Write365

This is a prompt from the Writer’s Idea Book:

Write about your beliefs about love, following some of the questions raised above (Is love a capricious emotion, subject to the winds of fortune? Or are people capable of staying-not out of fear or comfort or inertia but out of a selfless concern for someone to whom they feel devoted?). Is it a powerful emotion? What is the nature of love? How long can it last? Does it inevitably fade? Begin an essay titled “on love” or write a poem about love. Or, if you prefer, write a scene that dramatizes your beliefs about the nature of love.

An emotion for the masses
the poor excel at it
A salve to take away the pain
of aching muscles and
worried minds.
Crisis, depression, loneliness
bring people together like
the opposite ends of a magnet.

Rich people don’t get it
and the poor know
it’s the one thing that makes them superior.
The one thing they have
that can’t be bought, and can’t be sold.

But in the end, even the poor
can’t hold on to it.
It can’t be sustained
through constant upheaval.
Love blooms in sorrow
but gets worn down
like a pair of overused shoes.

When the oil bill comes and can’t be paid
who wants to deal with that?
Time to move on
and find someone new.
Someone with different problems
to uncover and different
body parts to fall in love with.
 

“They’re looking at me!” They want to take me home!” I say to my new friends in this strange glass home. Yes, those people are definitely pointing at at ME and now someone is lifing me up and putting me in a box. Aah, to feel loved, to have a real home again. I will miss this place a little bit, with its everyday excitement and quiet, dark nights.

During the day, there is always something going on…people wandering around, picking up bright colored things and putting them into their bags, talking and laughing with the people behind the counters. Every so often someone will stare at me and my neighbors. Some look sad, probably hoping that we’ll all find good homes, whiles other tap on the glass and wait for us to move. I’m not complaining, though. I’ve only been here a day or two and so far it’s been very pleasant. In a way it’s easier than my life before, though I’m starting to forget about that life. I used to have to worry about finding food and protecting myself. Here, I get three squares a day and hours of entertainment. I just sit back and watch the show.

But honestly, I’m happy to move on. My neighbors come and go so quickly that I never really have a chance to get to know them. And most of them aren’t such great company anyhow. They are angry and sad - upset tha thtey were taken away from their families. I, myself, am an optimist and am looking forward to an exciting future with my human companions.

I feel them carry me out of the store and though I can’t see anything, I feel them put my box down on something and then I hear the motor run. I listen to the murmur of voices talking in a matter-of-fact tones and let the sloshing motion lull me to sleep. I’m happy.

I wake up to teh sight of dazzling lights and glimmering granite countertops. Giant stainless steel appliances and brilliant wood floors that look like they’ve been polished for hours. Wow - these people are rich! I can’t wait to see what kind of home they have for me. I try not to think about it too much but I feel so happy, so lucky, so grateful, that I can’t help but feel a stab of guilt for my friends and family left behind. They’re out there eeking out a living in the wild, and here I am, living the high life. I wish I could call them and bring them here. But I can’t. I won’t be ungrateful. I’ll appreciate everything!

I look up eagerly at my new “owner” (what else can I can him? Dad? : ) ) He’s a nice looking man with graying hair and what looks to be a cashmere sweater. I want to reach out and touch him. He gingerly picks me up and smiles at me as he says “You’re going to be a tasty lobster!”

My mind goes blank like the white fog of steam I’m entering. I feel a sharp stab of pain as my body plummets into the pot of scalding hot water and everything goes black.

 

Psychologists say that we remember only a small percentage of things that happen in our lives, but beginnings and endings are much easier to recall than the vague middles. I read that in Psychology Today magazine last week – picked up on an impulse buy as I was getting a hot lunch at Whole Foods. Little did I know that the article would become more than academic for me in less than a week’s time. I realized now that this was a time in my life I was not likely to forget.

 

My cell phone rings and it’s my friend Emma. She wants to know how I am. Fine, fine, I tell her. And I am fine. Leave me the hell alone, I want to tell her. Why do friends always think they can disappear until you’re in a crisis. Believe it or not, I was more in the mood for sharing when my life wasn’t a disaster. A week ago, I could have told her that I was planning on planting some Pink Charm daffodils for next spring. That would have been nice, but who wants to hear about daffodils? Now she just wants dirt. I resist the urge to tell her to dig for gossip elsewhere and hang up the phone.

 

Now I’m standing in the rain and thinking about the pains most people go to to avoid change in their own lives, but as soon as someone else is getting married, or breaking up, or getting pregnant, or terminally ill, they sure like to talk about. It gets them all worked up and excited. I guess it dulls the pain of their own boring lives. Or makes them feel good that their lives are running right on track – not realizing that they can’t avoid change. It’s the nature of the universe.  

 

For me, change isn’t so scary. At least in theory. But as I wave down the 21K city bus and get on board, balancing my purse, my portfolio, and a soggy umbrella, I have to admit that I’m a bit intimidated. I fumble with my purse as the people behind me get impatient, reaching around me to put money in the slot. “How much is it?” I ask timidly but nobody answers. Then I see the small sign that says “$1.10 exact change only.” I fumble some more and by a stroke of luck I actually have a dollar bill and a dime and shove it in the slot.

 

The bus is already lurching forward as I trip down the aisle in my black high heels, looking for the cleanest and least threatening person I can find to sit next to. Here’s an old man, hopefully he won’t touch me. He avoids eye contact and I slump in the seat next to him, trying to keep a few inches of personal space around me. He smells like coffee brandy and cigarettes and I regret my choice already. Damn! Why didn’t I sit next to the lady with the missing teeth? I realize I’m being a snob and try to shut off my internal dialog by pulling out my magazine. It’s wet with rain and the pages are sticking together, but I find more interesting things to ponder.

 

Here’s an article called “Breaking off a romance: The case for kindness.” Now there’s one that’s ironically inappropriate for me. My husband, soon to be ex-husband, took care of that one for me just three days ago. I start to wonder if he read this article. He did break my heart quite kindly. Hmm, I’m staring out the window with my eyebrow raised, trying to think if I had left the magazine laying around the house before he broke the news to me that he had met someone new. The old guy next to me thinks I’m staring at him and takes it as an excuse to strike up a conversation.

 

“Where you headed all dressed up like that?” His breath mows me down like machine gun fire. I suck in my breath and try not to breathe.

 

“Downtown. Job interview,” I croak out with as little oxygen as possible. Then I look back down at my article. I start to zone out and then realize that he’s still talking.

 

“What’s that?” I say.

 

“I said you’re on the wrong bus.”

 

I stare at him, not comprehending. “Isn’t this the 21K to downtown?”

 

“Nope.” I wait for more but he seems to have lost interest. I keep staring at him. Finally he says, “You’re on the 24B. If you’re looking to buy crack or get a prostitute, you’re on the right bus, miss.” He leans in closer as if to say something else, then apparently decides that a maniacal laugh is more appropriate. I wipe coffee brandy flavored spittle from my Anne Klein suit and think to myself that he’s probably just crazy. I’m sure this is the 21K. Then I look around. If these people are going downtown, I can’t imagine what for.

 

Shit. I’m not going to cry. Crying would be the worst thing to do right now. Never show your vulnerability, especially not on a city bus headed for the crack neighborhood. I look back down at my article and watch as a giant splash coming from the direction of my eye makes the article illegible. Not a problem, didn’t need that article anyway. I slam it shut and shove it in my bag. I reach over the smelly old guy and pull the cord to stop the bus, like I’d watched the other passengers do. Then I stood up and strutted off the bus like I owned it. I can handle this.

 

 

 

From the writebrain workbook: Use all these words that were coined by the bard: Arch-villain, madcap, gallantry, trippingly, pageantry. Start with “He laid his right hand on the spear…”

and gripped it hard. He didn’t really want to use it, especially on his best friend, William. Unfortunately, in the last few weeks, his friend, whom he had grown up with as a youth, had become his arch-villain. Yes, undoubtedly there was a woman involved. Why did love and friendship always have to be at odds, and why did best friends always have to fall in love with the same woman?

Waiting on the sidelines was the lovely Gabrielle, her honor in question, for William had made comments about her that were, of course, untrue. Comments about kisses in dark hallways and maybe even more unmentionable acts that men with gallantry didn’t even dare think about, much less say aloud. Would George really kill his best friend for the honor of the woman he loved? He hoped this would end up as some madcap comedy, all misunderstandings. But no! That was not to be. William held his father’s sword, trippingly I might add. Man, he looked hot on his black steed, his long silky black hair blowing in the breeze. George thought how handsome William looked and took a sly look at Gabrielle to see if she noticed.

Yes, she looked rather flushed. Now it was imperative that this pageantry ended in nothing less than William’s death! He dug his spurs into his (of course) white horse, he was the good guy after all. He raised his spear, about to hurl it into William’s manly chest, encased in armor. Then, from the corner his eye, he saw a figure running toward him. His horse reared and he fell backwards as William did as well. The lovely Gabrielle, the loose fabric of her gown flapping in the breeze, ran up to him and shouted “George, no! George, it’s you I love!”

William, torn apart by this declaration, did not do what was expected of him, which was to immediately sever his body in two with his own weapon. He simply hung his head and let events play out. George lept off his horse to embrace the raven haired beauty. She did not look once at William. IN fact, nobody looked at William as he very delicately stole away. Dont’ worry, he was fine. He set up camp in the next town over, no worse for wear, and enjoyed Gabrielle’s company every Thurday night (George’s poker night). For, after all, William was the one she truly loved, but she knew that the heroine never ends up with the sexy man on the black steed. Not in a Shakespeare play anyway.

Wrote this for my writing class. It was an exercise where you wrote something and then jumbled it all up, and then had to edit it down so it made sense again. This is about the best meal of my life:

A hanger steak in a chili lime glaze
moist and buttery
succulent and exploding with flavor.
A bottle of German Riesling
that complemented but didn’t overwhelm.
Chocolate, dark and rich,
sweet and perfect,
melting in my mouth.
Delicately rounded, tempting
orange pound cake.
Buttery and savory.
Orange and chocolate
A match made in heaven.

(from Writebrain workbook): “You are a matador from Spain, visiting Los Angeles. You are smitten by an off-duty waitress whom you met at a bar. Let the story unfold. Start with “Where I come from, women…”

Where I come from, women don’t expect other women to be matadors. It’s a masculine profession and one that is closely guarded by the males, but I suceeded anyway. I can play the testosterone game better than most men, and I look better doing it. Most Americans don’t know much about Spanish culture, so I didnt’ expect anyone to recognize me in Los Angeles. Fine by me, I prefer to travel incognito as I get enough publicity in my native country. In fact, I’m hardly ever left alone. So rather than go to the glitzy bar in the hotel that my agent booked me in, I took a taxi a few miles down the road, where the people looked real and the sidewalks were cracked. I told the driver to drop me off at his favorite hangout and he pulled up at the Dirty Duck. We had become friendly on the ride over, talking Spanish to each other and joking about the weirdness of LA. He was coming off duty, so he came in with me. His name was Ernesto.

I blinked twice as he opened the door into what looked like a black cave. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it wasn’t that dark, it just looked that way in contrast to the glaring sunlight outside. We sat at the first two stools at the bar and Ernesto ordered a Budweiser. “Budweiser, eh” I laughed, “you really are an American.” He sneered at me, trying to intimidate me. I laughed and ordered a real drink, a martini, straight up with a twist. I learned from my years of studying in Madrid that bars like this were great for the people, but you didn’t want to get too fancy in your orders. Vodka, vermouth and a lemon twist shouldn’t challenge these gringos too much.

Ernesto was talking to an amigo on the stool on the other side of them. I followed their gaze to a table in the back wehre the most beautiful woman I have ever seen sat, nervously swirling a straw in her margarita. She was obviously aware of the leering coming from the bar and not comfortable with it. These clumsy hombres would be no match for me. I picked up my martini and sauntered over to the lovely creature.