Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT April 22nd 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at the painting SOUS LE CERVEAU” by Edward Povey, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œWrite about the then and now.โ€

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday May 3rd at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


SOUS LE CERVEAU by Edward Povey

Credit: Edward Povey. Available from Waterhouse & Dodd Gallery, New York


Live Virtual Group Session: 6PM EDT April 15th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at a piece of art Lady Exuberance” from the exhibit Ebullience by Kimathi Mafafo, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œ ‘Write about being framed by nature’ OR ‘Write about where the light falls.’โ€

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday April 22nd at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


Lady Exuberance, 2023 by Kimathi Mafafo

Credit: Kimathi Mafafo


Encuentros virtuales en vivo: Sรกbado 13 de abril, 13:00 EDT

Nos reunimos 4 personas desde Nueva York, California, Tenerife, y Italia. Un grupo pequeรฑo, el cambio de hora jugรณ una mala pasada. Leรญmos el microrrelato Espiral, del escritor argentino Enrique Anderson Imbert.

Se mencionรณ el papel que tiene la metรกfora de la escalera de caracol, una espiral que no termina. Tambiรฉn la metรกfora del espejo. Y las palabras de โ€œme pesaba en la bocaโ€, como un control del uno en otro. ยฟQuรฉ es la realidad? De la oscuridad a la luz. La escalera del caracol es tambiรฉn una metรกfora del cielo. 

Es un texto rico en su brevedad, con mรบltiples perspectivas y miradas que abordar.

La propuesta de escritura que usamos fue: Escribe una carta a tu falso yo. Los textos fueron construidos en la sombra del texto. Se escribiรณ a una misma como si fuera otra, en espiral, en oposiciรณn y en confianza. 

Aquรญ, ahora alentamos a los participantes que, si asรญ lo desean, compartan lo que escribieron a continuaciรณn. Deja tu respuesta aquรญ, si deseas continuar la conversaciรณn sobre la fotografรญa de Andrea Gonzรกlez Soto. Pero antes, les recomendamos tener en cuenta que el blog es un espacio pรบblico donde, por supuesto, no se garantiza la confidencialidad.

Por favor, รบnase a nosotros en nuestra prรณxima sesiรณn en espaรฑol: El sรกbado 4 mayo a las 13 hrs. o a la 1 pm EDT. Tambiรฉn, ofrecemos sesiones en inglรฉs. Ve a nuestra pรกgina de sesiones grupales virtuales.


Espiral por Enrique Anderson Imbert (Argentina)

โ€œRegresรฉ a casa en la madrugada, cayรฉndome de sueรฑo. Al entrar, todo oscuro. Para no despertar a nadie avancรฉ de puntillas y lleguรฉ a la escalera de caracol que conducรญa a mi cuarto. Apenas puse el pie en el primer escalรณn dudรฉ de si รฉsa era mi casa o una casa idรฉntica a la mรญa. Y mientras subรญa temรญ que otro muchacho, igual a mรญ, estuviera durmiendo en mi cuarto y acaso soรฑรกndome en el acto mismo de subir por la escalera de caracol. Di la รบltima vuelta, abrรญ la puerta y allรญ estaba รฉl, o yo, todo iluminado de Luna, sentado en la cama, con los ojos bien abiertos. Nos quedamos un instante mirรกndonos de hito en hito. Nos sonreรญmos. Sentรญ que la sonrisa de รฉl era la que tambiรฉn me pesaba en la boca: como en un espejo, uno de los dos era falaz. ยซยฟQuiรฉn sueรฑa con quiรฉn?ยป, exclamรณ uno de nosotros, o quizรก ambos simultรกneamente.

En ese momento oรญmos ruidos de pasos en la escalera de caracol: de un salto nos metimos uno en otro y asรญ fundidos nos pusimos a soรฑar al que venรญa subiendo, que era yo otra vez.โ€

Credit: Anderson Imbert

Live Virtual Group Session: 12PM EDT April 12th 2024

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “What the Living Do” by Marie Howe, posted below.

Our prompt was: โ€œWrite about what the living do.โ€

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (โ€œLeave a Replyโ€), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if youโ€™re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday April 15th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.


What the Living Do by Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano wonโ€™t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still havenโ€™t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
Itโ€™s winter again: the skyโ€™s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heatโ€™s on too high in here and I canโ€™t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

Iโ€™ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissโ€”we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iโ€™m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

Credit: Fromย What the Living Do, copyright ยฉ 1998 by Marie Howe. Used by permission of W. W. Norton. All rights reserved.