The blackberry scones look divine. I order the one in the back--with all the icing, please. I leave eleven cents in the hand-painted tip jar, whose terra-cota texture makes the falling change sound like two large pewter spoons being clacked together, bowl-side down.
The exercise: Create a place that you would love to live in. Pretend to walk around in it. Describe every detail.
Jasmine Harbor
Island town, near a local liberal arts college. Cobblestone roads, independent cafe, small movie theater, one small, decrepit but charming motel. No dance clubs. Dimly lit clubs and bars that play local music and jazz. One K-12 public school, enrollment 150 students--total. Well groomed park. A short drive over the bridge brings you "downtown." There is one small market where everyone shops. No chain restaurants. No Starbucks. One gas station that doesnt accept credit cards. Many people ride bikes. Some mopeds, vespas. Recently, some segues have appeared near the college. No shopping malls, only local boutiques (only slightly over priced). People walk dogs. The main street is McArthur Lane, named after the town's first mayor. The center of town is youthful, hip, and chic. The outskirts are a like a lean-to village of aging beach houses occupied by aging tenants whose families have owned the homes ofr the last century and a quarter.
I walk down McArthur. It is a quiet day. I am on vacation, so the rest of the world is working. The college kids are present, but not ubiquitous. Classes are still in session. I buy an iced cappucino at Genevieve's. The street-side windows are open, turning the front room of the cafe into more of a patio. The overhead fan circles lazily and does little to stir the humid air. Madeline, a college student with curly blonde hair down to her belt, a gold hoop in her nose, and a long paisely skirt over cordoroy pants is thumbing through a tattered copy of Dharma Bums. She glances up, greets me, takes my order.
I peer into the bakery case while she prepares my drink. I think to myself that Madeline whould probably wipe the oily fingerprints from the glass before she turns another page in her book.
The blackberry scones look divine. I order the one in the back--with all the icing, please. I leave eleven cents in the hand-painted tip jar, whose terra-cota texture makes the falling change sound like two large pewter spoons being clacked together, bowl-side down.