So I started with writing prompts searched out online. I only had to read a couple to feel as if I was in a class for cranking out forgettable paperbacks that sell to tasteless housewives. None of them really represented or appealed to my style. I understand they were just meant to be provoking ideas to get my mind working but they felt two dimensional.
"Buddhist shrine on a rainy day in urban area" - I wrote this and a few other sentences while listening to sound/music art at EMPAC. I'm choosing to build on this.
Rain in the city. Any old city. Or new one, for that matter. When we conceive of rain in our minds, I'm sure most of us associate the image and the sound with peace and tranquility. Rain is reminiscent of a kind of silence, despite the fact that it is an unceasing noise. No pauses. In fact, a slow drip with true silence between each drop is generally felt to be more distracting than the continuous pitter patter of rain. We love the monotonous droning of rain so much that we record and recreate it to help us sleep. Rain in a city, any city, does not have the same effect on our senses. Or is it just me? It's raining today. Looking out from my window, looking back at me is a sea of cloud with the tops of buildings like boats upon it. Sure, there is a dreariness about it that inspires a kind of film noir themed catharsis in the soul, but it doesn't remove me from my present reality. It doesn't take away the stress of responsibility that comes with being a self-sufficient adult in the twenty-first century. I'm late. Umbrella in hand, I take the stairs down eleven floors, out the double doors of the complex's entryway and stand under the awning. If it weren't for their own umbrellas, I would suspect the passersby to be completely unaware of the unseasonal winter downpour. No one pauses to avoid puddles or gazes up at the hazy sky between the buildings. No hands stretch from beneath parasols to catch a cold drop in the air before it hits the sidewalk. There is no smell of petrichor in the city to arouse our nostalgia or excite our primitive senses; just a lingering, heavy stench of souring garbage on every curb and corner. Perhaps this is why we rush from one indoor space to another; we simply move our bodies through the uncontrolled, unpleasant scents of the urban outdoors to the artificially sweetened ones trapped inside our concrete boxes. Sighing, I too push my umbrella open with a whoosh, shielding myself, and briskly walk into the deluge.
