Thursday, February 25, 2010

Egghead, Blasts from the Past (little bit long)

If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a real egghead when it comes to literature. Just felt like I should put that out there.

I commented on someone's blog earlier (can't remember whose) about crit groups and told the tale of my favorite group of like-minded eggheads. It started before I went to college, when my brother and some of his English and Theatre major friends decided it would be fun to get together, read great works of literature out loud, get rip-roaring drunk, and generally have a good time. A picture was drawn. A gong was rung. A chant envoked (which I can't remember), and thus the first Cult Meeting was begun.

When I came to the same private, liberal-arts college as they, I was inducted into the Cult Meeting society. We even had special invitations.

A Cult Meeting could have as many as 8 people, or as few as 3. One of my most memorable was me, my brother, and his friend; we got together one fall evening at the ramshackle house my brother was renting from said friend and had a great cult meeting. Brother has a chimnea he lovingly nicknamed Odin, and we made many a sacrifice to the chimnea that night. In closing we usually have timed haiku writings, then burn them all to close the meeting.

Told you I was an egghead! And I had great company! Another wonderful Cult Meeting I remember was at the same friend's house with just me and the bro. I stuck to beer, but they knocked back a bottle of Jack, we listened to a lot of music and watched Trainspotting. We may have deviated from the purpose, but it was still quite fun, especially when they decided to smoke pipes at 3am.

Anyway...I just got distracted for like 30 minutes looking at the pictures I took the summer my brother and his roommate moved into the Ramshackle House. If you were all my Facebook friends, I would make it required viewing.

Ever seen A Love Song for Bobby Long? It's kinda like that. (And if you haven't, you should.)

Moving On... seriously, enough already, right? 

I pulled out my most ancient and revered of childhood notebooks yesterday. It was given to me in 1994, after my family home was destroyed by a tornado...I think the grief counselor gave it to me, maybe? To record my feelings? Well anyway, in true Summer fashion, I used it to write stories in instead. Strangely, though my inscription in the front clearly states I received it on June 14th, 1994, I didn't actually write anything in it until 1998. Actually, on second perusal, I see that there are some pages torn out of the front. Man, wish I knew what those said! 

Anyway, the first attempt at one of my oldest on-going story ideas is in this book, which is why I revere it so much. I was flipping through later pages yesterday and found a letter I wrote to my friend, and in that letter were TWO POEMS! 

You have to understand, I didn't write poetry. My angst was all handled through fiction. I purposefully wrote my first poem when I was a freshman in college and my grandfather, who had been suffering from severe dementia for about 6 years, was about to die. Both poems I wrote that night were read at his funeral. I ended up taking a Creative Writing Poetry class my sophomore year and discovered an interest, but all that is beside the story. 

So, here are the 2 poems I wrote when I was ELEVEN:

The silvery glint of your razor claw
Is marred only by the spreading stain
Of blood. The smell is overwhelming,
Like the scent of fresh-cut straw. 


Tell me, darling, of a summer's breeze
Or a lover's caress. The taste of 
Wine sliding down your throat, its
Feel like silk, the silk that
Covers our bed at night.
Tell me, darling.! I couldn't believe it when I found those yesterday. But what made it even funnier was this little note after second one: "I need to stop having these poetic flashes. I'm not a poet! I'm a writer, for crying out loud!" Ohhh, 11-year-old me, if you only knew...

But the best part of all this comes from the same year, a bit later in the summer, when Brother and I were heading to Houston to spend the summer with my aunt and uncle and cousins. We drove from Georgia to Texas, so we had some time to kill. We decided to jointly write a short story, each writing a little section then passing it off to the next person. 

The result was so hilarious that I had to share it. I'm going to break it up into segments, because it's almost 1,000 words long!

About the authors:

Me (Summer): 12
Cousin 1 (Danielle): 12
Cousin 2 (Tricia): 16? 
Brother (Jeremy): 14

(Summer)The hot sun beat down on the scorched landscape. Lan Dross looked at his exhausted troops. The young men stood at attention but he could read their faces like books. The Riverview Academy were more than ready to be heading back to camp. The retired general looked at the red ball of the sun, which was high overhead.
"Alright men. Time to head back. Forward march!"
(Danielle) Groans arose as well as cheers. Colonel Das knew who the groans had come from. None other than the Adventure Club. He thought to himself with a chuckle.
(Tricia) They were a bunch of wimps, terds waiting for his instruction to whip them into shape. And the (wealth? weany?) Adventure Club will know what a real man is made of when I get through.
(Jeremy) Their armaments clanked together softly. All the warriors were anxious for combat. Ready to feel their lances ram through their enemies body, and watch the ground be purified by their crimson blood. He flexed his genetically engineered muscles against his battle armour. His scanners indicated the group ahead. He lowered his lance and armed his deflector sheild. They relished personal combat. Guns were unhonorable. With his enhanced vision he could see the group ahead. He gave the signal to charge.
(Summer) One of the more attentive troopers saw the attacking army and shouted a warning. Dross turned as the first shots cut into his troop. He shouted for the young men to take cover, then dived behind a mound of dirt. He heard the anguished screams of his troops as he unslung his D9854 Blast-Rifle. He got to his elbows and began taking sniper shots at the attacking men. A few fell; nothing compared to the 30 plus young men laying in bloody pools on the desert floor. Dissapointed in them, he shot a couple more attackers, then quickly counted the number of his troops that were actually retaliating.


Sarah Ahiers said...

your home was destroyed by a tornado? Wow! No thanks on that front. Also, group stories are awsome!

Anne Gallagher said...

I liked the poetry but I have to ask, how did you know about wine sliding down throats at 11???

Summer Frey said...

Yeah, we lost our home in '94.

And Anne--good question! Probably from reading stuff way too old for me to be reading. That's how I found out about a lot of things. My parents are teetotalers, too, so...

Tiffany Neal said...

I love the poetry and what you wrote to yourself on the page after it!! Heehee!

Looks like you were born to be a writer. :)

Kimberly Franklin said...

Tornadoes are scary. I love the poetry, though. And the group story. It kind of makes me wonder what I was thinking at age 11. Hmm.... yeah, I probably don't even want to know.

I can't wait to read more. You were extremely talented at that age. ::applause:: :)

Guinevere said...

Your "cult" in college sounds like too much fun, and you must have been a trip as a kid. So talented!