For this exercise we are again mapping different source nouns onto different target nouns. Today you will be given the target noun, and you can choose any source noun of your choosing.
Target Nouns:
Maple tree
Traffic
Sunrise
Cathedral
Policeman
So your prompt will be in the form of “Target Noun” is a “Source Noun". Maybe the sunrise is a symphony, or the policeman is an owl. Try to find an interesting collision and then spend ten minutes or so writing about it using your sensory based description.
cathedral - net
The cathedral is cast over us. Trapped within, comparing ourselves with martyred saints. Struggling against the mesh only causes it to grow more confining. The repeated patterns of standing, sitting, kneeling, trying to appease the fisherman’s orders so that we may be released. A school of white-robed singers spill in from the meshed yoke. They smile, eager to become bait, pulling all of us in as they transform syllables into words into melodies, rising up and up, luring us from our peaceful wild, deeper and deeper. The braille lines lose slack with each uttering from the angler. The mesh of stained glass and hymnals shrinking, forcing us together, so close we must grasp hands and wish peace on each other. Incense thickens as the lead line pulls tight. A shrinking circle of light, our only exit, completely unachievable. Dust settles in our nose as we are forced further in with promises of jig-wine and fly-bread. Later we will be back outside, but tethered to this place, unknowingly alluring. Drawing more victims into the net.
Mindful of the season the Maple tree is a painter, carefully choosing the colours of the palette. Many fingers covered in paint ready to explore the realm of impressionism. Summers filled with green, an undertone of freshly watered soil and smell of bricks baked by the sun. Autumn splashes of gold and red, imminent decay fills the breath preparing the final piece for the season. A light breeze blowing like a meditation, encouraging the paint to be spilled over the black canvas so that ideas may sprout and inspiration for next springs palette comes into view.
Nicely done. That is a cool leap to get from tree to painter, and the references to artistic things like palette, impressionism, inspiration… Really well done. I love the breeze blowing like a meditation and the imminent decay filling the breath. That is outstanding. Great job!
Nice theme of fishing! Interesting to see a cathedral as being the fisherman and all those in the church just fish getting caught in the nets. Cool concept!
The traffic at night is a pearl necklace, a long string of silver beads that glamorously decorate this garish city. Glints of light ricochet off mirrors, a sprinkling of glitter over long and lonesome commutes. The chain hangs heavy, weighing down the tired urban neck, hanging on desperately to its pendant of golden hope.
Yea really cool concept, in fact you could use this net metaphor effectively in quite a few contexts. There’s a nice flow of fishing language - I am envious at how you can pour this stuff out - my mind feels like it is completely blocked up most of the time!
Interesting! So the tree is the painter, the branches the fingers and the leaves the paint? I like the words used, splashing the colours around and then wiping them off for a fresh canvas. Lovely stuff.
You always talk about liking juxtaposed imagery, and now you have done it. Traffic is generally something not beautiful and you compared it with a glamorous necklace. Then at the end, you switched again and made this necklace, a symbol of grace and elegance, into a millstone around the city’s neck! Well done.
Sunrise/bud
Faint light tickles the edges of the bud forming on the horizon. Potential waits underneath its darkened form. Cosmic seconds pass as the luminous bud stretches open over the landscape, unfolding its brilliant petals to reveal a glowing golden center. Colors explode out of the husky shell, now cracked open to display it’s glorious mount. Admirers gaze upon the transformation, their eyes reflecting the radiant flower in the sky.
Jamie, there really is nothing to envy. Often, if your mind feels blocked, that is really just your inner critic being a little devil on your left shoulder. While I am not sure, I believe that I am older than most of you, which just means I have had more time to practice. I like to think of myself as a three year old when I do these exercises. I am not looking to make sense or to write something good. I am looking to write down what comes to mind. To be honest, on this one, the first image that came to mind was Indra’s Net (you know little beads reflecting me, you, the universe, all entirety, even itself), and I kept thinking I would wind my way there. It never happened, but I didn’t care. I didn’t force it. I just wrote without thinking. That judge that we all have is a good quality for when we are building final versions of songs, but it can really get in the way of coming up with ideas. The key is just to let go. A three year old doesn’t worry about vocabulary, emotion, etc… A three year old just is. The toddler says what it wants without regard to how it will be perceived. Be that three year old
Strong and determined, she stretches out toward the heavens, spreading herself over the forest beneath her. She is guardian, shading from persistent heat and howling winds. She gives herself to every creature seeking refuge, and the birds sing lullabies as they snuggle into her arms. Her leaves are tender and supple, and she dazzles in her array of colors. With winding roots she steadies herself, and sweet nectar drips out of her being, bringing nourishment to the earth.
That’s beautiful! You’re really getting a lot of interesting material by diving into these metaphors, and I hope you are having the same sort of epiphanies I had going through these exercises that you really can write about a thing using the language of anything else!
This is really powerful, reflecting how many roles mothers play: providing comfort, guardian, sacrifice, calming, and beautiful. Then to mimic that to a tree is so interesting. Really good job.
Prompt: Traffic/Story
The lines of flight so freely winding bow to the power of I-95 at 8:00 AM. No doubt, the author of this stretch walked away with hands tossed in the air cursing “Foucaldian effiency” and “city budget constraints.” The rising sun clearly a poor plot device aimed at worsening the mood, blinded us. Side plots idled at a stand-still, waiting to advance their story. The occasional character admonished them as they performed live, demonstrating through perfect rhythmic drumming the effectiveness of character driven plots in any environment. Others roared their support for Deus Ex Machina as they zoomed past on the shoulder through bursts of protests from Ford F-150’s and Honda Civics.
Traffic - Library
Traffic is a library. A space of endless possibilities, where one truly doesn’t know what will happen, but all enter with the same goal in mind. In the far right lane, space is taken up with new releases, entering into traffic unsure of how this will all play out, and the classics we are all glad are on their way out. Acutely aware of movements and sound, I stop and start, frequently looking up to make sure others aren’t waiting on me, and that I don’t shuffle too loudly, all whilst smelling the exhaust of everyone around me, burning the midnight oil. I check in and check out, each car sharing their own story, careful to not judge the car by it’s cover. The busted bumper 1988 Volvo station wagon, in addition to countless joy rides, was also checked out by the former president. The 2019 Honda CRV, while still new, is checked out by a new family, eager to start their next steps. All serve a purpose with endless outcomes, in one way or another.
I love “judge the car by its cover”. That is awesome. Also, the new releases in the right lane merging is really great imagery. I was waiting on something to link a GPS app to a card catalog to guide you more quickly. Ha. This is an outstanding writing!
hunched in my small car the ticking of turn signals. quiet horns drawn out like orchestral brass and small blips washed out. they hear my screams like i have a muzzle on. muted and lost to the noise of a hundred engines humming. i grip the steering wheel like it has my money. i lose my patience with the time. talking to the grey dashboard like a shrink. my voice just reflects off the windshield to fill the car with sheer echoes piercing like my dad yelling in the mini van. the carpet would absorb it. my hands were sticky from peaches. seeds stringy and wet tossed in a publix bag. the curtains over my eyes shut. leaning against the plastic cup holder and arm rest my neck contours in a way that wont hurt for 10 more years. quiet b
