rlbourges

Dream on

In Animals, Circus, Drafts, humeurs, Local projects, Music, Sanford Meisner, Sundays on November 21, 2013 at 8:54 am

Q -“I’m not saying you have to like the book. I’m asking you what you didn’t like about Treasure Island? I’m asking you what you’d like to read instead?”

A – “I don’t like to read.”

From where we moved on to: if you could be anybody you want in the whole world, who would you choose? He chose to be Ronaldo. Managed to produce four lines of Notes from his Fantasy Life, the last one reading: “I earn thirty-five million euro per day.”

Q – Will he go to the library this weekend and chose a book as suggested in strong terms by me – cartoons, mangas, Ronaldo’s Mansion, whatever? (Strong terms meaning to his question “do I have to”, I answered “no you can go on Monday instead”)

A – Find out next Wednesday.

***

She’s eleven years old. The length, breadth and width of a full-grown woman with a baby face perched on top of it. Reading? For meaning, let alone fun and enjoyment?

We set aside Chapter 8 of the story she’s supposed to read as homework. She can’t remember what happened in Chapters 1 to 7, and the first paragraph in the novel has her stumbling over where to make the s sound, where to make the k sound, every time she reaches a c.

Pull out a large illustrated recipe book for ages 6 to 8. Pick her favorite dessert. Read the recipe, bit by bit. Find the letter c in each sentence. How does that word sound? Why? Because of the letter that follows.

And so on.

***

Reading. Writing. To make sense of your own experiences. To understand something of other people’s takes on reality. To discover other ways to act or think or behave when the frustration makes you want to put your head down on the table.

***

I saw him two years ago. All he cared about was tomato soup. He’s back this year, giving me the wink and the thumb’s up every time he figures out the exercise. “Throw me another,” he says. He’s seven. He’s short, round and pudgy. He sees himself as the Ronaldo of the spelling bee.

High five and more power to him.

***

My assignment: come home and wind my way through the bogs and bayous of fiction writing. (I use the back of old drafts as scrap paper with the kids. When I turned over one of the sheets yesterday, I came across:)

“Zéphyrin Poilfin (an aside to readers):  Gentle reader, soul of my soul, the author is having a slight case of nerves. Nothing serious, don’t worry. I know her well, she gets all excited, then flops down like a soufflé. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll have the Inspecteur back on his feet in no time,  you’ll see. Excuse me, I must sing back-up for now: ‘sing the memories of my tender youth, sing the beautiful days, forever flown away, bom-bom-bom, …’  (To be continued next Sunday)

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