Taking the Prompt: Writing from the Creative Center

Taking the Prompt

Writing from the Creative Center 1

Writing from the Creative Center

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Taking the Prompt Writing from the Creative Center Spring 2012

NY Writers Coalition Press

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Copyright © 2012 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor/Layout: Deborah Clearman Cover photograph by Amaranth Pavis Cline: sculpture “The Wave” by Chakaia Booker Taking the Prompt contains writing by the members of The Moving Pen creative writing workshops for women conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at The Creative Center.

NY Writers Coalition thanks the following supporters, without whom this writing workshop and anthology would not exist: Kalliopeia Foundation, New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, Nora Roberts Foundation, Two West Foundation , and all our individual donors, attendees of our annual Write-AThon and NY Writers Coalition members Diana Son & Family.

NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 www.nywriterscoalition.org The Creative Center: Arts in Healthcare is a community of patients and survivors, artists, trustees, donors, and friends who are dedicated to bringing creative arts to people living with cancer and other chronic illnesses. Through offering free-of-charge workshops at workshop space and through a bedside art program in hospitals and hospices throughout the New York area, The Creative Center brings the world of art to more than 15,000 participants each year.

The Creative Center: Arts in Healthcare 273 Bowery New York, NY 10009 (646) 465-5313 www.thecreativecenter.org rglazer@thecreativecenter.org

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INTRODUCTION This past year, the Moving Pen group has been creating and sharing writing that spans human experiences from dealing with trauma to enjoying the small pleasures of everyday life.

The quirkiness of the characters that surround us in this city, the joys of solitude, the importance of laughter, memory and moments of absurdity have all made their way onto our pages each week as we craft poems, short plays and stories together.

For a couple of hours each Monday, writing allows us to transcend the demands of daily life. At the same time it allows us to explore larger meanings, emotions and challenges through language. It never ceases to be inspiring, to work with writers who embody such strength, emotional depth and humor from week to week. We can only hope our writing brings as much joy to you as it has brought to us.

Melissa Tombro Workshop Leader, April 2012

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AMARANTH PAVIS CLINE

“Fear is the Cheapest Room in the House” —Hafiz There is a social/literary pressure to have some upbeat saving grace about one’s disastrous situation. Because we have to survive, and that positive spin is helpful for survival, even for the most compromised survival. When it is presented beautifully, despair has been generally acceptable (Melancholia). The rare writer who can use humor as a foil to despair can also “go there;” however, a happy ending is required ("People Like That Are the Only People Here" by Lorrie Moore). But what if despair is not rendered beautifully, nor mediated with humor? What if it causes one to question the value of a life? Writing about walking onto a pediatric cancer ward with a sentimentalized “make a wish” point of view seems repellent, and yet the context of the child’s world seems to justify it. It is possible to hold both reactions at the same time, but despair has its place, is legitimate, and needs emotional space to be experienced. I feel intense pressure to be “positive” – yet there is something innate in me that turns toward life and I don’t need that pressure—I resent it at the same time as I see the usefulness of the positive outlook: it curbs the mindless rage. How attractive the mindless rage can be! Because it rejects the whole situation. Sometimes that does seem the correct choice. Sophie’s Choice comes to mind.

Giving up is a strange concept when living in cer-

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tain conditions is unacceptable. There is a line—we choose to live an unacceptable life. I accept things I never thought I could or would. But I am angry about it and not at all at peace with what has happened to my family or other families. I don’t believe in fate or a purpose inherent in disaster—that things happen for a reason. All I know is that the meaning of things lies in my hands. . . that is the only power, but this power is dependent on the truth of what is felt.

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AMARANTH PAVIS CLINE

The Game They formed a procession: the girl undressed and naked in the large cardboard box, the boys, some carrying the box, some leading and some following. They went up a trail in the woods beyond the co-op supermarket, silent in the speckled light of summer. It sifted through the flaps of the closed box. Inside the girl explored her body and liked being carried; the movement of the stepping boys rocked the box gently. There was a ceremonious method to their walk that made her feel very special. They were just the everyday boys she played with: wild horses, family stranded in the jungle, cowboys and Indians. This game had no name, had never been played before. It had occurred because of the box—this large, strong box they’d come upon. She felt like a queen being carried in a curtained carriage atop a jeweled elephant.

The secret of her nakedness—of the parts of her body they never saw or touched—was shared by their carrying her as she touched and explored herself rocking gently up the slope. Silent all the way. Silence when they stopped. She put her clothes on inside and they all never said a word about it then or later.

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LAUREN DOHR

Not the Patience of a Saint “Hank—is that not short for Henry?”

“Hmm?” Hank looks up from an old issue of The New Yorker magazine that he started flipping through without much interest.

“Hank—that is what you call a ‘nickname,’ yes?”

Stefan inquires with lifted eyebrows.

“It could be.”

“What do you mean it could be? It is short for what?”

“It could be a nickname. Also someone could just be Hank.”

“It could be, but it is not, is it?” Stefan pushes.

“Call me Hank.”

“But that is not your real name.”

Hank’s brows lift together, then down, then one brow rises. “What do you mean by that?”

“That it is not your real name.”

“Sure it is. I’m Hank, just like I told you.”

“Hank . . . Hank—why Hank?”

“Why Stefan?”

“You still do not pronounce it correctly.”

“What—Hank? I sure do pronounce it correctly.

Same way I’ve always pronounced it.”

“No, I mean Stefan—you still do not pronounce Stefan correctly.”

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Hank drops The New Yorker on the couch and looks up at the Parisian. “OK. I’m trying. I never studied French, OK?” “But you are now. You study me very much.”

Hank studies Stefan’s face, looking for one lifted corner of his mouth signaling a dry—very dry—joke. “I’m studying you and I don’t understand this lesson. What is the issue with my name?”

“All I am saying is that Hank cannot be your real name.” “‘Cannot.’ Why cannot it be my real name?”

“Because Hank is not a Christian name.”

“So only Christian names are real names? . . .

What do you mean by that?”

“There is not an Angel Hank or a Saint Hank. It is not a Christian name.”

“Oh . . . Hank ‘is not a real name because it is not a Christian name.’ What if I was named after my uncle who was Jewish? Then you’re right—it wouldn’t be a Christian name, now would it?”

“No, no, Hank is not Christian at all . . . But really—you had a Jewish uncle? I thought there were no Jews out there . . .” Stefan barely flicks his fingers out to indicate somewhere out ‘there.’ Somewhere not The City.

Hank gets up and turns toward the windows, arm outstretched and pointing over the lights, across the Hudson, way past New Jersey. “Out there. There are no Jews out there?”

Stefan sighs while looking for a little cartoon drawing in The New Yorker. “Come. Sit with me.” He pats the 10

couch.

Hank drops onto the couch.

“From now on, with me you will be Henri.” As Stefan slips his arm around Hank’s waist, Hank gets up off of the couch and walks back to the window.

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LAUREN DOHR

The Leaky Roof and the Orchid “Who else could we call?” It’s October and we don’t want to look forward to another winter with a leaky roof. We close the front door as yet another contractor walks away . . .

This morning’s contractor enters our living room, looks at the crumbling, powdery plaster ceiling and says, “I see you got a leak!” We are past being annoyed with them, we laugh at them now; without speaking, we agree that overstating the obvious means this is another contractor who will not be fixing our 103-year-old roof . . .

Last week, in our attempt to get three good quotes to analyze before deciding who would fix our roof, the contractor walks in from our garden – muddy boots and a Masonite clipboard – and barely looks up before he pronounces, “You got a leak!” We barely look over at each other, barely roll our eyes and check him off the list on our virtual clipboard . . .

The week before that, a straight-forward man, confident in the quality of his work, but less so in the ability of his English skills to convey how he would fix the leak . . .

September brings contractors who only know how to patch powdery antique plaster but not roofing shingles, or don’t climb exterior ladders, or will have to wait until they get a crew – as well as the guy in the shiny black Mercedes and cashmere sweater . . .

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Several years ago, our first roofer swears on his fourth trip to our house with tools and patching pitch that he “will stop the leak this time!” . . .

The very first contractor approaches the house and tells us, annoyed, “The shingles are new. What’s the problem?” and scoffs at a little water spot on the ceiling . . .

When we buy the house, we bring our afternoon tea to the plant room above the living room; a glassed-in porch, sunny, with light from three sides. Once the sun goes down, the heat disappears and we feel our hair blow across a cheek or a neck. Our plant room, our vortex of draft . . .

The first time we see the house we say, “A ‘plant room!’” The broker shows the fans, the heaters, the thermometers and the humidity sensors still in place for growing plants.

The large front yard holds great potential for a big garden and on this porch, our plants from the living room in our apartment will thrive . . .

For the doctor’s estate sale, the 94-year-old house boasts “roof recently re-shingled” and “year-round glassed-in porch” . . .

The doctor uses the porch year-round for his shelves of orchids, building walls with glass panes over the porch railing with a space below the railing for the night breezes that orchids need, not bothered if some rain sneaks in too . . .

His wife leaves the purple orchid on the table in the living room of their 67-year-old house, with four open flowers and three more buds, a gift for their 20th anniversary.

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BARBARA HOHENBERG

In Black and White Autoportrait dans l'atelier—Constantin Brancusi White cup—Bruce Cratsley Got to thinking the other day about two contrasting photos in black and white … one from nineteen ninety-three, the other taken in nineteen hundred and thirty-three.

A white cup … a bearded, white-haired sculptor …

Brancusi in his studio… looking inward, hugging himself, consoling himself, marble dust coating his shoes. He feels the grit between his teeth. His thoughts tower behind him, borne on the shapes he brought to life. Is he pleased to sit for us? What drove him to it?

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He fixed the focus, he put in the cable, he sat down on the uncut marble block.

His thumb upon the button, he tripped the shutter.

He shows himself. He shows his work. Life is what it is. Art speaks for itself.

He has no smile for us, nor for himself.

Does he perhaps look forward to the warmth of his morning cocoa as he finally gets to sleep at night? Does he then dream of holding that white cup in younger hands, sixty years younger...in warmer weather … shirt open … chest bare … belly-button barely visible … the cup in tight focus?

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BARBARA HOHENBERG

Miracles “What stranger miracles are there?” from Miracles

by Walt Whitman (Leaves of Grass) Without a doubt this grand-mama chooses the miracle of her granddaughter, the little peanut of a child outfitted with all the normal stuff of humankind: a lovely trunk, four limbs and five digits on the end of each limb.

She's got those teeny-tiny finger and toe nails!

Her head sits on her neck in a most endearing way, even when she's doing what she's supposed to be doing at her particular age. As her grand-papi says to her, “You're supposed to say no, you’re two years old.”

She shakes her head with a brilliant smile and a twinkling eye and out pops a resounding “No!”

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She’s blond and blue eyed and her eyelashes are long, curly and dark.

We are amazed at the miracle of her genes reaching back to each blond and blue-eyed grandparent, one on each side.

What a sense of style the little seedlet displayed in her choice of colors!

The eyelashes she made up out of thin air. No one ever had those.

Then there's the miracle of her ear. She'll bring me the tuning fork to indicate she wants me to ping it on my wrist bone as she sings “la” and sure enough, when I rap the fork on my wrist and let it resound, she has already sung a perfect 440 A. The tuning fork simply echoes her.

Stranger miracles, Mr. Whitman? Is mine strange enough for you?

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FRAN KOTKOV

Playing With Fire My mother always told me not to play with fire. I tossed the book of matches up in the air a few times, each time catching it just before it hit my kitchen table. If I were in a movie, this is the scene where a flashback would be inserted.

The picture of me ripples. The kitchen table is the same, a woman sits in the same chair as I’m sitting in now, she’s me but she isn’t; she’s dressed in a floral housedress typical of the 1950’s. She bears a strong resemblance to me.

She’s my mother.

The camera would pull back; the scene would open: my mother at the table, an ashtray on the table holds a burning cigarette. Wait a minute, my mother didn’t smoke! A cough is heard off camera, a cigarette cough.

The camera pulls back more. Oh, it’s my father.

He’s sitting at a right angle to her. It’s his cigarette.

The garbled sound of their voices becomes sharp and their dialogue begins. She is advising him.

“If you don’t leave this job, you’re playing with fire.

You’ve injured yourself twice. Sure, the money is great, but you’re not cut out for the carting business. Let somebody else pick up the garbage of the rich. You’ll be much safer opening this store. And I would be with you. It would be our business.” She stretched the word “our” out for emphasis.

He lifts the cigarette to his lips and drags on it slow18

ly, holds it in front of him and gazes at its glowing end. As he exhales through pursed lips, the scene fills with smoke and his shoulders slump, as if he’s exhaling all hope. “It’s hard for me to change. I had such plans.”

“Plans?” She nearly explodes. “Why aren’t you getting the message? You’re in constant pain. I’m telling you Joe, you keep playing with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”

My tea kettle starts whistling, snapping me out of my reverie. Yes, my mother was full of good advice, much of it based on what not to do, often prefaced by her favorite expression, “Don’t play with fire.”

Well, I certainly took her advice most of the time… exhibit A: my whistling tea kettle. Makes me wonder what other subtle influences she had on me.

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FRAN KOTKOV

A Miracle To her mother, it was a miracle that she’d arrived safely with all her luggage intact. The moment she’d gotten to the house where she would be staying for the year, she emailed her mother to let her know.

“I’m in Catania. I’m here with all my luggage. It was an easy transfer in Rome. The family I’m staying with is wonderful. A presto.”

Well yes, her mother breathed a sigh of relief. Of course the trip was blessed. She had been meditating upon it for months. Every mile she ran, she repeated the mantra to herself: “All is well, all is well,” as she pictured her daughter safely in the sunshine of Italy, loving every minute of her adventure.

And all through the packing and the arguments…

“Don’t take that, you won’t need it, you’re going to Southern Italy.”

“But it rains there. I’ll need a trench coat.”

“How many pairs of shoes do you really need?

You’ll be in Italy. You’ll want to buy new shoes.”

“I’ll need comfortable ones. I’ll be walking a lot.”

Yes, all through those arguments, her mother had whispered the mantra to herself, “All is well, all is well.”

And she had pictured her daughter checking in at the airport, moving through the security line, approaching the gate—she pictured her happily taking each step of the journey without 20

a hitch.

All through the weighing of the suitcases, the packing and unpacking and re-packing, the stacks of possessions left cluttering the living room because the daughter wasn’t sure she’d be packing those things or leaving them behind; all through the shopping for travel sized cosmetics, all through the trip to the bank for the euros, all through the letters written to inquire into housing, she had run the tape on a loop inside her head, just at the border of consciousness, “All is well, all is well. Yes she will love the adventure, she will adore her students, she will not be homesick, she will bask in the luxury of this being a year of her life she will never forget.”

At the airport, as they walked toward security, she breathed in the thought, “All is well.” And with her exhales, she breathed out the thought, “All is well.”

She kissed her goodbye. “All is well.” And she hugged her, injecting the rhythm of the chant, “All is well,” into the embrace as they felt each other’s heart beat.

Yet, when she got the e-mail, receiving the good news that her daughter had arrived safely, she considered it a miracle. So she answered.

“It’s so good to hear that you arrived safely.

Thanks for letting me know that all is well.”

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PEGGY LIEGEL

Needing “We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all.”

—Annie Dillard I like my on/off switches on the wall, nine inches from the latch side of the door and four feet above the floor, and all in white without any smudges. Pristine, on blue walls, red walls, yellow walls, white walls.

In a one room basement studio apartment, I prefer a threesome white wall plate, with the outdoor light in the middle, flanked by the kitchen to the right and living room to the left, not as switches but as push button see-saw planks for the dazed making the transition from street to home.

Opening two outer doors and three locks with two keys fumbling and stumbling (with a head that panics at the sight of the glass/screened gated door and locks and holes); doors to walls to dark to light turning keys, an act of courage just to get the right key in the right doorknob.

Once inside, I just swing that arm around after dropping bundles and silently lock what I just unlocked and swing that arm around, breathe and touch the middle white and it’s dark again outside and dark inside, a dark that’s wearable because I think I’m home.

I know this home in the dark better than in the light.

In the dark, it’s touchable and spacious. In the light it breaks 22

my heart all over again.

Even water from the fridge, in a gallon Poland Spring bottle, tastes better in the dark, standing right against the table’s edge, bracing the self for a hard, cold pour.

It is when I come in and unburden myself that I notice the thirst rising up from within, how dry my mouth, how stuck my throat, how tired I really am.

And I need the soft landing of each day’s end to switch exhaustion to sleep. And I need to stop my arms from reaching and just lay them softly by my side, attached to me.

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PEGGY LIEGEL

The Orchard The brick wall is high or low depending on the day and level of fear. As a wall hiding a building in unknown space, it seems insurmountable. Traveling down the road from all directions at night, it looms the largest.

It has gates from all directions, hard to open in the dark. It hugs the sidewalk’s edge—all bricked up and different from the setback driveway houses changing from Christmas lights to twinkling hearts.

The bricks are piled thick and high, professional bricklayer’s art learned in the old country. It hides an orchard from public view. The birds fill the trees and eat the ripened fruit on and off the trees. In winter, trees are cut back to almost nothing and the birds go elsewhere.

When it rains, the earth absorbs all the sounds and me in it. It is soft inside the rain surrounded by walls and earth and rarely cold, being rained on and not wet.

When it snows, the snow in the stump orchard next to the red brick wall takes a long time to melt and stays white until it disappears into the greenest thin blades of shiny grass.

The wind scatters plastic bags and flyers and paper cups that get caught in tree claws and cling there, layer upon layer and rarely removed.

Ms. Havisham’s orchard fills up with trash till heavy rains and wind and eons of time shake everything loose and free.

And out an open gate, open because too hard to close, everything flows.

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MICHELLE SLATER

Sixty Years of Naming Them Patsy, a jet-black Spaniel, and her puppies—Nip & Tuck, who were somehow poisoned while playing outside— Cleopatra, the cat who wandered away, never to return, after her six unnamed newborn kittens disappeared. I was told they choked on chicken bones while I was at school—Dixie, the water worshiping Springer Spaniel—Charlie/Ollie, a terrier, whose dual name made peace between my brother and me— Roger, the six-toed Coon cat, neighbors thought was a small dog—Sweet Alice, who was that, and much more—Marilyn A. Wolf, a perfect miniature poodle—The Howler, a classic American short-hair tabby everyone loved, was buried under a rose bush which bloomed prodigiously that Spring—The Lord Kitchener, who came to be known as Kitchen-Fur— the gallant, Sir Galahad—Little Mary, a favorite feline— Connie Dear, tubby, nondescript canine found tied to the local church steps with a supply of food to help her through the night, but, no note—Delia Cunningham, rescued from a train on her way to the pound, and named after my mother's mother, who died before I was born—John Doe, a terribly clumsy mutt, who, as the name implies, was first “unidentified”—Tiny Katie, the elegant Papillon, who should have been named Katherine The Great.

Finally, because a surfeit of stretching to open, clenching to close, and straining to open again as each one passed from the world, had worn me down, and grief, I think, is cumulative, and because the retirement income had dimin25

ished my capacity considerably to provide well for others’ needs, I swore a solemn oath to leave that tender space empty for a year, just to see what keeping it blank would feel like. I resisted every impulse to take the easy out. Then, one abandoned kitten confronted me suddenly: eight weeks-old, riddled with fleas, hungry, and cold, where no kitten ever, ever ought to be. Three weeks later, and nine-hundred dollars lighter, I passed a healthy, clean, adorable Murray Angus into the waiting arms of a younger, richer woman, and oh, missed him terribly for quite a while.

Now, I must admit to having forgotten, not the beings, but the names of eighty-two other creatures who came and went through my life (dogs, cats, lizards, rabbits, and doves). Some stayed until their natural ends, some were well placed close to the beginning. Memories fade, and names, never faces, eyes, odors, feelings, nor all those lessons gleaned of such intimate, close- companionship. Flashes of animal, avian, or reptilian beings sometimes incarnate as translucent light-streaks, passing swiftly from room to room if I turn my head too quickly, or the sun is at a certain slant. They have all taken turns in my dreams as well, dutiful still. What was once loved, is never dead. Or, so it's said, and sounds true. Yes, it is true, I'm sure—a fact, a verity, the gospel, an absolute, whose proof is permanently stamped in me for any fool to see.

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MELISSA TOMBRO

The Room Purple was the only color that made her happy and content. She recently watched a documentary on the negative effects of stress and realized she needed to make some drastic changes in her life. She thought repainting her walls would be a good start. At the Lowe’s she stood alone in front of easily 100 different shades – Disney Princess Pink, Benjamin Moore Lemon Yellow, a sateen finished persimmon – it was impossible to figure out what color would both give her the satisfaction of change and allow her more comfort in her dark studio apartment. She had accepted that any decision she made was going to affect her alone, so there was no use in consulting friends. It was time she accepted her circumstances and took control of her life.

The first color her hand reached for was heather; it was light and airy and almost the same color as a childhood blanket her grandmother had knitted for her in a chevron pattern. Underneath it on the card were three other shades that looked almost red to her – strange how the eye can’t pick out the subtler tones until they are intensified or spread out on a wall reflecting the light. Lavender, well, now that was pretty standard, equally as soft but with a bluer tinge, one that was reminiscent of the sky at dusk, just when the stars began to prick the sky with their reflections. But she was wrong – underneath it was twilight, a more intense shade that made her nervous instead of calm.

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She went to the children’s colors, the colors most people would paint a shelf not an entire studio apartment. She reached for the darkest one – grape jelly. She giggled to herself – the point of this entire thing was to find some joy in her life, to make a decision that would stir things up, but not too much, and move her beyond her comfort zone. The ironic name of this childhood staple contrasted with the statement the color would make did it, that’s what she needed to choose.

She brought the swatch to the young pimple faced girl and asked her to mix it. As she watched the girl look up and program the code, she became nervous again. There were thick transparent streams alternating, shooting into the white creamy base like the beginnings of some maniacally flavored milk. The machine stopped and the girl quickly pulled the gallon out, hammered on the top and set it in the mixer. The machine shook it violently. The counter rumbled under her arms as she waited.

She looked at all the other colors on the displays, the cartoon characters, the serene pictures of homes, dining rooms, families watching TV, and waited for her new beginning.

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ZOE EIFFEL

Gone Fishing Control mongers exasperate me.

Number ONE: How arrogant!

Number TWO: How shortsighted!

Number THREE: How misguided, and— Number FOUR: How sad, because it is the order beyond anything we could ever imagine which yields the greatest payoff.

Discovery !!

How absolutely foolish to trade the fireworks’ fish below the reef for the everyday tuna which always makes a sandwich, but never an epiphany.

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Amaranth Pavis Cline Lauren Dohr Zoe Eiffel Barbara Hohenberg Fran Kotkov Peggy Liegel Michelle Slater Melissa Tombro

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