Now read that again slowly... and then we'll head to the California Pizza Kitchen for lunch."Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." Oscar Wilde
Dark, stale smell of rubbish stirred by heavy rains,
like the jungle smells of South America that pervade even the largest cities.
Roar of the patrons like the rumble of a river over rocks;
Individuals cackle and chuckle and chatter like birds of the forest.
Dusky waiters and waitresses.
Precise haircuts, black uniforms dancing between tables with the efficiency of samurai.
Only their lazy voices and vacant eyes betray them:
They would rather be somewhere else.
Sleepy tones of nature for decor.
Light muffled by hung ceilings.
Lamp shades woven with matt brown and green, like grass of the savannah.
An eruption of sandstone cascading down feature walls,
soft reds, white and earthy orange, ordered and chaotic.
Vibrant prints against the beige.
Oversized fresh food fit for giants:
Apples, red and green peppers, a sliced lemon, muddy mushrooms.
The subtle aroma of pizza crust browning.
A whiff of bacon, garlic, oregano when the waitress breezes past with a platter.
The lemon stabs at a cut on my finger when I squeeze it over the rubble of ice.
Sweet iced tea, tangy citrus, cooling my tastebuds, distracting them from hunger.
...and then our food arrives.
Did I just write a poem (of questionable quality)? It certainly didn't start out that way.
This week the objective side of my writer self is resting, and my child-like curiosity of plain things, and my desire to expand my creative mind is taking a romp.
Next week, if things go as planned, I'll be in Europe, notepad and pencil in hand, ready to collect images and ideas from the land of wine, baguettes, and oh la la.
Exercise 75. Use sight, sound, smell, feel, and taste to describe a night spent in an unfamiliar place (either remembered or imagined).
Exercise 76. Listen to a piece of music and jot down what it tells you. (From Rosier-Jones, So You Want to Write.)