Another Woman - Maya

Another woman
would keep her mouth shut,
not spout her fervent beliefs
like a speaker on a soapbox.

Another woman
would have chosen
equity over experience,
settling down, and
just plain settling.

Another woman
would have stayed the course,
refused distraction and
the pangs of the heart
that lead to upheaval.

Another woman
would not vacillate hearing
the voices that preach security and
the voices that harp on ideals.

Another woman
would not succumb to worry,
knowing that it never helps
and only constricts.

Another woman
would revel in her children’s independence
instead of mourning
their day-to-day absence in her life.

Another woman
would live in gratitude every moment
for her sojourn on this gorgeous planet
and not slip into the mundane
routine of forgetting.

But I am not
another woman.
I am this woman,
led by my heart and
pulled by the conflicting voices,
a woman who
worries,
mourns,
forgets.

I am this woman,
this aging, outspoken, heart-stirred,
frightened and sometimes grateful woman,
This woman,
with this particular life
and not
another.



Prompt: Another Woman, 12/27/07

Bikini / October 21, 2007 Melinda Jean

You never know. It's been said before, of course, about kisses, sex maybe even roller skating. Lasting in memory the bikini I wore and looked good...1981 I believe and a small miracle because my baby had been born a year earlier. I had a job where I could wear a bikini half the day. I was a nanny escorted by my daughter, everyday we'd show up at the professor's home and her husband, an eye surgeon. I cooked, cleaned and took care of all our children, they had a big yard which in the summer we spent much time in with projects, painting and water play all in my perfect bikini. Not to say I don't wear a bikini, I will, do, but it takes a certain forgiveness or allowance for what naturally occurs, like the bubbly yeasty content in bread before it rises, just hanging out in cotton ball softness. It helps to know that the soft fat of a women is given to her so she can easily assimilate food for her babies. It softens my heart. And there is a certain comfort expressed in a woman's body that fills in the curves with swishes and soulful sways. Yes the last time the bikini was perfect may have been 1981, but the way I fill in the denim of my jeans is a new one for the memory book.

glass all around

prompt: glass all around, oct. 13 2007

bright eyes (if you steal her sunshine)

Links back to my blog because it was 7 pages long in word perfect and I didn't want to clog up this blog.

Bird Flu

“You don’t look too good”, my buddy says to me as he flies past. We are circling the park yet again. Now the leader is changing directions. We turn and go the other way. Moving together- rising, gliding, flapping harder to lift higher into the air. It was true. I did feel a little under the weather. But that was just it, this crazy weather kept changing. One day it was hot and the next could be so cold that I felt like my tail feathers would freeze right off! But what choice did I have? There is no such thing as calling in sick for a bird. So here I am with the rest of the flock.

The sun had recently made its way above the horizon, slowly spreading its light to the awakening world. The soft colors tinted the morning clouds. We flew together as one- one body, one accord. Then we landed in the uppermost branches of the tall redwoods that were on the perimeter of the park. What a vantage point this was! What a view! We could watch the slumbering neighborhood come to life. Of course the joggers were always out early, and those with not quite so much energy were doing their walking laps. And there is the Chinese exercise group- what's that called again? Oh yeah, Tai Chi. Here comes the whole parade of dog walkers with those crazy mutts pulling at their leashes, watching for squirrels to chase. Has any dog ever caught one? The kids are coming too, with their heavy book laden backpacks weighing them down on their way to another day of education. Most of them don’t look too enthusiastic, though. Poor teachers, what a job they have! Oh look, there’s even a couple on their way to the tennis courts for an early game. How can they play next to the distracting sound of the crossing guard’s whistle blowing every few seconds?

I usually enjoy watching this scene unfold before me every day. But today I feel a little off. Sitting way up here I actually begin to feel slightly dizzy. What an odd sensation! What could be the matter with me? Hope I didn’t eat a bad worm or something. Uh oh, the leader is looking to take flight again. I want to follow. My whole being longs to soar through the air and be a part of this flock. But my body is resisting. I just can’t do it.

“Hey”, I say to my friend. “I’m heading home. I think I have the flu.”

Prompt: Bird Flu 10/6/07

Bird Flu - Maya

"Hey, listen to this." She elbowed her friend studying at the table beside her.
"What?"
" 'It could happen anytime. Tornado. Earthquake. Armageddon.' "
Her friend gave her "the look" - the "why are you bothering me with this crap" eyeball-rolling look.
"No, it really gets to me, this stuff."
"It's like, so what?" her friend replied.
"But it's so true! We're, like, I don't know, all victims of life. This guy, this poet .... what's his name? William Stafford. He really understands. Whoops. Understood. He's dead."
"Aren't they all? That's why they call them 'dead white males.'"
"No, I like this guy. It's like, he understood exactly how I feel sometimes."
"You mean you sit around worrying that a tornado's gonna get you, or lightning strike, or you're going to fall into a hole in the ground when the big one hits? Not me! I refuse to live that way."
"But don't you feel like that, at least sometimes? Like our parents made a bad world even worse, and now we're going to inherit it."
"I just don't let it get to me."
"How? Every day the news is full of some disaster - global warming, bird flu, mad cow disease, you name it."
"Look. It doesn't get you anywhere worrying about birds dying. Stop eating chicken if you're that scared. You'd be better off as a vegetarian anyway."
"Yeah, right. You and I both know that the vegetarians we hang out with eat worse than anybody. Potato chips, cokes and cigarettes aren't exactly a healthy diet. Vegetarianism just allows you to act superior because meat doesn't touch your lips."
"All I'm saying is that I think you either need to ignore all that shit or go do something about it. Join Moveon.org or...what's it called? Greenpeace?"
"Yeah, I probably should. Maybe it would help."
"I can't believe you sit around worrying about fucking bird flu."
"You're probably right. This guy, though, this poet Stafford - he wasn't talking so much about the man-made stuff. More like natural disasters. Stuff you can't do anything about. And they COULD happen any time."
"You just said it yourself - you can't do anything about it - so get over yourself! Study something else for a while, would you? I have work to do, and those guys at the next table are giving us dirty looks for talking so much."
She looked over and sure enough the people at the next table were glaring at her. She slumped down further on her hard chair, picking up her book and thinking - okay, so how do you not worry when you're already worried? And why is it that some people worry and others don't? She twirled the ends of her shoulder-length hair in her fingers, a nervous habit started when she was little.
- How are you supposed to deal with this crap? - she wondered. She had a whole lot of life ahead of her and she didn't want to live it like this. At least, she hoped she had a whole lot of life ahead. Unless tornados, or earthquakes, or bird flu came first. It could happen.

Prompt: Bird Flu, 10/6/07

Getting Fired: A Charge Nurse's Perspective

Getting fired. Those words don’t sound very good. Bad connotation. Probably a pretty scary thing for most people. But actually, that has been my goal for awhile now. Not to lose my whole job- for I love what I do- being a maternity nurse. That is exactly why I don’t relish the evenings when I have to be charge nurse for the whole unit. I don’t get to do a good job at what I like best- taking care of the moms and babies. So getting fired from being “in charge” would really be a good thing from my point of view. Then I would have the time I need to listen to the patients, reassure them and teach them how to take care of themselves and their new babies. But instead, I’m stuck with tons of paperwork. Oh wait- we’re supposed to be paperless now. So I really don’t know why the printer keeps spitting out those forms. I have to make assignments for the other nurses, distribute new admits, delegate and keep track of coworker’s breaks (did they take too long or not even get to go to dinner yet?). And of course, every patient, visitor and staff complaint is the charge nurse’s responsibility. Make everyone happy at all costs is what it’s all about. But what about me? All I get are grumbles all evening long. How happy can I be in such a situation? And my least favorite part- keeping track of the staff/patient ratio that we need to be productive budget-wise. Like I care how much money the unit is taking in and putting out. As long as I get my paycheck, that is good enough!

Most of the other nurses told the managers that they didn’t ever want to be in charge. I said the same thing, but nobody listened to me. So I had a strategy. I thought, “what if I just do such a bad job that they want to fire me from this position!” But so far it hasn’t worked. With my bad luck, most of the shifts I work are crazy and very hectic. It seems like there should always be a full moon. (And everyone in the hospital dreads full moon nights!) I said that it was my fault that the unit was full to capacity with so many medically challenged patients and not enough staff. Maybe they would see that I was jinxed and put someone with better luck in charge. But I was just told that I could handle chaos in a calm manner. So I tried looking more frantic and frazzled, but since everthing got done, I was still told, “Good job.” On the rare evenings when it would calm down slightly, I didn’t send any extra staff home early and our budget numbers came out looking really bad. I thought that would do it for sure!! But I was just told, “That’s OK. You guys deserve a break once in a while.” Arrrgh!

Meanwhile, I’m stuck telling all the dads, whose wives are in double rooms, why we can’t rebuild the maternity unit right at this very moment and give everyone a private room. Where did the secretary go and why are all the call bells going off and all the phones are ringing off the hook? How many more patients can we take from Labor and Delivery and what is that doctor so upset about? What to do about the visitors who won’t leave after visiting hours are over and the kids that are running up and down the halls screeching? And HELP- someone just wandered onto our unit, despite the locked doors and is cursing, threatening and clearly on drugs. SECURITY!

Oh- can someone please tell me what I have to do to get fired from this job?!?

Prompt: Getting Fired 9/15/07

Being Misunderstood - Greg

1 Sept 2007
Prompt: Being Misunderstood

When he told her,“I love you!” what he really meant was, “Right here, right now, in this moment falling into the sea of ecstasy, I love this bed, those curtains, the redwood forests, the ocean, the tundra, the stones in the yard, the microwave oven–-everything–-even your wretched annoying cat.”

But no, the only blunt inarticulate utterance his stupid mouth could say was, “I love you,” as he fell into the great abyss.

But even has he fell, he knew he would regret the words which had carelessly tumbled from his mouth. He knew misunderstanding had entered the room, especially as she moaned and cried out louder. He wanted to soar into his momentary heaven, but the words nailed him to the earth like a crucification. Three words–-three deadly words! She would not understand. He already didn’t understand. But maybe it didn’t matter. Not right now. All thought slipped from his mind. Maybe only this mattered . . . Only this.

Ransom Note - Greg

25 Aug 2007
Prompt: Write a story that begins with a ransom note.

I typed out the first ransom note on my mother's old Royal Typewriter and brought it to The Rat who sat hunched over the wooden coffee table covered with maps, diagrams, scenarios and plans for the kidnaping. He glanced at the note and began talking about an old episode of Mannix where the forensic scientist had told the iron-jawed private eye that every typewriter was as unique as a human fingerprint. Then he crumpled up the note and told me to do it over again.

I returned later with a new note, from my Mom’s new Epson Inkjet printer. He took one glance and pointed, “Look, there’s a black mark in the upper left hand corner. This can still identify us. Do it again,” he said, tossing it in the garbage with the other.

I drove to the local library and printed a new copy and brought it back. “It’s from the library?” he asked, annoyed. “They’ll know what town we’re in. Do it again.”

This happened several more times. Ink pen: “They’ll identify the handwriting.” Ink pen with block letters: “The can identify the pressure from the pen tip.” Ink pen left handed: “Will you get off handwriting thing!” he said.

I picked up some old magazines I had subscribed to, cut out words and letters: “You cut these out of Poet’s & Writer Magazine?” he said incredulously. “Yeah, so?” “So who subscribes to that? They’ll identify the font, they’ll go down the subscriptions list and they’ll be knocking on the door in 10 minutes. Use your damn head!”

I went to the supermarket and bought a Time magazine. I put on plastic gloves and meticulously cut and pasted together the ransom note before bringing it to him. I explained my precautions and he began to read nodding his head in approval. Then it stopped. “You freakin’ spelled ransom wrong! It’s not ‘random!’ You don’t demand a ‘random’ of $25,000, you stupid moron! Are you retarded? Do it again!”

The Rat returned to his plans on the table and I pulled out the snub nose and shot him in the back of the head. The kidnappee, who sat tied and gagged to a wooden chair, jerked and his eyes filled with terror. I dragged him and the chair behind The Rat, cut loose one of his arms, and shoved the snub nose in his hand. “Shoot him” I said, and the man grunted and shook his head. I grabbed his face and repeated seriously, “Shoot him.” The man, his eyes filling with tears raised the wobbly gun and fired, hitting instead the television across the room. The gun dropped to the floor. “Good enough,” I said picking up my bag and the collection of crumpled ransom notes. “You escaped from your bounds, grabbed the gun and shot the kidnapper in the head. You’re a hero.

"And I," I said walking out the door, “am out of the kidnapping business.”

Bob Dylan's Great Betrayal

Sept. 1 - "being misunderstood"

--

Bob Dylan is a quiet man. He doesn’t want trouble, not this late in life. He’s had a long life, he’d given a lot, to many people. His needs are, for a man of his social stature, quite simple. He really only wants the chance to eat his waffles in peace. He had thought that wasn’t asking too much.

“And I love,” says the teen, hopping up and down in front of him, “I love ‘Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues.’ Oh my god. That’s my favorite song.”

Dylan looks down at his waffles, the melting butter, the rivulets of syrup dripping on to the plate. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Really!” The teen smiles like daylight. It’s a sexless wisp of a thing, short hair and wide eyes. “Your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through? Story of my life! Greatest lyric ever, man. It’s so hopeful, you know? Like, yeah dude. You’re gonna screw up. Brevity! Brevity always fails. But, you know, maybe you do mess up but like, yeah man! Yeah! Negativity won’t get you through!”

“Oh,” says Dylan. “Um.”

“My best friend died,” the teen rattles on. “It was. . .man. I can’t even - it was horrible. Young people don’t belong at funerals, you know? And I was like - dude. I was going crazy, falling to pieces, but that song, that line, oh man. Turned me around, you know? Like, I changed! Cause you’re damn right. Negativity never helped a man.”

The teen sticks its hand out. “Sorry,” says the teen, laughing. “I’m like, you know. Brevity fails! Dude, it is an honor and a pleasure.”

Dylan shakes the teen’s hand. His waffles are now cold, soggy with syrup and forgotten.

“Thank you,” says the teen, vibrating with sincerity. “And your brevity fails, and negativity won’t get you through. Wow.”

“Gravity,” says Dylan.

“What?” says the teen.

“Gravity,” says Dylan again, feeling smaller and more lowdown then he’d ever felt in his life, despite having done nothing wrong. “It’s. . .your gravity fails and negativity won’t get you through.”

The teen looks like it had been kicked. Dylan felt that he might’ve.

“Gravity never fails, man,” says the teen, still and betrayed.

“I like your lyric better,” says Dylan helplessly.

Lawnmower - Dixie2

The lawnmower is ankylosaurus
Close to the ground
low and sturdy
He rumbles deep from the earth

Not stomping, and angry, and look-at-me
That is t-rex

Not running and shrieking wildly
That is raptor

Not stocky, stern, and deliberate
That is stegosaurus

The lawnmower is ankylosaurus
roaring at me on Saturday morning
tamed by my dad
He eats grass
instead of cheerios


7/7/7 Jumpstart

A Dog's View- Cyndi

Oh no! I hear someone coming. The whole family had been out for the evening (except me). Aren’t I part of the family now? Sometimes I don’t really feel like it. I’ve heard the stories, of how the kids begged for years and years to have a dog. A family pet that they would all take care of and love. Why do I feel so ignored then? I guess the novelty of having me around has worn off. I’m still just as cute as ever! They tell me this when they bother to take the time to pet me and play with me. My ears are as soft as velvet and my plump wriggling puppy body like a living stuffed animal- so comforting to hug. In return I jump up and down, yipping my beagle barks, and slobbering my doggy kisses all over the ones that have claimed me for their own. Occasionally I get so excited that I piddle on the floor uncontrollably.

But they abandoned me for the evening to go off somewhere by themselves. What could I do to entertain myself? I know that bookcase is the thing they always point at and say “No, no”. But they remove the books and open them up. I thought it must be something fun that they were trying to deprive me of. Well, there was my chance. Alone in the house, I just had to see what I had been missing. I pulled a few out and left them lying on the floor. There didn’t seem to be anything too special about them. Then came the one with the extra paper around the outside of the book. Something more to chew- bonus!! I started in on it and just couldn’t stop. I’ve heard them say that it is hard to put a good book down. Well, that’s how it was. So good, that I took it out into the back yard through my doggie door. There I could let my puppy teeth go to town.

Now they have returned and have unhappy looks on their faces. I know they usually put the books back when they are done, but I can’t do that. No opposable thumbs to pick them up with, you know. The kids look disappointed, but the adults look outright mad! Uh oh. What to do? My head goes down and my tail hangs limp between my back legs. What will happen next? I guess I should have listened to the “No no’s” they told me. They are exploring, looking around and bringing in the evidence from the back yard. How was I to know that that particular book had been a special present- a book of stories, given to the children by their grandfather? There are no hugs and kisses now. Only “Bad dog” shouted over and over, as I’m dragged by the collar and locked in my pen. I sit dejectedly in the corner and ponder what has just happened. No-- that’s not right. I’m a dog! I can’t ponder anything, and I’m sure that the next time they all go out I will have forgotten everything. Wait-- what was I talking about anyway?!?

Prompt: My First Crisis of Conscience 8/25/07

Kids of Tonga- Cyndi

Kids- kids of Tonga. Their sweet smiling faces reflecting their joy and their innocence. Innocence- growing up without TV, movies, gameboy, playstation, or computers. What do they know of violence except for occasionally playing too rough in the schoolyard? Sure, they know life and death- they see it everyday in their families and with the pigs and chickens that wander the island only to wind up as dinner. And in the sea that yields its bounty for their meals. But it is different here, and they walk around the island without any fear of others from their village.

They look at me shyly when I first arrive, their big beautiful dark eyes peeking through their extremely long lashes. “What’s your name?” they call. And when I answer and smile back, they are encouraged to come closer to the strange foreigner. Soon they are constantly at my side, following me back and forth through the village. They are not asking for material things, but rather seeking answers to their questions, wanting hugs, piggyback rides, and an audience to sing their songs to. They skip along at my side enjoying their simple childhood pleasures.

The week passes quickly. On the last evening there I slip quietly into the end spot of the pew for the church service. But I am not alone for long- for I soon see a pair of eyes peering around the edge of the bench, and then disappearing. When I see them again I gesture to the small boy to come sit next to me. I scoot over to make room for him as he plops himself down. He starts inching closer and closer to me. He stares at my watch and I show him how it lights up when you hold the button down. We giggle with delight at our shared game, careful not to laugh too loudly. I try to concentrate and pay attention to the service but I notice him pulling strands out of the grass skirt of the woman sitting in front of us. “ No, No” I shake my head at him. But he is beaming because he has caught my attention yet again.

Smiling, laughing, happy kids, despite their poverty by our standards. You’ve touched my heart! So beautiful, so unforgettable! Kids of Tonga.

Prompt- pictures of kids from mission trip to Tonga 8/11/07

My favorite fruit - Melinda

Blueberries off the bush


Why does it seem I have to go somewhere to be somewhere?


Blueberry-peach pie


Could be baking a pie. Cutting butter into the flour rinsing and nibbling
and
wanted to stay home in that square of sun.


Blueberries in a green raku bowl, cold and wet

Would I actually bake the pie?
Is the house clean enough? No, to many cat hairs, vac and dust first and

Blueberry scones, egg white crystallized with a small teaspoon of sugar

The lull of the morning will be gone when I get home.

Blueberries next to strawberries next to raspberries, chilled, sprinkle of lemon

A soft comfortable chair, me, a pie in the oven, a cleaner house.

Blueberry buttermilk cobbler with crusty golden crumbled on top, warm, nests in soften vanilla ice cream.

Porching a breeze, the sky changing in the minutes that you sit and

Blueberries, Ecuadorian chocolate and a glass of Argentina red...

Spotted an old friend ... Dixie

Voices in the living room. Who's there? Cat's ears perk up. Should he leave the Perfect Sun Spot and go see? Purrr purr. Not yet. Wait a bit. Make the grand entrance. Or maybe sneak in behind the big plant. Startling people is almost as much fun as showing off the fabulous self. Purrr. Clink of tea cups means they'll be here a while. Wait. Maybe crunch a little kibble, take another nap. Cat licks some stray fur into place, fluffs himself up, finally strolls down the hall to check things out.

"Blah blah blah ... oh, look, here's Tiger. Isn't he just so beautiful?" Cat preens, then hops up on the sofa to survey his kingdom. But what's this?! Alarmed, Cat crouches and stares down at a big lump of gray under the coffee table. It moves! Cat steps back, then peers forward. Person reaches down and pats the lump.

"No, she's not doing so well ...blah blah blah." Rheumy eyes look into Cat's eyes, gray doggie tail waps the floor. Cat jumps down and slowly approaches. They touch noses, wary cat, old dog.

"Oh, look. They still know each other." Cat settles down into sphinx pose, dog sighs and flops.

"Yes, old friends."

A Deep Pond - Dixie

Tell me where the goldfish are
and why the lillies hold their skirts
and what is willow curtaining
and whether dragons fly to earth

Tell me when my dreams are
safe and which far breeze
is dead and gone

Then I will twitter in my fan
and hum my heartness here
alone

Road Map - Greg

28 July 2007

“The map is not the destination,” the old Indian said, watching me wrestle with the large unfolded road map while the ‘78 Oldsmobile hurtled down the Arizona highway. “Do not be like the dog who stares at the finger that points to the bird.”

The map lay sprawled on my lap and the steering wheel, and the Chief settled back leisurely in the passenger seat, an amused smile on his face, the spectacular Arizona desert racing by. The windows were wide open because I had no air conditioning, and the corners of the map twittered and flipped in the turbulence while the center heaved up and down like a giant pair of lungs.

His name wasn’t really 'The Chief,' it was just a mildly racist nickname I’d given him in my mind, and then to the man himself when I asked him to wash the car windows at a gas station outside of Tucson. I’d picked him up earlier in the day, a lone Papago Indian standing at the side of the highway hitchhiking. He said he was heading up north to Yuma to visit his daughter. “Jump in,” I said.

Almost immediately the man began to annoy me the way all the Papago do. I don’t know what it is about these people, maybe their leisureliness and the way they seem to live outside of time, maybe their equanimity and acceptance of the intolerable: racism, hardship, poverty, devastation of their people and culture. If I was Caucasian, it’d probably be called White Guilt, but I was Asian, and as far as I know, no Asians ever stole Indian lands. Hell, his ancestors came from Asia. They walked across the Bering Strait 14,000 years ago. In a way, we are brothers, I said to myself through annoyance.

A gust of wind blew through the windows and yanked the map irretrievably from my hands and attention. “Listen, Chief,” another spasm of guilt--talking this way to a man 40 years my senior, “you think maybe you could navigate for me while I drive the car?”

“Can’t read maps,” he said, still calm and smiling.

“Well you think you can take the wheel while I read the map?”

“Why not pull over?”

He had a good handsome face, an Indian elder right out of central casting. I wanted jerk the door open and push him out of the moving car. Sweat poured down my frustrated face. “You’re doing, fine,” he said. “We’ll get there.”

The Oldsmobile raced across the highway. I hate this guy, I thought. But where ever he’s going, I’m taking him there.

The one that got away Melinda Jean

I. How could it have been different?
Perhaps no adoption no smoothing mother,
that's him although
hear me!
I, the voices like the small echoing deaths.
Not all at once
one here, or now and again
they then crowd, drowning-out
even their own voice
until the murmur is the blur static
like on a radio station that has shut down for the night,
actually maybe there in the dark
I can start to sort and find was it me who got away?
Did I even show up?

II. The many rushes into living.
I couldn't stand still, but could I?
Or maybe can I now is more the question.
What we have;
something that is molded by hands,
hands of mothers, fathers, and all the "have to's."
I remember walking to school as a girl
and so very grateful for those minutes when my thoughts
could be my own and I could just listen, it was such a finding.
I don't know that there is "a get away"
it is a moving on
a way of not staying dead.
Maybe I haven't meet the one that got away
unless of course it's me.

Crimson - Melinda Jean

Creeping in the crack after the sun has just melted a crimson line appears, as if the crime does not matter, as if nothing of consequence exists in the breath into another. She lie on the carpet her blood slowly soaking in, giving her warmth. She can move her head, just slightly and there through the looking glass she can see the slash across her throat had dripped and pooled, no longer the beaded look it had earlier. 'It looks worse than it feels,' she thought, still numb from shock she supposed. She didn't feel angry as she imagined she might feel being a chosen victim to some altered mind's attempt to conclude her life. Maybe others never imagined death and those moments into entering. There was an odd sense of peace and the room was expanding as the light and colors slowly left, another melting, like her body's heavy limp-like quality melding in the rug, the floor, becoming a piece of this house, her home, and the walls have scooped at the edges like a cup, she was being drunk into some other color, crimson the color beneath the door it filled her pouring in from underneath, filling her backwards.

Door Key - Maya

It was a slim gold-colored key, filigreed at the top, about two inches long. It lay on the palm of her hand like a tiny sleeping animal. She closed her fingers around it, and it felt warm inside her hand, and comfortable - right - as though it were meant to nestle there. For a moment she thought she felt it move, just a slight wiggle, like a child snuggling down into her soft bed at night. She shook her head, casting off that idea. Her mother always said she had too vivid an imagination. A fantasy life that lifted her out of reality and out of what needed to be done. A dreaminess that would ultimately do her no good. So her mother said. In her heart of hearts she thought otherwise, but her mother had harangued her so often and so bitterly that she had almost begun to believe her.

And this key, this beautiful little key, had belonged to her mother. At least she assumed it did. She had found it in a little compartment in her mother’s puffy, blue, satin-covered jewelry box, an object she had found mysteriously fascinating as a child. She had spent endless hours sifting through it. So many daydreams were invested in that little box. Even though none of the jewelry was expensive (or “good” as her mother called it), the necklaces, pins and bracelets inside were a queen’s jewels to her. Or the treasures of a fairy princess. Or exotic belly dancer. Or perhaps a movie star. But somehow she had missed the key, never noticed it before.

Now her mother was gone, and the contents of the jewelry box – and the box itself – belonged to her. The end had come quickly and mercifully, for there had been pain, smelly hospital rooms, and unpleasant procedures done in haste. It had been a whirlwind of activity that ended suddenly, as though all of the gravity had been sucked out of the room, releasing everything into space. It felt like that. And here she was, the recipient of things once longed for and no longer wanted. Her mother’s legacy.

There was no message or note explaining which door the key opened. It was too big to be the jewelry box key, though she tried it anyway. Maybe it was just a key to nothing, something her mother liked the look of, the shape of, the color. She looked closer. It had a tiny rose engraved on it. Curious. It would not have been like her mother to collect a utilitarian object merely because she thought it beautiful. No, she was too practical, too efficient, too full of common sense. She was everything her daughter wasn’t. That key must open something.

She asked her father, but he had no idea, and no will to try to figure it out. These weeks later he still had not emerged from the shock of first grief. She’d get no help from that corner of the world. Any caretaking here would be hers, of him.

(To be continued.....)

Prompt: Door Key, 5/5/07

Your love or my shoes - Camden

prompt: shoes

--

Long time ago, his girlfriend got mad and threw his favorite pair of shoes over the telephone line outside their apartment. He had mourned profusely and broken up with her ten minutes later. It was just one of those things.

And it was a shame, because he actually really liked her and she was pregnant with his child, but he figured they’d never get anywhere, anyway, if she didn’t at least respect his stuff. He’d have rather had her punch him in the face then expose that pair of Nikes to the elements.

He didn’t feel guilty for breaking up with her for long, not when three more pairs of shoes joined the first pair on the day she moved out (surreptitiously, while he was at work.) He was an honest, hardworking man, and he wept like a child in the street, face tilted toward heaven, toward his beloved shoes. His boys stood around him, hands placed on his shoulders for moral support. They lost no respect for him. Those shoes were expensive.

And that was years ago. Now the streets were darker and the kids had gotten grey. The mayor boasted that they’d cleaned up the city, but none of the inhabitants in his part of town ever saw the city with the mayor’s privileged eyes. No sparkling buildings, just gum stained pavement and sickly trees that grew no leaves. It didn’t matter though; no one cared what the city looked like. He kept the same job, making pizzas for the same people. His boys stayed alive, the only family left to care about. He hadn’t thought about The Ex-Girlfriend in a while (there were many ex-girlfriends, but she was always The One) but the evening before they’d been rolling around, acting stupid in his neighborhood, when one of his boys jumped up from the roof of his car to grab a familiar-looking pair of shoes from the telephone wire.

“Hey man,” he said, “isn’t this yours?”

The kid was holding the last of the mighty pairs of shoes to survive. His former favorite pair, now beaten and torn. He felt proud as the shoes were dropped into his hands. They had withstood years of atmospheric abuse and were perhaps not so glamourous as before, but they were still intact. An utterly worthless pair of shoes really, but at least they had a story.

He thought disjointedly, back at the pizza shop, it’s kind of like my love, or perhaps my dignity. He shook his head to clear it of all the romantic bs and looked up when a woman, child in tow, entered the restaurant. She said, “hello,” in the way he always loved and he curls his toes under the edge of the counter, securing them to his feet.

He said, “hey,” and then with a smile, “what can I get for you?”

A Letter Home - Camden

prompt: snow

Thank you Cindy for telling me to post this; going back and revising gave me some good ideas for expanding this.

--

It snowed in the summertime, fat white flakes that fell from the sky in clumsy waltzes. I couldn’t believe it, first time I saw it. Standing outside in the summer sun with the neighbors, watching the snow pile up along the street and drifting up against doors. Freak phenomenon? No. It snowed the next day. And the next day. It wasn’t until the 4th of July had to be cancelled due to a chance of snow that the mayor finally acknowledged there was a problem.

“But what,” he said, spreading his arms wide to the convened town, “can we do?”

Not one of us had an answer for him as to how we might control the weather, and we all quietly agreed to blame global warming.

It still snowed. On and off, all the way into winter. One hundred and fifty three days of snow, until Christmas when the sky darkened from crisp blue to grey like dishwater and the rain washed the snow into the gutters. Turned those fine flakes into soot.

I sort of missed the snow, fully expecting never to see snow again, or certainly not the snowmen, unmelting, in the bright sunlight of June-July-August. I was wrong. It came back promptly in the end of May. It was a different snow this time, though. It was warm. I couldn’t believe it, looking out of the kitchen to see school children change from uniforms to bathing suits, grabbing their parents’ trowels and tupperware and charging into the street to build snowcastles. It was a warm, icy snow covered houses and threatened to cover streets. I salted the steps of the house as best as I could, but they were insistently slippery, and I had to hold the railing when I left in the evenings. The mayor called another meeting. His arm in a cast, he pleaded, “what is going on?”

No one had an answer for him and we all agreed to blame the government.

But it kept snowing. Every year, it snowed in the summer just as the old folks claimed it never had. Always a different snow storm then the previous year too. Snow that could never be grasped or shaped fully. The children were sad that year. And there was the sticky snow that was impossible to get out of carpets and the grooves between fingers and the soles of shoes. One time it was snow so cold that I damn near gave myself frostbite cleaning the windowpanes. We got hot snow too, so scalding to the touch that not a person in the town was left without blisters the size of snowflakes by the time Christmas came around. Grey snow fell one year that gave everyone a shadow of a different color. My shadow was pink like washed socks. The dog’s was blue, just blue like the air. The mayor’s shadow was a fine shade of yellow, found in toilets mostly, although sometimes in lemons that dropped before they were ripe.

It could never be collected. This was the most infuriating thing about the whole business - there wasn’t anybody to blame because there wasn’t anybody who tell what it was, was it even snow, even. It was the children who discovered this, packing snowballs into their thermos’ and lunchboxes, in a bid to create some tidy chaos in the classrooms. The lunchboxes, the thermos’ would be empty. As with the scientists who came around to tell us what was wrong; the samples they took each year would turn up empty or missing, without fail.

4th of July quietly got relocated to 4th of December and the town held a meeting each year instead (weather permitting.) No one ever had any answers for us. We never had any answers for each other. We blamed the communists. The farmers. The homosexuals, the foreigners, lawyers, extraterrestrials, poets, the upperclass, the lowerclass, the Devil, and finally, God, though we never blamed anyone with very much conviction.

It just kept snowing too, it just kept on snowing.

Death Changes Everything- Cyndi

The death that changed everything for me was not that of a friend or family member. It was the death of someone I never knew. Someone that no one ever knew, really. A patient on the maternity unit where I worked had delivered a stillborn son. A fetal demise patient, we called her. Each time we have one it is a little different experience, as everyone copes with tragedy in a different way. And this woman was very different from any that I had ever taken care of before.

She was very quiet most of the evening, her attentive husband by her side. She would do the things required, complying with my requests to help her get up, get cleaned up and change her gown. She was from India and her long dark hair hung down her back in a single braid. Her face looked sad, but she did not express her grief and did not wish to converse with me about her feelings, even though I tried. She sat through the evening hours holding the still form of her tiny son, wrapped in his blanket, looking much like any other mother, except her child’s body was stiff and cold. It wasn’t until the end of the shift that things changed. When it was time to send this lifeless bundle to the morgue and this seemingly calm and composed woman fell apart.

I attempted to take the baby from her, but she was unable to physically part with him. Her husband tried to gently and lovingly lift him from her arms, but she held fast as if a part of her was being torn away. When the baby finally made it in the bassinette to be wheeled away, she jumped out of bed and draped herself over the crib, crying the most heart wrenching sobs I have ever heard. They seemed to come from deep within her very soul. Her eyes overflowed with the tears of her pain. They held a look beyond description, but that will be forever etched within my heart. This child, her son was not to be among the living, never to breathe upon this earth. All her hopes and dreams for him and his future were vanishing. She stood broken and defeated, her whole being crying out in distress.

How could this be, I wondered? What was the purpose of this lost life? Why did this happen and why did it seem so unfair? These questions haunted me as I saw the anguish on this woman’s face and heard her torment in my mind for days and weeks afterward- and still do even to this day. Her story has become a part of my life story, searching for the answers that may never come.

Prompt- death changes everything, 7/21/07

Mono Lake - Greg

Jumpstart 6/30/07 - Lee Vining Creek, Mono Lake California

There are a number of wonderful benefits to this writing group, but an extraordinary one is the occasional opportunity to share in the passions and callings of it’s members. Maya and her husband, Barry, have a passion for spoken art–poetry and storytelling–and once or twice a year they put on an Oral traditions Salon where friends come for “An evening of ritual, poetry and storytelling . . . LEARNED BY HEART!” Wonderful!

Last week we had the privilege of being invited into share in Anna Mill’s passion for nature (http://onnaturewriting.blogspot.com/ ). Anna organized an incredible writers and families trip to Mono Lake/Yosemite. It’s hard to say what was the best part, maybe sleeping under the stars, which always puts life into context for me. Learning about eh simply, yet powerfully compelling ecology of Mono Lake. Maybe it was Santiago taking us on a tour of the lake by canoe and watching a thousand Phalaropes perform an amazing synchronized aerial show over the sapphire blue waters, or late night poetry readings on the grassy campground, or maybe just hanging around my people (writers). There was a good amount of warmth, creativity and fun out there. It was great. Thank you very much, Anna. Thanks also to our new friend Santiago, who is doing heroic work educating the youth about our environment through the Mono Lake Committee.

(Oh, Bryn took some terrific pictures: )

The Prompt:

Dutifully we did our writing on Saturday or Sunday morning--I forget which. Anna sat us under a poplar tree next to Lee Vining creek which empties into Mono Lake. She did a Mary Oliver reading, then told us about an nature writing class where the teacher said that everything had a consciousness. She then asked us to walk about the creek area and see if something around there opened up to us, spoke to us, and then to write about it. Here is my offering:

= = =

A stone calls to me as Mary Oliver speaks her New England nature wisdom through the voice of our Mono Lake hostess, Anna Mills. Black and smooth, it begs to be touched, and so I do, rubbing its smooth surface until it shines with the oils of my hands, my heart, my spirit.

Anna speaks of a teacher who taught that all things have consciousness, and while she doesn’t know if she believes it, she tells us it is an interesting idea.

My black stone pebble hears this and I hope he is not offended by Anna’s lack of faith. But I rub harder until his annoyance is assuaged. Sometimes, I think, some times it only takes a little attention to bring someone or some thing alive.

The poet David Wagner speaks next through Anna, about being found. Another pebble calls to me. I pick her up. She is mottled and flesh-colored with smoke-black markings. The other stone has scurried away. One of her facets displays a set of symbols--subtle displays of her profound beauty. I admire and rub her smooth curves and lines, falling into her art and beauty. She does not say it, but she has worked on this for 70,000 years, then waiting another ten for someone to admire and appreciate it. Her. I can almost see her tears of joy, of relief, of gratefulness that her art, her stone life has been witnessed and touched by another.

I attend to her a bit longer until a third stone, passed to me by my daughter, Bryn, comes into my hand. Larger, and unapologetically phallic and baroque, he slips into my hand with the panache and confidence of a flamenco dancer. His art is slashes, swirls, and striations–black contrails frozen in white stone. Dark entrances, fissures to universal mysteries.

“Don’t even think about rubbing me,” he says. “I care not a whit of that, but just . . . “ He stops, silent, can say no more.

I say to him: “No need for words, my friend. You are as us all. You need me and I you. Together, today, we complete each other.”


Sometimes I think that love is nothing but to pay attention. Me to thee, thee to me. In the Orient they have an Indian word that means the Godliness in me bows the Godliness in you. Namaste’, they say, bowing to each other in greeting and parting.

I put the stones in my pocket where they touch and see each other for the first time. They say stones cannot weep, but I have seen them do so.

Jump-start Goes to Mono Lake

We had a wonderful weekend at Mono Lake. Thanks to Anna for setting it up. And muchas gracias to our old friend Santiago Escruceria for being our tour guide extraordinaire!

Take a look at my pictures at www.flickr.com/photos/mayaspector (sorry - Blogger's not letting me hotlink).

Maya

Crimson - Greg

Mollie stared at the crimson pool expanding around Rocco’s supine body laying neatly on the white tile floor. Smoke wafted gently from the chrome barrel of the pearl handled revolver she held in her manicured fingers.

Damn him, she thought, that blood is going to be hell to clean up. But the seeping sharp vermillion against the brilliant white of the tile froze her annoyance as she admired the striking clash of colors. Colors could do that to her. She loved colors and once considered a career as a fashion colorist. This, this was strikingly bold, but tasteful--just like Rocco.

Even now, dead on the floor, he looked in great in that cut Armani suit. Great except for the ridiculous look of shocked surprise on his face. That was all wrong. She wanted to adjust his face the way she sometimes adjusted his collar or straighten his tie. Wanted to close his mouth, put his stiff hand down by his side that for some reason was still held in front of him like he was trying to stop traffic. Or block the bullet. Mostly she wanted to adjust the eyes which were as wide as that actor–what was his name? Marty Feldman?

She sighed. Let’s face it, she thought, there were things she would miss about him. And not just his dapper clothes. He was a good looking man, and a woman liked have a good-looking man on her arm. And he liked his women to look good too. That’s why he chose her to be his girl. Well, most of the time. And he gave her extra money to look good too. It took money for a girl to look nice.

She wouldn’t miss his coarseness though. Or the way he talked when he was drunk. Or how he was rude to all of her friends, and had even threatened to beat up Jonni, her gay hair dresser. She winced at the memory. He was really clueless certain things, and she certainly wouldn’t miss that.

On the other hand, he was a man, and a girl needed a man. Even a rough coarse one like Rocco. Needed to feel his warmth close to her and that sense of feeling safe and protected and desired. At least for a little while.

The one thing that she could not accept was that he was a lousy lover. She looked at Rocco anew and suddenly he didn’t look so dapper. She set the revolver down on the counter and opened the broom closet, taking out the mop, the bucket and several heavy-duty reinforced yard waste bags. Typical, she thought, men make the mess and women clean it up.

Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07

Crimson - Dixie

I roll the word crimson around in my mind, looking for an image, a sensation, a memory. What I get is another word: scarlet. Dramatic red. Scarlet O'Hara. The Scarlet Pimpernel. Will Scarlet. Finally, a personal image arrives---Scarlet the cocker spaniel. There she is: carmel colored, scruffy, her macrame leash dragging on the ground, her big brown eyes wide-open to the world.

I only knew Scarlet as an old dog, but I heard stories about her from the Welfare Department people and also from Candace herself, Scarlet's owner. Young Scarlet was so cute it was ridiculous. When she wagged her tail, her whole body wriggled, her ears fluttered, and her toenails twittered on the sidewalk as she did her doggie dance. Scarlet went everywhere with Candace. Usually dogs are not allowed in the Welfare Office, but when Candace came in, Scarlet was greeted happily by all of us, including the director. We had treats for Scarlet at our desks, and doggie toys. In fact, Scarlet got so much attention, we would sometimes forget about Candace and not realize it until she was heading out the door, perfectly content, it seemed, to avoid explaining herself to some nosey social worker.

Candace was not a street person, though she hung out there a lot. She had an apartment. Once she worked as a clerk at the Welfare Department, before her shit hit the fan. She used to be included in the many-roomates houses that the girls in their 20's shared. But somewhere along the line, Candace started to crumble. She got fat. She withdrew to her separate studio apartment. She stopped working. The lives of girls in their 20's are so busy and chaotic that only a few people noticed the changes, and they didn't know what to do. It was Scarlet who stopped the free fall for Candace.

Scarlet came from the Pets in Need people. She supposedly had a "bad temperament," or so her owners said when they turned her over to the dog pound. Candace's neighbor forced Scarlet on her, "just for a week until we place her." Past the chewing puppy stage, but not yet full grown, Scarlet was a little wild, a little spooked, and in need of some serious grooming. Candace had no idea about what to do with a dog, but when the week was up, Scarlet stayed, and a long period of contentment began for both of them.

As it turned out, Scarlett outlived Candace, but this is not that story.

Jumpstart prompt: Crimson
6/9/07

Crimson - Maya

Like rubies. Like garnets. Like blood:
Crimson.
Streaks in the sky at sunset.
Cascades of beads hanging in a doorway.
Similar to magenta and burgundy,
But deeper than the first, brighter than the latter.
A glass of Cabernet on a table at an outdoor cafe in Paris,
backlit, with sunshine streaming through.
One of the colors I would paint my soul, along with purple (both amethyst and lavender), and that particular shade of blue-green deeper than turquoise.
A little dark for paint, though some rooms might be just right
with polished wood and windows looking out over a pine forest.
Perfect for dancing shoes:
Crimson.
Like Dorothy’s ruby slippers,
Paired with a twirling skirt and starlight.
Running in rivulets, fascinating, life leaking out, torn body lying in the street –
Turn-your-head-away crimson.
Or lipstick – yes – that sensual creamy dark color
perfect for full lips just puckering to kiss.
And nail polish, of course, on fingers and toes –
Just before the feet slip into the dancing shoes.
Crimson.
The color for bad women, whorehouses, cartoon villainesses –
The ones who have power and use it for their own gain -
Sleeping Beauty’s stepmother had lips painted crimson.
Good girls wear pink, maybe rose,
But crimson – that’s for women,
Women who know who they are and aren’t afraid
to thrust it into the world.
It’s not subtle,
Crimson is not for the shy, the reticent, the lazy.
It demands attention, loyalty and seriousness.
But it’s not without fun and celebration,
It’s not black, you know.
It’s drama, excitement, life.
Lift your glass –
Praise life –
Praise your life –
Offer a toast to your own soul –
The colors you throw into the world –
The crimson facet of the kaleidoscope.



Prompt: Crimson 6/9/07

Movie Star Crush - Greg

He had a crush on Raquel Welch since the late sixties, since seeing a photograph of her in a Foster Grant Sunglasses ad, since a striking photo layout of her in Look Magazine, and since the movie Incredible Voyage where she played a crew member aboard a submarine shrunk to microscopic size and injected into the blood stream of a dying diplomat. Now, 40 years later, he needed to see her in person.

If he’d done this 30 or 20 or even 10 years ago, that is, drive down to LA, buy a map of the stars, and then park outside her modest, but immaculate home in Beverly Hills--to do what? Watch her pick up the newspaper? Ask for her autograph? Drive to the grocery store? He didn’t know what he’d do, knew only that he had to see her, and he knew if he was any younger, he’d be called a stalker. But now, in his 50's with a bad heart, how could be a stalker?

He focused the binoculars on her white lace curtains and thought, If this is not stalking, what is this? And quietly his heart said: this is a journey to Mecca, to the center of the universe, to communion with the divine. . .

For the whole of his life, well, at least since age 13, Raquel Welch represented a thing ultimate. The word beauty, but was too small, it was more. When he looked at her, even after 40 years, there was no greater or more full or more complete feeling. And now, at his age, with his failing heart and bad back, he had to see her before it was too late. It wasn’t sexual obsession. That was blasphemous. And it wasn't something crazy like wanting to marry her or be her friend. He didn’t know what he wanted. Just that he had to see her before he died.

Without warning, the brown chestnut door of her home swung open and she stepped out. He got out of his car and crossed the street, his body being pulled forward. She saw him, but continued toward the newspaper on her front yard, then she stopped and waited for him to approach. She stood erect as a goddess in her white satin robe and thick brown hair pinned up and back.

His heart pounded, as he walked closer. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d imagined. He stopped a few yards away and knelt. The newspaper was by his knee. He picked it up. “I . . .,” he stammered. “I had to see you before. . . my heart . . .”

She stared at him in with hard sultry eyes and he thought he would combust. But then her eyes softened and his heart was filled with warmth. “I know,” she said.

She stepped close to him and he did not move, just stared until the pain of her beauty and presence caused him to look away. “I’m glad you came,” she said, taking the newspaper from his hand. “Thank you for coming.” Then she turned and walked back into her house.

Prompt: Movie Star Crush 4/7/07

Until Snow - Dixie

Home was Florida, Texas, and California.
White was sand, sunrise, and stucco walls.
Cold was wind, shadows, and waves.
Mountains were dunes, mesas, and hills.
Trees were palms, yuccas, and eucalyptus.
Pathways were shorelines, river beds, and cliffs.
Thrills were swamps, campouts, and sail boats.
Dreams were warm rain, the open road, and bird cries.

I lived in summer and warmth
Until snow


Prompt: snow
Jumpstart 5/26/07

Movie Star Crush - Maya

Prompt: Movie star crush
4/7/07

“Please, please!”

“Come on! You’ve already seen that movie six times. I’ve seen it twice. Enough already!”

“Oh, come on. Who knows when he’s going to make another one? I gotta go see it. Come with me. Please.”

I didn’t want to go. I mean, I liked him and all that, and the movie wasn’t bad. But twice was enough for me.

“Come on! We’ve got to leave or we’ll miss the cheap admission.”

“Oh, all right.”

God, she drives me nuts. But what could I do? She’s my best friend. We’ve been best friends since third grade. She was there for me when Uncle Lou died. I helped her through her mom’s bout with cancer. We knew each others' dreams and fantasies. We worked it out so we’d be sure to go to the same summer camp. People teased us and called us “the twins.” Not that we look alike. We’re just pretty inseparable.

Now she had this unbearable crush on a hunky blonde movie star. God! I didn’t get it. Sure, he’s cute and all, but what is the big deal? I was starting to worry about her. The crush, well, it was starting to feel like an obsession.

“Next thing I know You’ll be starting a stupid fan website or something.”

She looked at me, surprised. No, not surprised, guilty.

“You didn’t!”

“Well, no, I didn’t start one. But I, well, I kind of joined one. Or two.”

“Oh. My. God. How many?”

“Well, only three. And a couple of blogs.”

“This is getting out of control,” I told her. “You are sick. No, really. You are in over your head. How much time are you wasting mooning over some guy you’ll never even get to meet?”

“I know.... I can’t help it. There’s just something about him. The way he looks at you.”

“Looks at you! He doesn’t look at you! He doesn’t even know you exist.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, you’re acting stupid. I can’t believe I’m going along with this.”

We drove in silence the rest of the way.

When it got dark in the theater and the feature began I stole looks at her. She was entranced. I mean, she was practically drooling. What had happened to her? I didn’t know whether to laugh and hope it would pass or organize some sort of intervention. My best friend was gone, and I was left with this mindless, slobbering idiot. She had a wistful grin of longing and lust on her face. God! Movie star crush!

Wooden Buffalo - Greg

Prompt: This prompt was a physical object. A fist-size carved wooden buffalo.
(12/2/06)


He is a wooden buffalo. Male because the carver, in his art, gave it male genitalia. He has one horn. The other broke off.

His wife gave him the wooden buffalo many years ago. There were many possibilities then. This was a long time ago.

In the native American tradition, the buffalo represents abundance. Abundance of love, of joy, of everything. These things seemed possible at one time. The horn broke off.

When she gave it to him, the fur of polished walnut was deep and rich and fairly glowed, the way one imagined buffalo glowed on the Midwestern plains. But now, after many years, the wood is dusty and faded, a bit gray and worn.

His hair is a bit gray and his joints worn.

He wonders if he polishes it with linseed oil the glow would return. If his knees will stop hurting. If his wife will laugh at one of his jokes.

The horn is gone. That will never return. But what about the other things?

He walks into the garage to find the linseed oil and a rag.

Portrait of A Girl As Someone I Care About - Camden

prompt: boys don't make passes at girls who. . .
(may 12, 2007)

-

She liked to weave flowers into chains and tie them around her friends' arms. Camden got off a with a bracelet, but Andrew had an ornate head piece of daisies, which was placed upon his head like the crowning of the King of England. She walked him to class to make sure he kept it on. Poor guy, but he didn’t complain, just tugged at the chain because he didn’t know what to do with. Camden kept her daisy chain. Andrew threw his away. They never discussed this.

She, with her friends, sometimes including Andrew and Camden, held parties. One-hundred percent sober with 70's french disco and 90's boypop and the occasional indie ballad that had everyone screaming, singing, “you’ve got a nerve to be asking a favor.” She never thought about the lyrics she was singing. She supposed they didn’t mean anything, as lyrics are wont to do.

But the parties weren’t all music and flailing-like-dancing and someone’s mother-cooked salad. She brought out French word games and ornate, involved, roleplaying logic riddles for her guests to solve under the twinkling of the tiny disco ball, bought for five dollars. Andrew liked the abstract thinking because he was a white boy with a new found love for rap. Camden liked dancing better. They never discussed this.

Although she was a drummer, she was a musician. Her rhythm was musical - Camden’s father said so. She was stoic behind the kit, not one of those drummers who moved or smiled. Her and her two friends (not including Andrew and Camden, though they were loyal concert goers; Camden learned all the lyrics and whispered along at every show while Andrew learned every guitar part and played restlessly against the floors, the chairs, the tables, the people of the venues he followed the band to - they never discussed this either) had a band, wrote some songs, more then enough for a decent sized album. The general opinion was that they had written one of the best songs in the universe, but this was only the general opinion of a few select people.

So she was a fan of daisies and parties and drums and abstract thinking and 70's French disco and 90's boypop and bubbles and creeks and picnics and cartwheels and somersaults in the sunshine of high school but she was the biggest fan of her friends, including Camden and Andrew. They never discussed but they should have because if they had, they might have known how to be as big a fan of her. Unfortunately, they didn’t. Now Andrew can’t make daisy chains and Camden has no logic so instead they sit in silence together and wonder what to do for Tessa.

Sunset in a Cup - Dixie

I say to you, sweet lass, away
Now leave my home, this silken web.
Go play among the blossomed fields,
the fleeting clouds, the river's edge.
Engage the creatures of your kind
so tangled in their shouts and tears.
Then fall, and yearn what cannot be
and leave the sunset, dear,
to me.


Prompt: "Bring me the sunset in a cup"
Emily Dickinson

Jumpstart 3/17/07

Control- Cyndi

Prompt: A time someone lost control 4/28/07

Control. What could she control in her life anymore? The elderly woman gingerly stooped down, slowly testing her knees. There was a time when she felt like she was able to have control. When her children were young and she was the primary influence in their lives. Each day she led them in new adventures as they explored the world around them. She picked up her trowel and put on her gardening gloves. But they were grown and gone now. All of them moved away. She couldn’t even control when they talked to each other. They were always busy when she called or they ended up just leaving voice mail, playing phone tag.

She pushed down deep into the soft earth feeling it give way. She loved the feel of the soil as it crept into her gloves through the well worn holes. Her husband was long gone. She used to be in charge of planning their days- from appointments to lunch dates and time away. She had been the schedule keeper. All that is over and done now, she thought. What do I have left to plan for now? She picked up one of the potted plants, turning the container over in her hands and letting it drop out of its confinement. “Here you go”, she said to the young flower. “Welcome to your new home.” She placed it carefully in the space she had carved out for it.

Even her dog had passed on, so she didn’t have a companion to accompany her on walks through the park anymore. Friends came and went but there was no one close enough to count on. This is my life now and she pondered how to spend the rest of her day.

A few more impatience, and maybe some begonias, geraniums, daisies and of course the pansies. Her garden was not a neat orderly array of blooms separated by species or even organized by colors. It was a hodgepodge assortment- all mixed together. That is the way she liked it. The world is not all neat and orderly- but mixtures of people, cultures, class- all thrown together to somehow survive and thrive. And so her garden also reflected this style. A splash of yellow marigold here, the red rose bush on the side, the purple asters mixed in throughout and even some orange cosmos- although not her favorite, they were needed to bring balance.

At least she could still tend lovingly to this plot of land, coaxing bountiful life out of it. This was her gift and she supposed this is what she could still retain control over. It brought joy to her heart each time she walked up the sidewalk or stood looking out her window. And it was also a gift to those who lived nearby. The walkers and joggers would call out to her, offering their compliments. She had also seen the cars slowing down, the drivers taking a small moment out of their hurried lives to point out to their children the wonder in bloom in her yard. Yes, this was the one thing left that was still in her control and she would continue to work in her garden.

-Cyndi

When I Sing - Maya

Prompt: When I Sing


When I sing
My heart opens
The breath moves, relieved
Ah -- at last –-
To be released --
Why do you hold me for so long?
How can you forget so often?

Breath, song,
The great Ha
Sent forth into the world
In praise in gratitude in celebration.

Song opens, then,
Unfolding, like muscles rippling
in Continuum undulate
Like a gift happy to be opened and given.

When I sing
I wander into harmonies
The fun of higher or lower
Contrasting notes
Playing against each other,
Notes in patterns
Like colors printing themselves
Across a page -
The red over the black
The green twining around the purple.

It’s too simple to say
Singing is a joy
Because sometimes
It’s sorrow it’s escape it’s communion-
That singing
That singing together.

I mean, there’s singing alone
In the car with the radio or CD
And that’s fine and I
Can sing really loud because no one
Will hear me
And I can ignore the looks of other drivers
I will never see again.

But then there’s the
Singing together,
The heart-singing fun-singing-
Around-the-campfire kind of singing,
And the group singing
So full of ecstatic voice that
Tears spontaneously fill up the eyes and
Have to spill over.

When I sing –
When I remember to sing –
I love -- I think –-
Why don’t I sing every day?
Even alone.
Why do I forget
The singing?

Warm - Greg

Prompt: Warm Under the Stars 12/9/06


The air was warm, the ground was warm, and even the blades of grass, normally cool to the touch, were warm. He looked over to his honey sleeping next to him under the desert sky, her chest rising and falling with each warm breath. Everything was as warm as his body and the world seemed to extend continuously from the center of his heart, as if he could not tell where his skin ended and everything else–-the ground, the grass, the deserts sounds, the cacti silhouettes began.

He wasn’t naked, but he wished he were. He wanted all of this, the desert, the air, all of creation to touch him without even the thinnest barrier of fabric. He wanted to be wrapped and held by the universe; wondered if this was what they meant by God enfolding you in the palm of his hand.

The stars seemed so bright and beautiful that his eyes hurt. Not from the brightness, but from the utter beauty and miracle of it all. His eyes welled with tears, and he thought of poets who say that one day the stars will fall from the sky, and scientists, explaining further, that entropy will cause them to fade and snuff out to nothing like spent candles. Maybe so, he thought, maybe someday, but not for a long long time.

He stared at a single star. Maybe it was a galaxy–one of a billion stars. He tried to connect to it. Connect to the consciousness, to a being, to a person on that star laying in that desert staring at my star looking at him. “Hello!” he thought smiling. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

His honey stirred and he looked at her delicate face in the starlight. Then he turned back toward his star, then he heard, not a sound, but a felt sense. A voice, a presence, a woman: “Hello,” she said, “I hear you.”

Marshmallows - Camden

Prompt : "marshmallows"

--

Marshmallows are for church.

Or more specifically, marshmallows are for the Walker’s house in the summer at the pool parties filled with children running around and parents not caring too much. Marshmallows are for after we run all over the Walker’s property, and possibly their neighbors’ as well, pretending to be magical and pretending to be special. Marshmallows go at the fire pit, by the side of the pool. Maybe there are some errant kids in the hot tube or hanging off the diving board, but by the time we get to marshmallows, most kids are tucked into towels and squished up against parents or each other.

Marshmallows go after hot dogs and wrapping a towel around my head and telling my pastor that I’m Muslim. Not on my watch, he says. Marshmallows are after we dodge bees with our lunches and leap into the pool for safety. Marshmallows are after sunscreen and belly flops and playing pool in the safety of the Walker’s cabin, dripping all over their carpets. Marshmallows are sometimes with sing-alongs but always with prayers and thanks and good company.

Marshmallows signify the end of the day when we know we must crawl back up that monstrous hill, so easy to run down in the morning but so difficult to climb up in evening. We should be sad to be waving goodbye to our once-a-week friends, but we’re delighted to be standing barefoot on the asphalt, shivering in our towels and still dripping from that one last cannonball because. Because we’ve just had marshmallows.

Little Brother - Greg

2 December 06
Prompt: It All Started When . . .

     My nine-year-old brother stood next to my bed in the middle of the night and began shaking me. I was dead asleep and when woke up, I tried to hit him in the dark. He easily stepped away, and waited while I roused to my senses.
      “Wake up!” he said in an insistent whisper.
      “What do you want?” I growled.
      “Shh. You have to see this.”
      “See what?!”
      “It’s outside. You have to see it.”
      I thought about going back to sleep, but he was so excited, and when he got like this, there was no stopping him. Plus, in my fogginess, I became curious. I rolled over and threw my feet out of bed. It was a California summer and the air was warm, even at this time of the night. I was 12 years old.
      “C’mon!” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward. I stood and jerked my arm away. Big brothers don’t like little ones leading them around. It isn’t natural. Still, I slowly followed him out the door into the dark hallway.
      We passed my parent's bedroom door and I could hear my father's dull snoring. We crept downstairs into the tile entryway. Poochie, our yellow dog, wagged her tail excitedly, her nails clicking on the tile. By brother shushed her, then slowly opened the front door.
      “This better be good,” I said.
      He said nothing, but quietly lead me across the front yard into the neighborhood street. The town was without traffic and utterly quiet, and the night looked and felt different that I’d ever seen it before.
      “Where are we going?” I said.
      “Just c’mon, he replied. “Just c’mon. . .”

Tahoe Cabin- Cyndi

Prompt: Music in the Background

This prompt brought to mind a trip to Lake Tahoe.

The atmosphere in the cabin was so easy-going and cozy. A fire crackled merrily, there were sounds of laughter and the camaraderie of the other families on the retreat completed the mood. Most everyone had been coming to this place for years- the kids since they were born, and they felt as comfortable here as in their own homes. There was no pressure, just time to read, reflect and unwind in a peaceful setting. It was a welcome change of pace from the usual chaotic dailiness of life.

There was the puzzle table, already going strong on its second challenge of the weekend. The edge pieces were almost complete, defining the border, while the other randomly scattered pieces waited their turn to be fit into place. People would wander over to the table to work together for awhile before moving on to their next interest. The card table was set up for its game of Magic cards, the players with their small colored translucent stones in front of them. The smaller kids were running around pulling things out of the game closet to explore. And of course there was the juggling! That seemed to be the most popular thing to try and learn. (Although for some it remained an unattainable skill to master.)

But underneath all of these activities there was the sound of the old piano. The music filtered through everything else, creating a backdrop upon which to build. Turns were taken and some joined together in duets. There were quite a variety of selections- old songs, hymns, even Disney tunes. A continuous melody floated through the air as the others would hum or sing along. It didn't matter that the songs weren't always skillfully played. It was music just the same and it was an integral part of the cabin experience. Even the youngest relished their turn to sit in front of the aged upright. They knew, and could feel it too, that the music that comes from within would draw us all together, uniting us on a common note.

-Cyndi

End of the Road - Greg

The first Jump-start meeting consisted of Dixie and I. This is wat came out of it.

Jump-Start Writers. 24 Nov 2007
Prompt: It was the end of the road

So this is what the sunrise looks like, Harley thought, feeling the rough gravel press into his cheek as he lay sprawled out in the Mojave desert. The salty taste of blood trickled onto his tongue alongside residual vomit from a night before. He could smell the alcohol on his breath and feel a dull throb in his body from the beating from the night before. His head felt like a brick and he did not want to move, but that was all right because his face was pointed toward horizon.

The sun had not risen, and would not for a few minutes, but for the first time in his life, Harley noticed the sunrise. He must’ve woken up outside like this 100 times, yet had never noticed its beauty. The sky was a pink vermillion with a golden edge rimming the desert horizon. It looked like heaven, or how Harley imagined heaven looked.

His cheast filled with something--gratefulness, love? It will be different this time, he thought. No, he knew. This would be the last time for him. The last time waking up outside in some strange place hung over and bleeding. He knew he could quit, knew how to quit, had friends who had quit who would help him.

I’ve seen hell, he thought staring at the sunrise, and now I see heaven. I’m getting out of hell starting today. The idea seemed to liberate something inside that had felt shackled for so long. It was good he could enjoy this morning, because after today he would go onto the next thing. The next phase of his life. He wondered if this is what it felt like to be reborn.

Harley smiled. Yeah. Reborn. Who would’ve ever thought? The horizon was now ablaze with golden skies and silver shards of cloud. He felt his spirits soar. Lord, I’m coming home, he thought.

Footsteps in the gravel approached, then stopped. “This is the end of the road, Harley,” said the voice behind him. The metallic crack of a bullet chambered into the pistol.

Two Individuals - Camden

PROMPT: Two People On The 83rd Floor Of The Second Twin Tower Who Have Just Watched The First Tower Fall

--

“I wonder what happens when you die.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”

The two men sit cross legged on the 83rd floor of the second twin tower. They watch New York through a gaping hole in the wall. A beam had fallen in the tremors, shattering the floor-to-ceiling window. Everyone else had already jumped.

The first tower falls. The first man sighs, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers it to the other man.

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Are you sure? Last day on Earth.”
“I’m asthmatic.”

“Well, okay.” As dust wafts up from the ruins of the first tower, as smoke billows past them and out through the open wall.

“I never liked you,” he says, taking a drag. The other man nods.

“Me either.”
“Of course, I have a degree in Freudian Psychology, so actually, I think I’m in love with you.”
“What did you do with a degree in Freudian Psychology?”
“Got a job here.”

They fall silent, listening to the creak of the building above, the sirens below, the screams all around.

“I’m straight,” says the other man. “And I think I will have a cigarette.”

“Are you sure? Last day on Earth.” But he hands him a cigarette, smiling. A cigar may just be a cigar but a cigarette rarely is. It’s classic phallic fixation. He shakes his head, says, “I never really knew.”

“What?”

“Sexuality. Or Freud. Or why I got a job here. Or where we go when we die.”

The other man looks thoughtful. “None of that is very important now, anyway. Death is, as JM Barrie wrote, an awfully big adventure.”

“JM Barrie.”
“I majored in Children’s Literature.”
“And you got a job here?”
“I got a job here.”

The creaking and groaning of the tower grows more ominous.

“I suppose the tower is going to collapse.”
“Yes.”

They stand and throw their cigarette butts out the gaping hole in the wall. He feels heavy, but a little bit giddy, like a teenager.

“Shall we jump?”
“Nah.”

The creaking is louder and there’s rumbling from the ground. The smoke is darker, thicker, making his eyes sting. He realizes suddenly that he’s shaking..

“Are you leaving anything behind?” shouts his companion over the roar of the world rushing up to meet them.

“Not really, are you?”
“No.”

His companion turns to him, throws his arms around him and kisses him. The second tower collapses.

Introduction!

Welcome! This is the Blog Site for the Jump-start Practice Writing Group. We meet in Palo Alto, California every Saturday morning rain or shine at 8:30 AM to vitalize our writing, explore creative possibilities and have fun in a supportive writing community. We write for about an hour, and the group is open to anyone interested in writing. All we ask is that you bring a pen, a pad, and a 3 dollar donation. Email here for directions and questions.

Jump-start was started by
Greg Kimura, a California poet, in November 2006, who was looking to spice up his own creative life.

The premise of Jump-start is that although writing is, at its essence, a solitary creative process, you don’t have to walk this path alone and that some company would not only be fun, but productive as well. What we have found was that not only was it fun and productive, but it is extremely healing.

The group has ranged anywhere for 4 to 7 people. Some of us are very experienced writers. Some of us just like to write. If you come with the intention to create and support, you are welcome.

The basics of the group are as follows:

1. Welcome, Invocation, Introductions


2. Thoughts and Suggestions on Writing (From Writing Alone, Writing Together by Judy Reeves)


3. An inspirational reading on creativity.
   
4. Pull a prompt from the black bag
   
5. Write 17 minutes (or so)
   
6. Optional reading (no feedback, listeners just hold the creative space)
   
7. Pull another prompt
   
8. Write 10-12 minutes (or so)
   
9. Optional reading
   
10. That’s it!

I have found this to be one of the most enjoyable, creative and healing projects I’ve ever done. If you are interested in starting your own practice writing group in your own town, Greg is happy to share his experience and knowledge on how to do it. Email him here.


Jumpstart Publishing

The Jumpstart blog presents work developed from the Saturday morning meeting. The greatest value of creativity is simply in creating. But giving your creation to the world, can complete the circle. If you enjoy the the work read here, please feel free to leave comments.

Thanks!