Ena https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/t1093 Runboard| Ena en-us Fri, 29 Mar 2024 04:35:40 +0000 Fri, 29 Mar 2024 04:35:40 +0000 https://www.runboard.com/ rssfeeds_managingeditor@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds managing editor) rssfeeds_webmaster@runboard.com (Runboard.com RSS feeds webmaster) akBBS 60 Re: Enahttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7374,from=rss#post7374https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7374,from=rss#post7374Thanks for commenting, Chris. I get what you mean, can see it too. It is a fun poem that way. Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Mon, 11 Oct 2010 13:44:52 +0000 Re: Enahttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7373,from=rss#post7373https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7373,from=rss#post7373Tere, I noticed how the poem unfurls line by line, one image merging into the next and a kind of sustained energy or unbroken rhythm running through: even leaning on the chatter carrying up over from the down under mothers, and each wood word picture turning in warm on one before... Everything about this reinforces the sense of unfolding panels. Almost makes me dizzy. Chrisnondisclosed_email@example.com (Christine98)Mon, 11 Oct 2010 08:32:43 +0000 Enahttps://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7365,from=rss#post7365https://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/p7365,from=rss#post7365Now here is a poem thoroughly forgotten about. In our You Are What You Read thread in the Field Notes forum I mention reading back through old material during the two weeks when I was without a PC. I mention reading through a novel written in or around '91. The novel is called In The Cedar Weave. It is about a woman, Ena, who has inherited an old cottage on the shore of Puget Sound in Wa, and who is living alone, without a man, for maybe the first time ever. By novel's end she will have fallen in love with a man, an archeologist from Columbia who, having returned there on business, gets kidnapped by rebels. The novel ends with Ena having decided to leave her home on the Sound and search him out. His name is David. But before meeting David, mostly living alone, Ena makes many, many discoveries. Mostly about herself but also about her environs, its natural orderings. For me Ena's portrait is that of a Natural Beauty, something that in art, is called Venus Naturalis. Or Vulgar Venus as opposed to the Celestial Venus. I took two years making notes and an outline in preparation. Then one day I sat down at my typewriter and the story came. Half way through the novel, having saved up money, I quit my bartending job and devoted my days writing out the story. Slowly and deliberately. One page at a time. Some days maybe as many as five. It occurred to me I wasn't operating in units of chapters. Rather they were like panels, art panels on a wall leading down the hall. Some panels were as many as ten pages. Some as few as five. One maybe as many as thirty pages. When the story was done, first writing at least, I realized it had needed thirteen months. A little surprised I also realized that a lunar year is thirteen months. Sometime while writing, both Ena and I discovered she is a witch, an instinctive witch, something she had inherited from the same grandmother from whom she had inherited the cottage on Puget Sound. It seemed appropriate to me, maybe just coincidental, that the novel was made in a lunar year. Here is the poem written about making the novel. Untitled, it prefaces the story. She's come as if painted painted panels raised while wearing the rounding white the thirteen opening robes even learning on the chatter carrying up over from the down under mothers, and each wood word picture turning in warm on one before while hanging her heart out next in the lifeness fold. Or has it been like blue frescoes in some time dark hall down the wet walls and leaning us nearer inside the labyrinthine body hive, leaning on the footway on until coming face to adoration's face in the secret light place with the sovereign, the shuddering the High Likeness lady's lovely high soul? But maybe it's rather been like the folding out pages of a picture Japanese a book once seen with the brush painted butterflies unfurling, unfolding, unflying by. And being otherelse than a man what am she'd show herself differently, while certainly if lesselse than a man what am and she showing herself out notatall. (completely forgot about the poem. all but forgot about the novel. ya'll reckon its time to hire an amanuensis?) Terenondisclosed_email@example.com (Terreson)Sun, 10 Oct 2010 14:44:09 +0000