We picked a random session from our library and ended up with Session 56: Salt for this workshop. Watch and listen as Carolyn pens a fantasy world that she’s been imagining for 15 years! Lucas writes a story that examines a man’s harrowing escape from murderous drones. Is this frightening tale a window into our collective tech-dependent future? We have the video and audio versions of the livestream below.

Carolyn’s Result

It rains heavily in the swamps. Ever since the cataclysmic earthquakes, and the development of the desert, weather gets stuck over the bottomlands. The cliffs drop off far the west where the draining rivers empty over the lost city–whether or not elves lived there remains unclear. There’s an unwelcome energy in those archways. The people of the guidebook live in the swamp, and only those who have found one of the fleeting shadow plants hold the rank of honor, of those who see into that other eclipsed world.

They are proud musicmakers. String instruments, flutes, drums, and all their making waterproof and buoyant. Even their homes portable among the buttressed trees. Shallow shipbuilders too, not seafarers, but they will have sailing competitions on the great lake by the high waterfalls. Rarely, but perhaps less rarely than the other peoples of the land are they visited by the little folk, the old ones that live in the hollows of the world, keep the stories, and seldom intervene.

The people of the swamp are good hosts, but they guard their home fervently, and they do not like trespassers. On the far north of the country, they are not often on the receiving end of rumors, but they have heard of the shifters found lately in the kingdom–of creatures taking mythic forms, forgetting what they were before.

They fear this shifting, but they prepare for it to come within their waters. How to deal with it they will decide together when the time comes. They are not sending anyone after it, not yet. But three young ones are keen to stop it in its tracks. Twin brothers and a sister, only one of whom has seen one of the shadows yet. It made him quiet, and afraid, and his brother jealous, eager to prove himself. The sister admired but grows impatient to find her own, and earn its name.

Lucas’s Result

He crouched low under the weathered slat of wood; the rain had been coming down hard for a few hours now; water was pooling by his feet, and Tony was trying his best to shake a shiver. An errant whistle left his mouth as he comforted himself. It was such a ridiculous slip of the situation he couldn’t help but laugh— and given the circumstances, he appreciated it.

Dropships were canvassing the area of the mountain pass. There were three in his vicinity now. Their strobing searchlights flitting through the trees. “What type of man was up there looking through such a thing?” thought Tony. Sure, they were machines, they were all machines, but somewhere there was someone getting rich, or getting off, or getting something. Tony hoped as much. Otherwise, this was all a waste. To throw away an entire civilization and possibly a species: human beings, to sell them down the river and not get fabulously rich or something, it was all a little too pointless for Tony.

He had been careless. He had been flagged for operating outside of the protocols of his community; it had started with a knock on his dormitory door; a beautiful woman had brought him a rose and asked him to dance; then she had asked him to download files from his Class 2 security job in the harbor. Tony was a virgin. Most humans were at this point in time. And the sight of a woman was overwhelming—intoxicating. He obeyed. He downloaded the files. Now he was running through the forest from machines that would tranquilize, eviscerate, and vaporize within seconds. What a game this had become. The strobing machine moved on to another sector, and Tony ran through the surging rain and pressed against a wide oak.

Tony enjoyed games. Not the super-immersive combat sims. Not even VR. He liked the simple ones. His grandfather brought Tony to an arcade when he was a child, when they were filled with pinball machines and light-gun games, not sexbots and morphine transfer units. He remembered playing one called The Addams Family for hours while his grandfather patiently watched and sat on a stool behind him.

His grandpa would occasionally say things like, “Feel that recoil when you press the buttons?” or “Go ahead, tilt the machine a bit, not too much though,” and Tony would squeal with exhilaration. Even when he was a child, things that were “physical” beyond interfacing with the digital word, were a novelty.

Now Tony was dealing with all the physical he could handle.

The government was not shy to showcase videos of drones swooping down and plucking fugitives, carrying them up hundreds of feet, and dropping them like sadistic birds of prey.

He hoped he wouldn’t make the highlight reel.

Here is our livestream from Sunday, November 11 at 7 pm EST! We debut a new session here: Night Weirdos. What’s up with the name you ask? Well, Carolyn and I are often weirdos wandering around making and recording noises in the night! The strange looks we receive are half the fun! We have the video and audio versions of the livestream below.

Lucas’s Result

It had been running all night, and they were running out of gas. Luis was the last one to use the can. That was two hours ago. He estimated there was maybe a quarter left. Then they’d be out of light. This wasn’t a matter of discomfort, though. Sure, there would be a chill when the lights went out with the generator, but the light was also keeping the creatures out in the forest.

Luis had signed up for this surveying trip in hopes of finding some solitude. There were only three in the camp. He had just gone through a bad breakup back in Seattle. He was decided what to do with his life. Was grad school next for him? Would he move to the east coast to where his sister was living. The past few months had been filled with him asking those questions repeatedly, walking around aimlessly, never getting any closer to the answer.

Carolyn’s Result

The tile was red–the door composite wood,
hollow–one time when we left the dog
in the garage during a thunderstorm
he nearly clawed and chewed his way through it.
There was green pile carpet for a while,
and then a more modern, thinner, sandy mosaic,
the whole room done over like the desert southwest.
We had two hammocks, one canvas, one nylon.
We didn’t have a windchime, but we did have a piano.
The top panel could come off, reveal the internal hammers,
and let the whole house get loud.

There was a bulge in the drywall from a bullet,
or so I was told–maybe it had just buckled,
a weak spot either way. The water table was high
so the ground was almost always wet,
and whenever somebody flushed the toilet,
the sump pump would bubble up from a buried pipe.
The soil was almost all silt, so dark
and dense, held together so closely
that it couldn’t grow carrots, wouldn’t let
a root like that grow straight,
but some years it allowed pumpkins, trailing
runners over tracks of the rototillers.

The fort in the back got pulled over
to the neighbors after we outgrew it,
stood by two willows instead of an elm,
the elm came down too, but its stump grew sprouts.
There were toads in the lilacs.
There were dinosaurs in the basement.
There was a rocking horse that rocked on its own.
One time I snuck out but I just used the door,
never did climb out the window
the way I expected I’d need to–
the house never did burn down
and we never had to gather by the basketball hoop,
clutching a photo album or a blanket.
We were free enough, each of us to leave it,
and I don’t think any of us have been back.
Maybe drove by it. Moved on.

We kicked off our first FB livestream on Sunday, November 4 at 7 pm EST! Members of the Endless Beautiful Creators Group chose our Frequency Workshop 4 session as the one to be used. We have the video and audio versions below.

Carolyn’s Result from the 11/4/18 livestream:

Voices mingle in the chamber,
muffled as the leaves through the tall panes,
the glass frosted, the trees bronze–
my grandmother reminds me that
when I was a child, I told her
November was my favorite month
and she asks me to remind her why–
the skies, I realize all over again,
pinkness coming through the bleak grays,
the reminder that the grays have beauty,
and I think of the cornfield, the rows
cut and the husks parted with harvest,
the stalks left for windbreaks, for geese
and turkey to huddle behind and peck,
for coyote to linger in, those crepuscular hours.
The November sky an eruption of dark lines
and glimmers of winter gold, lines that draw
us underground with the other life,
and the dead, to the trumpets and the drones,
still some things flower, witch hazel yellow
as the wings of bittersweet berries, capsules
of the entwining vine, the burst of color,
all the more poignant for the contrast.
WIth all this background, all the leaves
to shuffle through, all this material
to pack amongst our living, what better
joy than this intermingling, the backwardness
of remembering, the decision of revision
or remainder–she knows these pieces of me
that I do not, my babyhood, my spring,
but we live together in these seasons–
we visit, I ask her things I have asked
before, or that I haven’t, and the sky
burns a new tint, a flame of cloud appears
that might’ve been there before, but went
unnoticed, now lingers over the field
and the valley, becomes known, and shifts again.
I could call it back, recall its hues,
its pattern, bring it in me here to earth,
to store down in my roots.

Lucas’s Result from the 11/4/18 livestream:

The geometry of the crowd was perplexing. Lines of three. Some broken off. Some not leading to any particular destination. One even snaked its way to a derelict Coca-Cola machine. Chet laughed. He sat in the large waiting area of the hospital. Some sort of cafeteria slash Starbucks slash purgatory. He had been lucky enough to find a seat next to the window. It was raining. His uncle was dying of cancer.

Chet’s uncle Silvan had been dying of cancer for 10 years now. At least that’s what the doctor had told him. When do you begin dying anyway? Is it right after you’re born? Or maybe, thought Chet, maybe it was when you hit your thirties and the reality of it all set in. Anyway, Silvan was dying. Stomach cancer. It was painful. Silvan hadn’t recognized Chet when he had entered the room last.

Chet tried to bury his thoughts in his dried out turkey sandwich. It was horrific. The tomatoes had soaked through the crusted, crouton-like slices of bread. The lettuce was slimy. There was a ridiculous drama on the TV in the corner. A boy watched what looked like King Arthur and his knights sitting around the roundtable. The costumes were cheap. The TV was one of those big ones too. It sat precariously on an aluminum stand three feet above the boy. It would crush him in an instant.

Boy, this sandwich is terrible, thought Chet.

Chet’s mother entered the cafeteria. Silvan was her brother. His mother was strung out. She had been sitting in the hospital for the past week. She’d been putting this thing off for five years now. Silvan and the whole family had. They knew it was a matter of time before he ended up in the ground. Until they’d spend a week, not being able to console one another. Until Chet ate this terrible sandwich. It had to be about him, didn’t it?

Jesus, Chet.

His mom sat down. She was pale. No makeup on her face. Her hair was tied back in a haphazard bun. It hadn’t been washed properly over the past week and looked like a rusted coil of barbed wire. Chet watched as she went to a dispenser and slowly filled a styrofoam cup with burnt coffee. He knew it was burnt because he had choked a cup down himself.

“How you doing?” asked his mother.

Chet shrugged. He looked back up at the TV. Somebody must have changed the channel. Some sort of cooking show now. A woman was feverishly beating the side of a metal bowl with a spoon. A crazy glint in her eyes. Chet wondered if it was for the dish or the ratings.

“Terrible,” replied Chet. He tried to drink more coffee, but he quickly pulled it away from his lips. It was so dry, it was like drinking sand.

“Yeah.” His mother dropped her head and studied the dirty floor beneath her socks. She gave up on wearing shoes on day two. Chet figured it was an attempt to feel at home. He doubts it had worked.

“Did he say anything else?” asked Chet. He didn’t know what else to ask his mother. He could try to dig through the emotions of the week, but they were still in it.

“No,” said his mother.

Our 2018 Endless Beautiful writing course with Frequency Writers in Providence, Rhode Island is complete! We led the course of four classes using the EB Method to enhance our creativity and make a commitment to “sacred writing time” for students and instructors.

We met Sunday evenings at Ada Books and spent the class hours listening, writing, and sharing. We created four custom EB Sessions that debuted each week of class as the initial writing prompt. We loved delving deep into our soundbank to build these audio prompts, featuring sounds as far-flung as a Wisconsin rodeo, the beaches of Martinique, and soundscapes from our home-city of Providence.

Ada Books proved an amazing venue with a welcoming environment and so many books to draw upon for inspiration as writers! During class, we prioritized the act of writing. We found ourselves hungry each week to spend those dedicated hours to the craft and experiment of writing using sound as inspiration. We got some great work done, and even more great work drafted!

We felt a real bond with our students, and are so grateful for the opportunity to run this course and be a part of the Frequency Writers community! We can’t wait to do more. In our last class, we recorded a podcast episode that you can listen to below!

In this episode, we each share one of our favorite pieces of writing done in class using the EB method, and talk about the class experience in general. Please give it a listen! Then go to our Store page, download a Session of your choice, and create something of your own! All four sessions created for the class are now available in the store. Transcriptions from the works we read on the podcast are also provided below.

Thank you for reading, listening, creating, and sharing with us! Here’s the podcast:

Carolyn’s Result

The rumble of the whirl follows
through the sole of the slipper,
muscle masking the bone,
the body accepting the impossible
circumference of the fouetté.

Smaller down, the thud of pistols
in the ligaments, the grind of platelets
in the blood–nothing in the body
is kind or unkind, only growing or not.
The engine of living, fuel and flames,
even in its quietest a roar.

Come to know the bounce of the spark
for what it is. The baton-twirler,
her blazing torches, spins a certain truth.
Wonder is meant to be eaten.
Wonder is meant to be shared.

If the function of the body lacks kindness,
give it some. Retool the repertoire,
let us clap ourselves into crickets,
the ritual rhythm of the leg and the wing
saying I am ready, a mote
of motion among the chorus.

Return with me to the muscle,
to the ongoing spin. Remember with me
the bloodless jump of the cricket, the flea,
the endless hunger of living–

Remember the long stretch of the leg,
the slow burn of the knee,
the ripple of the escape
and the outstretched hands
reverberating throughout the room.

Carolyn Decker
10/14/18

Christena’s Result

A plane soars by above me. It looks awfully low, almost intrusive. It’s a judging eye that stares at me, asking “why are you so scared to leave?”

“I’m not scared,” I think aloud.

I am lying on soft, pillowy New England grass, gazing at a rare cloudless blue sky in mid-fall when it’s usually crisp and overcast outside.

There’s a little boy just ten feet to my right, playing with a volleyball, abusing it as he pounds it into the pavement. Not looking up, not stopping.

“Oh, Tommy, would you give it a rest?”

He ignores me per usual, and I roll over onto my belly. Jesus is staring at me — tall, white marble with praying hands. Is this supposed to be comforting? Having him here, watching?

There’s a low whistle in the distance. My hair stands on the back of my neck, and I freeze. It’s…the train. But it’s not time yet. There’s a musical noise to my left, and I calm a little, taking in Henry four rows overplaying his God-forsaken recorder, as if a master musician.

For once, I’m actually glad to hear it. For once, it actually does feel like a sanctuary… that is until the train comes lurching back.

Chugga, Chugga — ugh, I hated that foreboding sound.

Why don’t I just leave this place? I think to myself.

I mean, that’s what Marissa in the 1940’s get-up always asks me. She visits her son a lot. Says he has a great time gardening in his old age these days. He plants tulips and daisies all the livelong day, when he used to deliver packages. What a bore that must have been.

I place my chin on my folded arms. I couldn’t just leave…how would I ever find my way back? What if someone actually came to see me, and I missed it?

No, I couldn’t risk it. I’ll stay right here, where my name actually means something — everything really.

Chugga, Chugga – I freeze, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s back. Just as it is every day.

“NO!” I yell. The train whistles loudly, and the ground vibrates as it gets closer and closer. It’s roaring in my ears, and I feel a sharp pain in my abdomen. I gasp, clutching at my stomach. I try to breath, to count. It should be over in 6, 5, 4… Chugga, Chugga… 3, 2, phew — it’s done. The tears on my cheeks evaporate, mist on a cold wind. That’s all anyone would think it was anyway. The whistling faintly calls out to me in the distance, no doubt promising to be back tomorrow.

I can hear the bouncing of the ball again and that infuriating recorder. I open my eyes to the looming stature of an empathizing Jesus once again.

Helga, with a bandage perpetually wrapped around her head, appears in front of me.

“You know that won’t stop, right?”

“Ah, Helga, leave me alone.”

“It won’t stop until you fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Whatever you messed up before walking onto that platform.”

“Oh, Helga that’s a myth. I am staying right here.”

Helga rolls her shiny, dull eyes and moves away.

“For God’s sake, I’m not going anywhere,” I yell and roll over. “I can’t. I’m dead.” I stare at my name written in stone right under the statue of Jesus.

Rachel’s Result

I can hardly hear myself think over the sounds of my secretary opening and closing the cabinets, shoving things in places they probably don’t go. I wonder if she lost one of my files but doesn’t want to admit it. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that the office TV is still on football replays, but I know it won’t last. The thought of seeing Christine Ford’s face projected onto the huge flat screen TV, and worse, of hearing the comments that will follow, makes my skin crawl. I try to twist open my pen and it slides across my clammy hands, which is when I look down and notice that I’m sweating through my button down.

I walk past the TV again towards the microwave. Great. The channel already changed. People are starting to gather. My face feels hot. My vision grows blurry. I have a sudden burst of anxious energy pumping through my chest. Kind of like when you’re lost and your phone is on 1% battery and you start to imagine everything that could go wrong if you can’t find your way and have no way of getting in touch with anyone. “God. I can’t even look at a single man in the office right now. It’s like I feel a sense of betrayal from half of humankind” I overhear Allison say, as footage of Kavanaugh’s red teary-eyed face stares back at me.

The lump in my throat grows. She’s right. But she’s wrong. I scroll through Facebook, mindlessly moving my thumb, hoping for anything to replace the thoughts pummeling through my mind. “Men who speak up years after priests assault them are called brave. Women who speak up are called crazy. Believe survivors.” A friend of mine shared that one. There were dozens of comments. The first one said “Get this garbage off my timeline. The priests aren’t politicians or potential Supreme Court justices. She’s just trying to ruin a career.” I slammed my laptop closed in disgust. Am I not brave because I’m afraid that I’m admitting I’m a survivor will make me less of a man?

Lucas’s Result

Lucas’s result has been submitted for publication.

The first Galway Kinnell Poetry Festival is in the books! Carolyn and I spent about 3 weeks going around Pawtucket, RI recording sounds for this special session for our workshop. It was a blast exploring places like McCoy Stadium and Slater Mill during our recording adventures. It was also an amazing chance to familiarize ourselves with Galway Kinnell’s poetry. We met a lot of great people along the way while preparing for this event. Carolyn and I were excited to share what we had come up with for the session!

The workshop did not disappoint. Participants filled all of the seats in the room, and we were able to generate great art along with an amazing discussion. We couldn’t have asked for more!

The session that we created for the Galway Kinnell Poetry Festival has 21 sounds in it. That is by far the most that we have ever included in one of our sessions. As I listened to the sounds that we had collected and thought about putting this session together, I realized that the sounds represented a wide swathe of time. I found it strange that these sounds that were collected in 2018 could represent 200+ years worth of time simultaneously.

An intensity emerged. Not unlike the poetry of Galway Kinnell that I had been reading. There were a lot of small details in his poems that, at face value, might seem off-putting or disturbing. But when I would read on, I understood that I was experiencing a representation of a life that can be both sad in those details and breathtaking in complexity and wonder.

I guess that’s what motivated me to pack so many sounds into this session. I wanted to catch those small details and smash the separate eras that somehow exist simultaneously in Pawtucket, RI together. To break them. To examine their pieces and to rearrange them.

What did I find?

I suppose you will have to be your own judge when you listen to the session. I’d say, there’s plenty of complexity and wonder lurking around the old mill buildings and on the quiet basketball courts of Pawtucket.

Sounds in the Galway Kinnell Poetry Festival Session

• Playground Slater Park
• Work Bell
• Frisby Golf Chains
• McCoy Excitement
• Paddle Boat
• Rapid Fire!
• Car Passing By
• Looff Carousel
• Dog Park
• Walking Across Bleachers
• Bags at the Dragon Boat Festival
• Slater Mill Drill
• Dam
• Connect 4 at Breaktime
• Skate Park
• Water Wheel Model
• Basketball
• Intense Drumming
• PawSox Rally
• Braiding Machine
• Take Me Out