Notes on Writing, Research and Editing

Lopez swept his arm around rapidly, frantically trying to salvage his art class assignment: To create a piece inspired by Van Gogh’s.  Were they really that far gone on inspiration – art teachers – to where they would choose this work by Van Gogh?  Not that Van Gogh isn’t a great artist or anything, but he’s got so many works that have not appeared on post cards and cheesy stationary – Avenues of Poplars in Autumn for example or Basket of Potatoes or even Bobbin Winder.  Perhaps it was the fact that Lopez was in a dark mood already – Alvera left him yesterday and he couldn’t seem to get his groove on.  Maybe it was more the fact that he really would rather make a painting inspired by Dali – Dali’s Portrait of My Sister perhaps or even Opposition. 

What did it matter anyway?  He thought as he swirled red onto the canvas.  Red is the color of blood.  It’s the color of passion.  It’s the color of anger. It’s the color of betrayal.  Lopez dipped his brush into the blue without first cleaning the original color from it. The color smeared into a dirty purple.  It was supposed to be – what the heck was it supposed to be?  Who was he kidding?  Lopez was a scientist, not an artist. He sighed and painted a big “x” through the painting.  He had succeeded in creating a mess of color – almost looking like something his little brother would finger paint – and it looked nothing like the view out of his apartment window at night.

Why did Alvera have to leave, anyway?  He thought things had been pretty good with them, but then, suddenly, she became quiet and distant.  Women were a field he never dared to attempt to understand. Talk about the elusive top quark! Lopez leaned back against the wall, his paintbrush in hand.  She didn’t even leave a note.  He sank down to the floor and put his head in his hands.  The paintbrush stuck out like a unicorn horn.  He didn’t know where to call her at.  They got into a stupid argument about a stupid envelope and bam.  He came home from class and her things were gone.  He thought about Van Gogh – stupid Van Gogh and how he cut off his ear and sent it to his girlfriend.  Lopez wondered whether he would have the same fate if he kept trying to branch out of his analytic comfort zone. 

He sat his brush down on the floor.  The phone rang.  It rang a second time and a third.  After the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up and agony, heart wrenching agony set in as Alvera’s voice cheerfully told the caller to pick up the phone. “You’ve reached Allie and Lopez, leave a message!”  His chest hurt.  He might have a heart attack.  Alvera’s voice chimed in, “Hey Lo, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you where I am.  I can tell you I’m okay, not to worry about me.  I just don’t know if we can work this one out.  We need some time -  yes, we need some time apart.” 

Something about the way she paused in the middle chilled Lopez.  It was almost like she was being prompted to give her speech.  But that was ridiculous.  She had taken all of her clothing.  Well, not all of it, but her favorite items.  Why couldn’t she just leave a message with her whereabouts?  Her phone number?  Something to mark the fact they had been together for five years?  With that thought, Lopez screamed in frustration.