Thursday, Favorite Day.

Well, it's official: I'm in love with the participants of my Thursday workshop. That means Thursday is my new favorite day of the week. You can pretty much anticipate a weekly update relating to this group...

Per the usual both classes had me laughing out loud. The nice thing about them is that they're too old to give a f**k about what they say. I admire this. It's honest. It's endearing. Often it's funny. Sometimes it's sad.

In one exercise, everyone chose a random (blank) postcard and wrote the message that it inspired. Carl bemoaned the bad food in England where "they have a hundred religions and only one sauce." Vic, who is in another group, is tenacious, outspoken, and likes to question everything. EVERYTHING. Por ejemplo:

Me: "My name is Phyllis. We'll be doing some creative writing today."
Vic: "Why?"
"Pardon? Why what?"
"Why is your name Phyllis? Who named you that?"
"Umm. My parents named me Phyllis. After a friend..."
"Oh, well that's very nice. Now what exactly do you mean by 'creative'? And why writing?"

and on and on and on we go. Anyway, we read a poem by Charles Bukowski, Bluebird. The exercise was to write what was in their own hearts. A lot of the responses were funny (a rascal) some poetic (a herron) but I really loved Vic's because it surprised me:

He said: I have joy in my heart. Because I am 80 years old and that is older than my mother and father lived to be. I could live to be 100. I feel good.

Bluebird
Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?