by Richard Montoya and directed by Sean San Jose
Me at school, taking pics with my shitty computer camera. As soon as my federal scholarships and loan hits and my expensive ass school’s for sure covered, I’m getting a new camera. My YouTube vids look like they were recorded with a calculator.
If you’re a writer, what your favorite books? That’s what you should write. Mine’s noir mystery (clearly). Deirdre Visser is a Creative Inquiry Professor and the active Interim Chair of the MFA department at CIIS, whom I work for. Over the weekend Deirdre said something that has stuck in my head for days. “The art you seek is the art you should be making.” Brilliant.
It may seem disturbing and at times intensely grim, but I’ve always been attracted to the dark. That’s why the lives of San Francisco’s lesser denizens, strippers and showgirls fascinate me.
A dancer named Alana Temple inspired me to write North Beach. She’s been very generous with the details of her life, and in turn my interviewing her has inspired her to finally write her memoir, A Year In The Life of a Penthouse Key Girl. I’m very excited for it, and will keep you up to date. Until next Monday. Meow!
I was surprised what one of my writing prompts pulled out of Bare Naked Prose writer, Matt Garcia. Matt has given me permission to post his inner dialogue. Thanks Matt!
Below is the result of Matt’s writing prompt from 05/12/16:
“You know this is meaningless, right?” I look side to side, uncertain of where that voice came from. But slowly and surely, I begin to piece it together.
“I am taking responsibility. Me doing this workshop has nothing to do with hiding. I’m trying to better myself as an artist.”
This is what street poetry looks like in San Francisco.
I picked this up off the ground on Lombard and Fillmore today. I can only assume it was taped to a telephone pole and slid off during the brief rain or ripped off by a Twitter or Google employee. The title is The Complete Destruction of a Beautiful City, by Zachery Mohler.
Elitist techie scum is the first line. I laughed out loud in the middle of the street, then moved to avoid getting hit by a bus. The notes on the page’s margins written in pencil by four different hands are about as interesting as the poem.
When my boyfriend got home, he set down his briefcase to look at the water soaked mud stained paper.
“Oh, look. You brought home more trash.”
Now what I want for Christmas. Watch it (or more, hear it) when I eat it trying to look cool.