Death Sat Alone at the End of the Bar Hunched Over a Beer - Maya

Of course, I knew who he was. Who wouldn't? The black hooded cloak was obvious enough, but the long scythe leaning up against the bar was a dead giveaway.

You know, I might have expected to get chills or be struck dumb, frozen in place, but it wasn't like that. He wasn't scary, not like you'd think.

I'd just walked in, shaking the rain off my coat and stamping my boots on the doormat when I spotted him at the end of the bar. i didn't even stop to think about it, but hung up my coat on the rack and took the stool next to his. The thought did cross my mind - who was he here for? Was it me?

"Hello, friend," I said. And then I got the my biggest shock of the night. When he lifted his head to look at me, I saw that he wasn't a he after all. Death was a woman.

She had thick wavy black hair speckled with silver that fell forward out of the hood when she looked up, and her eyes were the bluest blue I'd ever seen. Our eyes locked and neither of us looked away.

"Sometimes I hate my job," she said. No preamble, no social chit-chat. Just that.

"I'll bet," I said. "Who ya here for? Am I allowed to ask?"

"You can ask all you want, I won't tell you. Can't."

"Well, then, can I buy you another beer?"

She looked surprised. "Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."

We sat in companionable silence for a while. It was - I don't know - comfortable somehow. And the funniest thing? No one else seemed to notice.

Prompt, 10/3/09 - Death Sat Alone at the End of the Bar, Hunched Over a Beer

Death of a Beloved- Maya

Alone in the house

for a week,

I thought about it.

What if this were

my permanent condition?

Not a little break, a respite,

a rare chance for solitude,

but the way, the state of being,

the everyday condition.

Finding the house locked up

every day when

I get home from work.

No one to cook for.

The handyman chores hired out

or left undone.

 

It is not a question

of maybe,

but rather one of when.

And who.

 

For one of us

will face this.

Jane Kenyon knew it. 

She wrote –

One day it will be otherwise -

And it was,

for her and Donald Hall,

she succumbing to leukemia,

and he left to write

his poems alone.

 

I loved this week,

the house quiet and all mine.

No struggling over who

gets to use the iMac now.

Cooking and eating

what I wanted

when I wanted it.

Peaceful late afternoons

in the hammock.

 

But always, always,

lurking somewhere

in my mind, the knowledge

that what is treasured now

could be despised later.

 

The death of a beloved,

a ghost of the future

haunting the house.

Maya, 8/29/09, Prompt: Death of a Beloved

Oil Changing - Maya

She couldn't put it off any longer.  It had been 6,000 miles since the last oil change, and she knew they always said she should come back after 3,000. She just hated going.  Either she had to go to the place where she was supposed to pull her car onto the racks, the guy motioning this way, then that way, and she was always terrified that she'd drive right into the pit.  Or, she could go to the place where they'd put it up on the rack, but she'd have to wait in the overheated, depressing waiting room with only two-year-old  People magazines for company.  Either way, they'd try to sell her this filter or that fluid, in addition to her oil change, and she didn't know a friggin' thing about cars.  So, she either wound up feeling ripped off or thinking she was making a terrible mistake and dooming her car to eventual decomposition.  Or whatever cars did when you didn't treat them properly. 

She chose the overheated waiting room.  Better that than the fear of lurching into the pit.  She hadn't been thumbing through old news about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for more than two minutes when the guy appeared with some thingy in his hand.

"See your air filter here?" he started in.  "You can see all the dirt accumulated.  Want us to change it for you?"

She looked up at him, her eyes dull.  She considered saying, "How stupid do you think I am?" but she realized that however stupid he thought would be correct.

"Sure," she said.  He left.  "Go ahead and fleece me," she continued speaking to herself.  "God, I've got to learn something about cars."  

She always told herself that. She never did it.  And really, she knew she never would.

Prompt:  Oil Changing, 3/7/09

Lacks Sizzle - Maya

"I don't know," he said,   stepping back and tilting his head to get a different view.  "Something's missing."

"Yeah," she replied, biting her nails.  It lacks .... sizzle."

"Sizzle," he repeated.  "Sizzle.  Lacks sizzle."

"You know.  Pizzazz.  Oomph.  Bling."

"Uh, sure," he replied, but his face had that quizzical look.  "Sizzle.  Sizzle."  He kept repeating it under his breath, as he paced back and forth in front of the canvas.

It was his latest work, and the largest he'd ever attempted.  It filled the entire side wall of his studio.  He was distressed.  he'd so wanted to impress her, so longed to hear that she loved it and that his misgivings were unwarranted.

Finally, he stopped pacing.

"So ... you think that 'sizzle' was what I was going for, and I just didn't quite make it happen?" he asked.

"Well, not necessarily.  It's just that with a  painting of this size you kind of expect something to pop out at you.  I was looking for a big statement.  Or big color.  Something big, besides the size of the canvas.  I mean, it's a nice piece of work technically.  I just think... well, maybe it's not finished yet."

"Maybe you're right," he said, but inside his head he was screaming, 'Nice?  Nice?  don't friggin' say my work is nice!  Shit.  This is a disaster.  why did I let her see it?  Let her?  I invited her!"

He'd resumed his pacing.  she turned away from the painting to look at him and finally noticed that he was upset.

"God, I'm sorry.  I didn't .... You asked for my opinion, and you know I'm not going to lie to you."

"No, you're right," he said.  "I trust your opinion, that's why i asked you.  I want to know.  I mean, I don't, but I do."

"Want to go get some coffee?" she asked.

"No, you go.  I want to think about it.  Work on it some."

"Okay.  sorry!"  She squeezed his shoulder and slipped out the door.

And there he was, back to facing this monstrosity, this thing he'd created that missed the mark, that didn't pop, that lacked sizzle.

Was she right?  he knew that he tended to get bowled over by other people's opinions when it concerned his art.  Maybe this time he was on track and she was off.

Pacing, pacing.

"Take a break," he told himself.  "Come back with a fresh eye."

So, he pulled himself away and filled a mug with water and stuck it in the microwave.  he rifled through his tea choices, settling on a calming green variety.  Mug in hand, he walked over to the window to look down on the street while he drank.  When he got down to the dregs he allowed himself to face his work again.

Scanning, scanning .... then suddenly he saw it: an opening, a possibility, a new way in.  He grabbed a brush and a tube of red paint and got to work.  She was right!  He'd been right to have her come and look.  Now he saw what had been missing.  sizzle?  Not what he'd have called it.  But something.  Something.

Prompt:  Lacks Sizzle, 1/17/09

"What Is It?" - Maya

They were hunkered down in a tight little knot in the clearing, all skinny-legged, skinned knees, brown summer bodies. The four of them. It was amazing that by this hot late August afternoon they were all still playing together. Every day since school let out they'd seemed to triangulate, three against one, and every day in a new configuration. Today Marcie was the odd one out. Surprisingly, this happened relatively rarely. Surprising in that she was the only girl. Conventional wisdom would have her be the isolated one most of the time, but conventional wisdom didn't hold in this case. Marcie got along well with everyone. But today she had really wanted to go to the pool, not into the woods. She'd been outvoted, so she'd grumbled as she'd trailed along behind them. It was too hot, she complained.

"Yeah, but it will be cooler in the woods," Davie had argued.

"Better be," she'd mumbled back.

Now they were in a clearing, out in the direct sun, but even Marcie was too fascinated to notice.

"What is it?" she asked.

The others shook their heads or hunched their shoulders. Sean poked it with a stick.

"Maybe it's an alien," he said.

"A dead alien," Davey replied.

It was small. No bigger than a cat or skunk, or maybe a possum. But it wasn't any of those. Its back legs were longer than the front ones, and five-toed. Kind of .... human. It only had one eye left, but that one was large and round.

"Hey, know what I just realized?" Frankie said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "It doesn't stink. Shouldn't it stink?"

Frankie would notice something like that. He was the quiet one, the observer. Frequently the odd man out in this group of extroverts. But he could be stubborn. He stuck to his guns. The other three admired that in him, and although they never said it, they all thought of Frankie as "the smart one."

"I didn't think of that," Sean acknowledged. "Maybe it is an alien, and thier bodies don't stink."

"What'll we do with it?" Marcie asked. "Like, shouldn't we take it to a scientist or something?"

"I'm not picking that thing up," Davie said.

"Me neither," agreed Sean.

"Okay, let's bury it, then," Marcie said.

"Why? Then we'll never find out what it is," Davey retorted.

"I know," Frankie said. "I'll take a picture of it on my cell phone. Then we'll bury it. We can show the picture to someone to identify it."

They all agreed. But without a shovel or trowel or anything to dig with, they wound up just covering it up with stones and leaves.

They decided to go to Sean's dad. he worked at the university in the Physics Department. So, when he got home from work they descended on him . It turned out that his colleagues in Biology were intrigued, once the kids convinced them it was not a hoax.

The four of them were excited to take the scientists to the makeshift grave site. They found it easily enough. But when they removed the stones and leaves, what they found was nothing. Nothing at all. No trace. Not a bone, not a hair, not a scrap of DNA.

They never did find out what it was.


Prompt: "What is it?" 8/16/08

White Carpet - Maya

The view was spectacular, just like she'd said.  Windows ran floor to ceiling, and the view ran from the Bay Bridge to the Golden Gate.  It didn't hurt that the apartment was on the 7th floor. Nob Hill was high enough to see the Bay as it was, but this place was pretty much above everything.  Alcatraz was right there, and even the weather was perfect - no fog to interfere with the panoramic vista.  Really, spectacular.

What I hadn't expected (and amazed me as much) was how she'd decorated it.  Everything was sleek and modern, white and stainless steel or glass.  White couch, white chairs, glass bowls on glass tables, crystal decanters on glass shelves and white carpet.

"Well?  What do you think?" she asked.

"It's spectacular, honey," I replied.  "Absolutely spectacular."

She clapped her hands together and grinned the broadest grin her thin face allowed.  "I know. Come, sit on the couch and catch the view.  Want some tea?"

"Sure,"  I replied, plopping down on the plush white cushions.  What I was really thinking was, "How can this be my child?  Could we possibly be more different?"

Here I was in a peasant skirt and sandals (which I now checked to be sure I hadn't tracked in any dirt onto this pristine white carpet).  I mean, my house was all wood, old carpets, funky ethnic folk art and color, color, color.  I realized that kids sometimes separate from their parents by choosing radically different lifestyles, but this was astounding.  My daughter, my little girl, had opted for pretty much everything I had rejected - money, prestige, upward mobility.  It's not that I had anything against money - it sure made life easier.  But this!

"Come on," I told myself.  "You knew where she was headed."  The writing had been on the wall since junior high school.  And look who she'd married ...  The world of high finance made no sense to me, but it brought her this apartment, this view, this life in San Francisco in which money helped a great deal.  Was, in fact, necessary.

Her daughter came back carrying a tray with teapot and cups.  Italian.  Williams-Sonoma.  Now, those she liked.  They didn't exactly match the decor.  In fact, they reminded her of that trip to Tuscany and Umbria.  Lovely.

"It's Earl Grey.  You like that, right?" her daughter asked.

"Sure.  You know I like most teas."

"So, what do you think?"

"I could look out this window forever."

"I know.  It's amazing at night, too.  You and Dad have to come for 4th of July.  They have fireworks right off the pier down there.  The neighbors tell me these are the best seats in town."

"Nothing but the best!"  I said.

"Mother, don't start," she retorted.  "I know you think this is all shallow materialism, but it's my life and I happen to like it."

"What?  What did I say?"

"Nothing," she grumped.  "But I can tell."

"Honey, I'm not sitting in judgment."

"Aren't you?" she asked.

She was right, but I wasn't going to admit it.  "I think it's gorgeous.  I'd just be scared to death mess it up, but I don't have to live with it.  If it doesn't bother you, it's great."

"See?  There you go!" she said, jumping up.  Her elbow connected with her teacup and Earl Grey spilled all over the carpet.  The white carpet.  Dark tea.  She looked at me, eyes frozen wide like deer in the headlights.  I said nothing.  Finally, she ran into the kitchen to get something to clean it up.  

I wondered if the stain would ever come out.

Prompt:  White Carpet, 7/5/08

"The black room took us in like a cave" - Maya

It was just what I wanted – walls painted black, even the windows, which were painted shut as well. They were covered with heavy curtains, but I pulled them back to check. No light. A single bulb dangled from the remnants of a long-discarded light fixture in the ceiling, but that was no problem. We didn’t have to turn it on. And we wouldn’t.

The black room took us in like a cave. I know what you’re thinking – like a womb. I don’t care. You can psychologize me all you want, it won’t matter. Black was what we wanted and black was what we got. We weren’t looking for airless or claustrophobic, so it was good that it was on the third floor an not, say, in the basement. Black and damp would have been too much for me. I’m allergic to mold anyway. In fact, it might have been a bright and airy room at onetime. Might be again. I wouldn’t want to be the one to paint over it or scrape off all that black paint, but that’s neither here nor there.

We had our little cave now. Our little sanctuary. Our refuge. I imagined it to be like an underground temple or a blank slate. We didn’t even need to bring much with us.

I’m sure you’re wondering why I did it. Well, you see, I didn’t know who he was when I met him. Or maybe I should say “what” he was. He was different – I could see that right away. I always was a sucker for different. And he moved fast. Those dark eyes that looked unflinchingly into mine – as though he wanted to see inside me. And did. And like who he found there.

He never lied to me. He just made sure I cared about him before he told me. All right, I’ll say it – I fell in love with him. Loved him. And he needed me, needed someone badly. He’d just arrived and wasn’t safe. He’d left his family – needed new territory, new blood, so to speak.

It’s not every day that someone promises you eternal life. Can’t you understand? Eternal life with someone you love and who loves you? I felt loved, anyway. I don’t know. I think he did love me.

So, I found the room. He promised he’d take me, turn me, once we settled in. He needed me to stay as I was to do the necessary business in daylight hours. Once we had a safe place it could happen. And it was perfect. I had the coffin moved in right away. He was so pleased. It was perfect.

How could I know he’d been followed from the old country? Tracked, like an animal. All they saw was trouble. Not his beauty, his kindness, his intense love. All they saw was danger. I didn’t. He’d explained it to me and it seemed doable. It seemed…okay. Does different have to mean bad? I’ve never thought so.

They’d waited till the sun went down and the coffin opened. Stakes in hand, they burst through the locked door – I don’t know how – and they killed him. God, they killed him. They’d have killed me, too, if he had turned me. But he hadn’t and they didn’t, obviously. They called me stupid, gullible, dangerous. They told me to leave before the police arrived. They were giving me a chance to start over. Then they left. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave him like that.

Don’t you see? I could have run away and avoided all this, but I didn’t. I wanted to stay here in our cave, our sanctuary. I wanted to be with him forever.

Prompt: "The black room took us in like a cave." - Anne Sexton
6/7/08

She Built Her House for the Next Five Decades - Maya

She walked into the new room and breathed in deeply. Ah, the good smell of freshly cut wood.

- Yes - she thought - I like this. It has a good feeling. Now I can stop. This will satisfy the demand.

She ordered furniture, chose a deep blue for the paint, and decided which of the new Oriental rugs would look best on the hardwood floor. This was something she could do. She liked being busy.

But at night, when the workmen were gone and the servants had all gone to sleep, she was left with her solitude. And that unsettled feeling began creeping back in.

Lying in her big canopy bed, alone, in the bedroom more than large enough to accomodate two, she was keenly aware of the vacancy on the other side of the mattress. Even on summer nights she often felt chilled in her clean sheets. And in the quiet she heard it call to her - it cried,it whispered in her brain. The house. It wanted more. It wanted to grow. If only her daughter had lived.... maybe a child would have satisfied it - a bright, happy, living thing filling all the empty space. But there was no child, and the house grew restless, bitter.

Every time she got fooled. She would truly believe that if she just gave it one more room or added one more wing it would retreat into silent contentment, it would snuggle down onto its foundations with an almost audible sigh of relief. Every time. But no sooner had she given in to its demands when it started again.

"Stop torturing me," she whispered. "You must be satisfied, Enough is enough."

- Never enough - she heard the reply. - Never. I must grow. Grow! Grow! -

She turned over and pulled the pillow over her head. It didn't help. She knew it wouldn't. This was not new and would not be any different from the other times. How could she be so naive as to think it would let her go. She would never be free.

Tears leaked out of her eyes, soaking into the bedding. If only she could sell the house, move away. To a cottage by the ocean or in the mountains - where the clean wind would scour her troubled mind clear of its burdens. But she couldn't. It was the house where she'd borne her child, that her husband had built for her, just for her. She couldn't abandon it.

So she did what she always did. Gave up and gave in. Sent for the contractor. Planned another addition. So the house could grow, like a living thing. Like the real,lving thing it wanted to be, drove her to make it be.

prompt from 1/19/08 (exact wording of prompt not recorded, but about Sarah Winchester)

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

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

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

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 - 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!

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?