Sion Dayson

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Sion Dayson was the resident writer in the Kerouac House for the winter 2013 writer in residence.

She was working in the Kerouac House through the holidays and into the new year. Sion came to Orlando from Paris.  When I visited, she had just finished work on her first novel, When Things Were Green, and was exploring new ideas. Her friend, Frédéric Monpierre, was also on hand. He is a filmmaker and he wandered around shooting footage with his digital DSLR camera. Every time he took a shot, the camera would beep loudly. It was like R2D2 kept complaining every few minutes. Regardless there was a certain magic as three artist each explored their craft.

Before Sion settled in to write, there was a knock at the front door. Two middle aged men wanted to know if they could walk through the house. She obliged, bringing them to the back of the house where Jack Kerouac wrote the Dharma Bums.  Apparently this is a regular occurrence. When the literary tourists left, she finally settled in to work. I rather enjoyed the fact that she wore bright pink slippers while she worked.

She was working on an essay about the emotional scars that everyone carries with them. There was a long moment where she paused to gather her thoughts. She held her hands under her chin almost as if she were praying. She stayed like that for the longest time before she once again attacked the page with her pen. I was intrigued by her forceful grip on the pen making it seem like she were etching her words into granite.

Sion Dayson is an American writer living in Paris, France. Her work has appeared in Hunger Mountain, Utne Reader, The Wall Street Journal, Numero Cinq and several anthologies including Strangers in Paris and Seek It: Writers and Artists Do Sleep,
among other venues. She has been a past winner of a Barbara Deming
Memorial Fund grant for her fiction and her novel manuscript placed on
the short list for finalists in the William Faulkner Wisdom Competition.
She earned her MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. You
can find out more about her work at her website, siondayson.com.

Story Hunting

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Mad About Words founder Mary Ann De Stefano invited me to sketch a workshop on October 26th by resident author Caroline Walker at the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Avenue, Orlando FL). Caroline Walker is a writer, producer and amateur explorer originally from Rock Island, Illinois. She holds a BA from the University of Southern California and an MA from New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. She has hiked many miles of tunnels, mines, architectural time capsules, trails, not-yet-trails, roads, shorelines, cityscapes, caves, graveyards and abandoned buildings.

The invitation explained, “Writers explore uncharted territory every time we tell a story. We are the cartographers, archaeologists, anthropologists and private eyes of our own imaginations. The real world can be a powerful ally—if we know where to look for clues. This workshop encourages storytellers to excavate narratives through a connection to place. Using photographs and objects as prompts, participants will discover how to:

    Empower locations to serve as dynamic characters

    Employ everyday observation as an evocative research method

    Exploit objects and artifacts as unique narrative tools

    Experience a deeper connection to our surroundings”

This workshop was right up my alley. I’m out exploring everyday using a sketchbook to record the hunt.  Though Caroline was dressed in a fashionable black dress with a tight blue belt, she wore practical hiking boots instead of high heels. She asked the writers to focus on two things, Objects and Places. Places are secret keepers, clues to the story. She described in eloquent detail the unique place in Wisconsin where she grew up. It was spared from the glacial drifts millions of years ago which left it un-scarred. It is the one place where Paleozoic snails survive and it brings back vibrant childhood memories. She talked about the huge Live Oak in front of the Kerouac House which is surrounded by Resurrection ferns and all that implies. Some places instinctively make her light up with inspiration. For some people that place might be a beach, but she feels uncomfortable at the immense expanse of open ocean.   More than anything, she invited writers to discover what place lights them up, to access a childlike sense of newness.

Each writer said a little about themselves including a bit about a place that they call home. Caroline handed out photos she had taken of abandoned places and the authors had thirty seconds to write something based on what they saw. The results were surprising and sometimes profound. Caroline is a true listener, and endlessly curious, I suspect the writing session fueled her creative reserves as well. Her enthusiasm to explore and discover something new everyday was infectious and inspiring.

Mark Your Calendar, Caroline Walker will be reading at the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Ave, Orlando, FL) on November 16th at 7pm. She will also be reading at Functionally Literate, on November 22nd at The Gallery at Avalon Island (39 S. Magnolia Avenue, Orlando, Fl) starting at 6pm.

Any Road Will Take You There

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Terry and I went to the Kerouac House (1418 Clouser Street Orlando FL) on Saturday, July 20th at 8PM to hear David Berner read from his book “Any Road Will Take You There: A Journey of Fathers and Sons“. David, a past resident author at the Kerouac House, now resides in Chicago. He felt his life was at an impasse and decided to take a road trip with his sons to loosely follow Jack Kerouac‘s journey’s cross country. Rather than travel in a vintage automobile, he decided to travel in an RV. One of his sons said, “Its not cool dad, it is a tin can.” Regardless his son was up for the adventure.

David found a family photo which hinted at strained relations due to infidelity. He realized he had never been told about the hurt feelings and anger as he grew up. He wanted to know his own sons better. The mid-life “On the Road” trip would be a way to connect. While writing in the Kerouac House, David felt Jack’s presence in the back room and he decided that is where he would have to write.  David knew quite a bit about self publishing saying most authors never sell more than one thousand books.

After the reading David signed books at the dining room table. Brooks Teevan, the present resident artist, told us all about a news cast about a plane crash of Asiana Flight 214. The names of the pilots had been researched and a call to an intern at the MTSB confirmed the names. The captain was Sum Ting Wong, and the other pilots were Wi To Lo, Ho Lee Fuk, and Bang Ding Ow. The newscaster never skipped a beat as she read the names off the teleprompter. Someone must have been playing a prank which somehow slipped through the rigorous checks needed before the story aired. As horrible as the news of the crash was, it was impossible not to laugh. Long after the conversation had moved on to a more literary topic, Terry kept laughing uncontrollably. Just when she could catch her breath, she would start again and everyone would join in.

Authors at the Drunken Monkey

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My plan was to sketch an album release party and concert for Everyday Ghosts. I was early so I ordered some food and an iced coffee at The Drunken Monkey (444 North Bumby Avenue  Orlando). There was a group of authors seated at the table in front of me and I couldn’t resist a sketch. Much of the conversation centered around self publishing and how that has changed the scene for authors. There was some discussion about how social media has changed how they promote their work. Each author had something unique to add based on their experiences. I really should have taken notes. I could have learned a thing or two. A woman who looked like a naval officer had dinner alone while reading her iPad. As a matter of fact all the other costomers were staring at computer screens.

When I was finished, I walked across Bumby Avenue towards the Plaza Theater. I was surprised that there wasn’t a crowd at the entrance. Something was wrong. I stood outside the locked, darkened theater and double checked my calendar on my iPhone. Unbelievable! The concert was NEXT week! I was going to be out of town so I would miss the big premiere. Thank goodness I sketched while I ate dinner.

I no longer go to Drunken Monkey since they used one of my
sketches without consulting me on their Internet welcome page. I usually
support local businesses but I can’t support theft.

2nd Annual June Bug Poetry Festival Open Mic

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On the first Monday of every month there is a poetry open mic at Tatami Tea and Sake Lounge, (223 West Fairbanks Ave.Winter Park). The event was hosted by Russ Golata. I arrived a bit late and Russ, dressed in a red Avengers T-Shirt, gave me a warm meaty handshake and pointed out the sign in sheet for me. I found a seat at one of the remaining high bar stools and started lightly penciling in a sketch of the first poet. He read a rather long piece about the gears on a bicycle. I didn’t commit to sketching him since I figured he would be done any minute. He finished and there was warm applause. Then he sat in the seat directly in front of me blocking my view. I’m such a dope, I didn’t consider that possibility. I erased all my pencil marks and moved to the Susi bar right next to the stage.

The next reader was Amy Aviles. Apparently Russ had called her while she was making dinner and he insisted she come down to read. I was captivated by the intricate tattoos on her arm. I cursed my short sightedness because I couldn’t make out the word that was inscribed in delicate swirling detail above a male portrait. She read her poems off her iPhone and the relaxed beat and cadence of her poem had the flow of spoken word. Another poet related that there had been a death in her family. She sat on stage and read a poem about living with pride in spite of illness. Her second poem about knowing a man, related the intricacies of a relationship well lived in spite of life’s demands and limitations. It was bitter sweet. A young poet named Logan Anderson read poems filled with youthful angst. His second poem had a musical backup from his iPhone. Curtis Meyer performed with eloquent speed and fervor, his spoken words sparking at lightning speed. I liked his analogy that poets were like super heroes, their observations being their power.

As I left, Russ let me know that I was welcome back anytime. Curtis announced a new poetry event later that evening down on Fairbanks and another author announced she was having a book signing on June 16th from 1PM to 3PM at Stardust Video & Coffee. The room was filled with new faces. With so much going on, it is hard to keep up doing just one sketch a day. Walking back to my car, the rhyme and flow of poets words still rang through my mind. An event like this demands and inspires creative thought. I seem to only have time for the subtle layering of facts. Who could sit at home passively watching TV when there is energy like this around town? Seize the day.

There will be Words

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The spoken word competition called “There Will be Words” at Urban Rethink got off to a late start. When I arrived, three authors were talking sports and politics in the lounge area. I listened in for a bit then wandered upstairs to start my sketch. Eight authors went head to head trying to win the votes of three audience members who were picked at random. The judges were picked when three wadded up balls of paper were tossed into the audience. Whoever picked up the paper became a judge. I sketched when Tod Caviness read. I figured I would get a chance to sketch him when he went onto the next round. Surprisingly, he lost in this first round. Eight competitors were reduced to four, then two who battled for the coveted bragging rights. The winner turned out to be Trevor Fraser the author seated in the blue chair. It was a fun night with some really quirky stories. I’m hooked.

IIyse Kusnetz Poetry Reading

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I stopped by Urban ReThink for an evening of poetry. I was greeted by friendly handshakes and hugs from many people who I had met thanks to the Kerouac House project. I had seen author Karen Price just the night before also at Urban ReThink. This place truly is becoming a lightning rod to the cultural pulse of this city. I picked up a “Pumpkin Head” beer from the freezer. What a delicious beer! I may just keep sketching events at Urban ReThink until their supply runs out. I’m thinking Pumpkin beer is seasonal but I just realized Halloween is only two months away! The supply is limitless for the next few months.

John Hughes was the first poet to get behind the microphone. I enjoyed the way he spoke about his brother. He claimed his brother is butt ugly yet girls always flocked to him. He couldn’t understand the phenomenon since he considered himself reasonably handsome. Lucky in love, unlucky in life the saying goes. Sure enough his brother had the worst luck growing up. He was glad to be near his brother since he would soak up all the bad luck in any room. When John read one poem which was written about his ex-wife, he mispronounced the first word saying “lick” instead of “lit”. A Kerouac House regular shouted, “Freudian slip!” John had to stop as he started laughing himself. He finally read the line of the poem, “lit the wick.” Every poet in the room burst into laughter as they re-wrote the line in their minds. It took me several seconds before I started laughing as well.

Ilyse Kusnetz explained that her collection of poems were all about bearing witness. I like the premise since I feel my role in sketching is to bear witness not just to the struggle of everyday life but also to the beauty in the mundane. Many of Ilyse’s poems were about WWII. Her uncle served in the war and being Jewish he was often called upon to translate. He witnessed the worst atrocities imaginable. One of her poems spoke of bodies piled high like cord wood and native Germans being directed to move the bodies they so long denied. Her father was to young to serve in the war but he did help on the docks. A huge crate being transferred to a ship slipped and everyone else let go of the guiding ropes except for her dad. She wrote a wonderful analogy about how he held tight just as he later did to keep his family together and secure.

The next day Terry was leaving me for ten days over Labor Day as she visited her sister in Washington State. Rather than mingle with all the writers after the reading, I immediately slipped out like a phantom. It was important to get home to Terry.

Master Playwright Residency

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The Atlantic Center of the Arts in New Smyrna Beach has a master artists in residency program. Residency #142 put students in touch with three talented playwrights, Annie Baker, Heather Woodbury, and Dael Orlandersmith. The Mad Cow Theater opened its doors so these women could discuss what it is like being a playwright in America today. I arrived at the Mad Cow Theater rather sweaty and worn around the edges from several other sketch assignments that day. The lobby was packed and the room hummed with conversations as people enjoyed wine and finger food. There was a table full of name tags and I didn’t see my name. This was a much bigger event than I expected, and for a moment I thought I might not get in.

Exhausted I sat on the windowsill and observed all the excitement in the room. I heard a woman say, “let me grab my wine.” She reached behind me and grabbed a cup. I had almost sat on it. Thank god it didn’t spill. A young woman sat next to me to relax. Mitzi, a perky young mom, started talking to her and I discovered I was sitting next to Annie Baker, one of the playwrights. Mitzi was talking about one of her children and Annie who is 30 wondered if she would ever have time for a family. Mitzi’s husband, a handsome man in a light suit and dark spiked hair joined the conversation. He thought Annie was just in her mid twenties and he said, “You look too young to have written five plays.”

The cow bell rang letting everyone know it was time to enter the theater. Peg Okeif was the moderator. The Mad Cow Theater will be moving this year to Church Street Station which will put it in the midst of all the new nightlife being generated thanks in part to the new arena. Excerpts were performed from each of the three women’s plays. I discovered that I was seated next to all the actors who performed that night. I moved aside each time they went on stage to read. Each of the readings had an amazing blend of humor and serious drama. I was left wanting more.

The moderated conversation with the playwrights afterward inspired and charged me. Annie Baker who wrote “Circle Mirror Transformation” said, “Art is about holding up a mirror, that mirror can be smooth and representational or distorted. We try to show what peoples lives are like and what the inner landscape of peoples minds look like. Art is about chronicling.” I was surprised when Dael, who wrote Yellow Man, pointed out that several college professors discouraged her writing. Heather had similar experiences. Annie spoke about a professor who wanted to share the true secret of great playwrights. The students leaned forward with bated breath. He said, “The best playwrights are the ones who read the most.” Annie noted an alarming flood of people who want to write yet they have no interest in reading. Dael pointed out that the more she reads, the more she humbly realizes what she doesn’t know. When asked about the artist as recluse Annie pointed out that she has the best of both worlds. She writes for months at a time alone and focused then she gets to work with the actors offering plenty of interaction. Asked how she knows her play is done, Annie said, “The play is never exactly what I hoped it would be when I started. But even though it might have a swollen eye and be misshapen, I still love it like a child.”

Heather Woodbury’s plays are created on the web allowing a full view of her creative process. Her serialized ongoing online videos create a world she hopes people will want to return to again and again. She plays every roll. I’m fascinated with the way she is embracing and recreating her art for this new digital medium. There was concern that only the rarefied elite go to plays anymore since ticket prices are so high. Great plays speak to everyone. By the end of the evening I felt a glowing kinship with each of the playwrights. I wish I could have talked to each at length but when the evening ended they were surrounded. I rushed out of the theater after grabbing a card from Heather and walked the streets downtown feeling rejuvenated.

Ellie Watts-Russell

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I went to visit the Kerouac House writer in residence, Ellie Watts-Russell, on a warm sunny afternoon. When she writes she cuts herself off from all distractions. The cell phone is turned off the night before and the computer is off to avoid the distraction of Facebook. She was getting close to the end of the novel she was working on, entitled “The Lodge”, and and she didn’t want to rush to the finish line. Usually when she writes she shares her work with another writer to get his opinion while she reads his work. Since she was working alone at the Kerouac House she spends more time proof reading her work. This is what she was doing when I joined her on the porch to sketch.
Born in 1979, Ellie is a graduate of Andrew Motion’s Creative Writing course at Royal Holloway. In 2006 she was appointed Writer-In-Residence at HMP Ashwell, an all male prison in Rutland. She speaks with a charming British accent. A petite hummingbird necklace adorned her neck. We sat quietly for more than an hour as she worked. Her Oxford dictionary and thesaurus were on hand and she occasionally consulted with them. Her Moleskin notebook seemed to bulge at the seems. Her keys, attached to a mountain climbers clasp were partially tucked into her notebook. The glass of ice water sweated as she worked. I can’t wait till “The Lodge” hits book stores.

On the Tip of Your Tongue

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Mad About Words sponsored a writing workshop with Ellie Watts-Russell the current writer in residence at the Kerouac house. She organized the workshop to explore the power of taste, sound and touch as artistic triggers. The workshop began in the Kerouac house living room where she asked everyone to introduce themselves and point out one quirky fact from their lives. Ellie worked in a men’s prison. The man in front of me said the smell of bacon always reminded him of his time in the navy. A woman related that she electrocuted herself in the kitchen once. Every person offered a fascinating taste and I wanted to hear more. An excerpt was read from several authors who explored the senses in their writing. One paragraph was from Jack Kerouac’s Darma Bums, where he described his ascent up a rocky mountainside. It was vivid and clear. Ellie had a sweet British accent, and she would acknowledge writing she loved as “Brilliant.”

Ellie then asked everyone a series of questions which would help indicate if you were a visual, aural, or tactile author. One question was, after buying an item of IKEA furniture would you,
A. Read the instructions.
B. Ask a friend for advice or
C. Start building and learn as you go.
I was sketching but I am fairly sure I am a visual person. Besides I haven’t fully smelled anything since I moved to Florida.

Ellie then invited everyone to the back room of the house. There she had items to stimulate the senses. For smell there was a large Magnolia blossom floating in a clear bowl of water. For touch there was a brown puddle in a paper plate that held it’s form when lifted like some primordial ooze. For taste there was some cotton candy which had collapsed in the Florida heat forming compact pancakes of multicolored sweetness. Ellie was mortified and put out some fresh “candy floss” but everyone picked up and tasted the hardened masses. On the wall there were photos. A man pushed a large block of ice. A long line of people struggled up a dune. A young girls face was illuminated by her laptop.

Then everyone sat down to write. Many authors sat outside to enjoy the beautiful day. I finished my sketch as they wrote. I wanted to get home to Terry so I didn’t stick around to hear what everyone wrote. I thanked Ellie for letting me sit in and started home. On the drive back I passed a black limo and a hearse. It seemed sad that only two cars followed. Later a gleaming white hearse and limo made a left turn down the Orange Blossom Trail. A large white SUV screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection and two men in white suits jumped out to direct traffic so that the insanely long line of cars could breeze through. As an artist or author we always hope we can touch many lives with whatever we create. I wondered if my funeral would have one car or a long line in tow. It is a vain glorious thing to ponder but what matters is that I leave something behind, and that I never let my senses grow dull. Howl at the moon and rush off in search of the next sketch.