September 28, 2006

In her eyes, he envisioned cobble-stone streets, provincial shops, adobe homes that are white as a wedding, pristine and treasured like a perfect diamond. In her eyes, he imagined olive groves, gnarly branches that aged with character, a solid blue sky laughing a few light-footed clouds. He smelled on her the scent of the sea, fishy palms and perspiration, the glorious smell of bread baking that tantalized the nostrils at dawn. She held that for him: a fantasy of a forgotten time in an isolated place, unspoiled by strangers.

She was Greek – a strong heritage that has endured for centuries. Greek like the great philosophers and myth dwellers.

Here in New York City, they are displaced from their histories. He – a second-generation Turkish immigrant – met her one day when they studied chemistry together at NYU, where they shared beakers and curious touching under the lab table. The encounter was innocent enough that spring semester. From that grey winter, spring ushered in green and blue. She smiled: “Amir, should we study for next week’s midterm?” She spoke in a non-chalant manner. He noticed that her black curly hair smelled like orchids; it had brushed across his face as she loaded her books. She let the question linger without looking up. He knew she was trying to hide her own blushing. He very, very gently replied, “Yes.”

September 13, 2006

Prompt: “The Pictures Lie”

The cool strokes of light-imbued color revealed on the canvas a song of white cotton dresses embroidered with flowers, piles of soft curls whimsical and playful as the clouds. The women were dancing! – goodnatured folk of the countryside. They were pristine, innocent – bringing life to the once-quiet palette.

Julia, her uncombed hair tied hurriedly in a pony tail, weighed down by broad shoulders and stout fingers, gazed at the painting for more than just a few moments. Outside the museum – far away – she heard an ensemble of car horns and pedestrian babble. She caught herself breathing, straddling the line between fantasy and reality.

The picture made her sad. She lives in a loud, congested city while those young women lived free from automobiles, traffic lights and smog. They knew the dances of their ancestors. Julia had never even met her grandparents. Frankly, she hasn’t one clue where they are buried or the names of their parents. Indeed, her parents had left Utah at a young age. In that way, Julia realized, history was lost.

September 6, 2006

Prompt: “A Serenade” 

Margaret was shriveled up in her bed, her feet tucked beneath her knees. Her palms latched onto her elbows, face splotchy and wet. The world seemed to collapse her like a neutron star on the brink of gutting itself into a black hole. Darkness saturated each ounce of light when she closed her eyes. She felt the undeniable pull of emotional cannibalism. She allowed herself to ruminate on what she would do now that her four-year relationship was in tatters, her pink slip was not decorating her closet, and lung cancer had abruptly flared in her mother. Had only she chastized that woman more about her chewing habit. Had only she had read more Dr. Gray self-help books. Had only she had left ten minutes earlier to arrive at work on time at the downtown lobbying office for the 8am shift. Had only… Life contemplation only seemed to emphasize what was missing, noticing the spaces instead of physical substance. Life contemplation always fixated on the dark matter, the unkept promises, the unfinished to-do lists.

Margaret recites her list of weaknesses. Wouldn’t the time she spent watching General Hospital be better suited for rigorous reading or self enrichment? She ruminates on her unclipped toenails, which Danny always complained scratched him at night. Perhaps that is why he left.

Margaret was sobbing at her persistent social flakiness, when a sound slowly shuffled through the windows. As the volume grew – her tears evaporated. The sound was familiar, repetitive, and innocent. She smiled in spite of herself. A serenade, yes, but not just any serenade.

It was the ice cream truck song, carrying a promise of indulgence and memories of simpler times.

August 31, 2006

Prompt: “An Impression”

An impression is rooted in the moment. A stranger’s face is immortalized on first sight, without acknowledgement of its younger counterpart and without traces of its future form.

Monica was immersed in these deep – or maybe quasi-deep – thoughts at a little party on Park Ave. She knew only one other soul at the occassion, a woman named Amanda who phoned her spontaneously in search of an escort to this shindig. Five minutes into their awkward grand entrance into the 500 square-foot condo packed inch-by-inch with perfume scented-limbs and minty-fresh breath, her friend dashed away for a cigarette on the balcony.

Monica moved slowly about, desperately trying to make eye contact with another awkward soul hobbling about for social recognition. Not only did her efforts fail, but several women distinctly evaded pupil-to-pupil contact, leaving Monica superficially eyeing the bookshelf. To her surprise, she noted that the selection was loaded with self-empowerment books written by Dale Carnegie and shockingly, Ann Coulter. Left to her own devices, Monica attempted to feel deep by breathing oxygen through the knots in her chest and pondering the Buddhist sentiment of being in the present. Monica smiled to herself: damn she was good.

At last, Monica rejoices as a form enters her eyes’ periphery. At last! A lost soul was joining her at the bookshelf, carrying two drinks to boot! “Hey Joyce!” he said enthusiastically until she turned around in an un-Joyce-like manner.

“Oh sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

Great, Monica thought, as the frazzled man scurried away. And that margarita looked appealing. Too bad I made the impression of Joyce only to be denied a margarita.

I shall not suffer by this social rejection!, Monica reasoned. As dharma says: temptation for social popularity only leads to suffering.

Monica stood there.

August 17, 2006

Prompt: “What is concealed”

The truth sat quietly with them inhabiting the third chair at the restaurant table. It was a pleasant guest, keeping itself quiet vocally and careful not to nudge enough to draw attention to itself. However, the well-behaved, unspoken truth stirred so restlessly in the minds of its companions, it might as well have been one of those mariachi bands reducing a conversation into a guilty pause of respect. Or, it might be a senile parent muttering negative thoughts at a painfully inconvenient time, as painfully truthful as the observations of a child.

Amir’s gentle face danced in the candlelight, his lustrous eyelashes refracting the shadow of ringlets on his skin. Lynn’s glowing Irish freckles looked like faint constellations. Her blue eyes shined in an otherworldly manner.

No, the love story wasn’t Romeo and Juliet. No hymn of “there’s a place for us” accompanied their relationship. Truth made that clear since they sat down.

“What are you ordering?” Mary asked in a small giddy voice, still lost in last night’s rendezvous. With Amir painted in reality, three-dimensional in front of her, her thoughts couldn’t help but flash black to certain moments: the screen of sweat on his brow when he confessed his admiration, the way his fingers entangled hers from the back of her hand, a rock climber dizzy from an elevation rush.

But they had met long before this dinner encounter as two chemistry PhD students struggling through the state college. But the past – and even the present – mattered little to the face that Amir was from Morocco, Lynn was from Georgia, and neither was willing to live a life without family around them.

December 8, 2005

Prompt: “One night is as dark as the rest”

One night is as dark as the next, or it would be if the planet did not so coyfully tilt its head – and no seasons would bless us with tangible change.

When I was young, I was oblivious to seasons even though one moment Dad was fumbling with Christmas lights and another moment fumbling and cursing at the sprinkler system. For me, one night was as dark as the next. Each day blended into each other. At that time, I was too young to pocket seasons for future reference or exploit seasons as a topic of conversation. My world barely extended beyond my little girlhood drama.

Now, decades later, I am emotionally invested in the small traditions seasons inspire in us. What would life be like without the ebb and flow of light throughout the year? Life without spring surely would have starved us of ee cummings and in winter would deprive us of colorful well-lit homes and the quiet of a snowy landscape. Without summer, we’d lose the freshness of Beach Boys harmonics, fad diets, and excuses for rest. Without the fall, we’d lose crisp air, the grace of trees baring all, oaks painted yellow and maple trees orange.

I’m so happy the planet tilts just enough it give nice distinct phases so we can live in four ways and exist in different shades. So we can fill awkward silences with the one conversation no one tires of:

”Is winter beginning to blow through?”

“Wow, I love when strawberries are in season!”

“It’s so hot!”

We praise, we complain and we are thankful for how it consumers our time.

Life without seasons is a straight line instead of a circle. It is one mode, like living life without highs and lows. What would we be? What would I be?