Deirdre Jones - 2005 Fellow The Writing Marathon Workshop was one of the best workshops at the National Writing Project this November. For me it was a morning’s journey of self discovery. I was somewhat less frightened of the writing marathon than my sister, who agreed to go with me. She lives in Pittsburgh, so I figured she would be the perfect tour guide as we strolled through the Steel City finding refuge spots to write. Katharine’s first big hurdle came only three minutes into the initial instructions when we were forced to greet several of the 60-plus participants with “Hi, I’m (your name here), and I’m a writer.” “I’m NOT a writer,” she protested, but before we were done, we were both laughing and plotting the morning. Our group stepped out of the William Penn Hotel into the long morning shadows of downtown Pittsburgh—noise, traffic--and exhaust rising like cartoon balloons from every tailpipe and every mouth. It was the morning after “light up night” as the locals call it—the night when all the Christmas decorations light up for the season and the store fronts are “revealed” from behind hidden curtains. We crossed the traffic and headed towards the heart of Pittsburgh past Trinity Cathedral. Trinity’s mahogany red doors are one of the few bright spots of color in this city of charcoal and gray stone and steel. If you crane your neck and look at the steeple rising against a backdrop of sky scrapers, Katharine explained, you can see the remnants of the old steel factories clinging to its spire, thick and black with the soot of Pittsburgh. Entranced, I climbed the stairs and headed through the black wrought-iron gate into the church yard. I tried the red front doors, but they were locked. We walked through the cemetery around the broken teeth of ancient white headstones and stopped beside a leafless black tree. Across the street, Katharine pointed out the exclusive Duquesne Club, where the steel magnets and the elite of Pittsburgh once gathered to drink and to socialize and still do. The back side of Trinity was the opposite picture. When we circled the block, we discovered a homeless man wrapped in a pink blanket under the shadows of Citizens Bank and the back doors of the cathedral--shut tight, just like the ones in front. The following poem is what my “non-writer” sister created when we stopped at Starbucks for our first writing session: Session One (At Starbucks, post cathedral walk about) Light up night – the sparkle and thrill of “let the season begin!” “What season?” she asks. A season not defined by the church or my heart any longer but by the retailers, the vendors. The money changers have not left the building – they own it. They own it and have locked it up tight. DO NOT ENTER it says to me as I grasp the handle and wish for it to come ajar, for the black ashes to crumble away and the creak to echo in my ears easing the lonely echo of my heart, the echo of my city. I know what is hidden inside you! I know the beauty, the color, the sounds, the smells. I know you – but you won’t open to me or to anyone unless we possess the right key. The power key – The Duquesne Key The money key – The Club Member’s Key Citizens Bank the sign proclaims. Yet at the foot of the mammoth giant of concrete and glass … at the foot of the church’s back door lies your citizen. My citizen. Lying in the cold, on cardboard, wrapped in pink. A beautiful baby girl citizen just trying to stay warm. No matching Christmas outfit there! I shiver to think of those dead and gone, cold in their graves. Those at the front door. The Right Citizens. Oh, God! Help me if I am one of those. Properly buried while there are living dead among us, haunting our churches, haunting our banks, haunting our streets. The Browns, The MacGregors, The Whites. A lit up night and a narcotic eye in the morning, anesthetized to suffering, locking the door of my heart tight. Closed and preserving the beauties inside me. The city sparkles – black turned glowing. White and bright. But you soul, oh city …my soul … what is hidden inside. Pittsburgh - Photos by Deirdre Jones As we were finishing up our writing sprint in Starbucks, my sister and I both had been observing a woman that reminded us of a Degas painting. My Degas, sitting alone at a table in Starbucks Coffee Shop just an impression of a painting, Are you a person, or a work of art? Here outside the Wood Street Station. Wooden people To and fro from work Oh, but you long to be alive. Brown felt hat flopped over your wise and old eyes framed in tortoise shell. Peering from under the brim Feet on the floor The tell tale cowboy-all weather boots Making their statement of stubborn independence. You are strong But you are hidden, too. Beneath your Goodwill jacket, does the matted collar keep you warm? What’s the news today? After Starbucks we crossed the Andy Warhol Bridge to the museum. Andy Warhol Bridge - Photo by Deirdre Jones And after touring the Andy Warhol Museum, Katharine wrote this: Loose lips and film canisters Polaroids and postcards of a Pittsburgh boy. One man Whose life is so caught up Grandmother’s house One thing after another Fading, peeled, Polaroid pictures Colors that pop and scream Images that fade Report cards and graduation records. One man’s life – and it is contained in a concrete museum. But what do we know of him not his art, but his heart, his soul? Was it searching Out of synch, Contented Out of touch Conflicted In touch? One man who redefined art. His legacy lives Does he? Don’t we all need a museum to witness to our lives of production, influence, relationships, the questions and the processes? Is it all preserved for us? Is it worth preserving? I wonder what he wanted Was he trying to push the edge, the limit? Or was he just being Andy? He used new technologies, new materials, new means of creating. But is his message really any different from the messages of our past? I don’t picture Andy working from a place of joy, a place of creativity or engagement. I see Andy detached Analytical Overwhelmed by the world and yelling back Instead of engaging, creating and speaking into the world any hope Documentation over authentic relationships. Objectification over transformation. John Wayne, Mick Jagger, Marilyn, Lucy, Isadora, Elvis, Caroline, Jesus Pictures Just. Warhol paintings - Photos by Deirdre Jones We stopped at noon and declared our marathon a “definite success.” The sun had climbed straight up and so, shedding mittens and hats, we made our way back to the William Penn Hotel and the National Writing Project. It’s good to go to a national conference, I think, to see how many people you’re connected to as a teacher and as a writer. But our writing marathon proved that this national project really comes down to oneself. When you write, you discover yourself. I discovered a sister I never knew I had, and she discovered a writer inside she never admitted before.