there would truly be too much to state of the goings on since my last entry, so naturally i'll just give an understated quip, yes, i'm at Hollins University, wonderful freedom, fantastic new friends, beautiful old buildings and eccentric professors, and i am doing great. i have tea everyday and i don't exercise enough though i did learn rockclimbing, and i want to relearn tai-chi (though of the mind- i've learned so much asian philosophy from a class of that name and it's wonderful!- and of the material- i bought a 60 year old fujita kutani tea set that is so exquisite and awesome and i have tea parties!) i don't feel like i get enough time these days for intense wonder at living, but i suppose learning as much amazing insights and histories from school as i can stuff is good enough for now, and i can work it all out later. i'm visiting lee again in a week for a week! which is very very exciting and i hope it's all magic and love and resparking of that essential mind-body marveling, and deciphering of the omnipresent spark of life and disembodying joy and wonder, and hehe i'm sure i'll have an amazing time. well all the little details don't matter anyway, so there's an overview, and i love everyone, and once again people don't forget you're alive and capable and thinking and just one person in a big bustling world. love and share and be compassionate.

here's a short story i wrote in four hours straight, so it's not polished by any means, but for fiction from me, it's ok.

Keara

Watercan

            The house sank dry, stiff, like an old plaster cast ready to crack. Mary had died, bloated and bitter, in the blue wide-load reclining chair positioned sardonically in the sunshine. The air fanning heavy from the chair smelled of moldy sweat and cat food, like it had sucked some wheezing soul from her and now sat mostly as a sepulcher but partially animated with the clawing acrimony of the final weeks, the strongest force of the small house. Paul felt like a dwindling sack of rice, and drank water from a plastic blue cup as he gazed through the chair from the doorway. He smiled weakly, yet his eyes grinned like jelly beans, even though the shades were open and any faithful neighbor could spy with disgust this shameful act. He didn’t have to smell that awful chair, didn’t even have to walk close to it. After all the years she bore into the chair croaking up curses and spit, he was the devotional, sacrificing husband, bringing food, water, lemonade, beach reads, and moving her to and from the bed, and now he was free. He turned his back on the chair and strolled through the kitchen to the cool sliding glass door. His garden hadn’t been pruned all summer.

dbd

            Roses the size of pomegranates swayed in a small circular courtyard shaded by a bulbous fountain, a gray horny lizard skulking left and right on the dusty rocks for sign of a bug. An old man with brown shorts to his knees and socks up to his calves bends over with a tin water can with painted daises on its face, lovingly letting the gushing water fill the pansies and bluebells pots, hanging from the lattice terrace. He titled the can back to him and held it in both hands, stepping back into the morning sun and feeling right with his old age. The cherry tomatoes would be warming now, and he had sensed yesterday his squash and cucumbers would be ready for picking within the next few days. He noticed the perfect emerald green of the grass at his feet as he slowly sauntered to the side of the house with the vegetables, and plopped one cherry tomato into his thin mouth as he eyed the plump squash and mint cucumber, fleshy and rough yet decadently green sitting there on the wiry stem. With well calloused hands he covered the whole mid section and yanked- a snap separating it from unassuming plant to tonight’s stir fry and salad. He dropped them in his sagging pockets and walked through the back porch to the kitchen, mingling through shade and sun.

            The air-conditioning hit him like a full moon, and he left the now warming sliding door open to let some out. He retrieved the green vegetables from his pockets and gave them a rinse in the sink, the brown water swirling in the drain. He could hear the rumbling of trucks on the highway and occasionally a car backing out of a driveway, with the muffled crackle of gravel. He glided over to the cutting board and pulled out a short, but sharp knife, cutting off a few meticulously thin slices from the juicy cucumber, and felt them crunch into little pieces in his mouth. Sweetly satisfied with his choice of picking day, he plunked a zip lock baggie from a drawer to the left and secured the remaining cucumber setting it neatly in the chill vegetable drawer in the fridge. The light he was working under began to sputter but he had no intentions of fixing it then; now he wanted a Pepsi and time on the couch to rest his legs and watch the life outside.

            He wedged off his shoes at the heel with his alternate big toes, and rested them upon a brocade pillow, picking up a blanket off the floor and draping his body. He turned his head towards the big window, showcasing ladies watering lawns with hoses and curly haired children jumping over arching ropes and flying over sprinklers. He gazed out into the sun-bleached street and then up into the forgetful blue sky, as his lids slowly closed and opened, then resolutely closed again.

aga

            His misty eyes spotted the small wooden coo-coo clock perched on the wall by the window, and it was already after twelve. He jostled his body up, realizing he hadn’t watered the whole left side of his garden, envisioning his shriveling rhododendrons leaning to him in desperate thirst. As he sat hunched, wriggling on his shoes, a small dusty mail truck chugged about to each house and stuffed two letters into his box, before speeding along to the next cul-de-sac. He sat for a second, pondering the peril of his flowers over the possibilities of mail, and found himself hustling out the front door. As he pulled open the green box, he noticed the heating bill, an offer for a new credit card, and a curious half sheet of construction paper pushed to the back.

            He reached inside and drew out the paper with his index and middle finger. With neither his nor a return address, he became bewildered, but read on.

          I see you’re sleeping, so I won’t bother you now. I am very excited to have found you; it has been a long search. I will come by again tomorrow with a surprise.

            He had the slight invasive feeling of being watched, but soon his hands were fidgeting and his mind racing. This didn’t make sense, but it was like reading mystery books as a kid under his blanket with a flashlight. He dug through the well-worn corrugated channels of his brain and found nothing that spelled “woman with a secret has an intense desire to see you.” He walked back to the house looking into his hands and onto the ground, imagining foreign feet walking next to his own. The last real letter he had gotten was from the wife of a friend, a few weeks ago, saying how her dear husband has passed, and she offered her condolences. The letter before that was from a daughter who wouldn’t dare call him or visit, but had gotten into a hassle with an overdrawn account, and needed $400. By the time he poured a glass of lemonade and sat still at his kitchen table for fifteen minutes, he had forgotten his flowers.

            Throughout the sunny day he sat intermittently on the couch, at the table, on his bed, or leaning against the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed, and his hands clutching the stranger’s puzzling sentiment, flipping it to the front and back like twittering with a combination lock. His brain faltered; no answers came. He felt like a 20 some kid waiting for his lover at a secret destination to elope, but the hours ticking by and anxiety overcoming the rush of excitement. In bed, after tuning in the Tonight Show with glazed eyes, his skin tingled and the darkness of the walls stayed impenetrable long after the TV went to black.

aha

            The morning’s rays hit like a hangover; his rough hands scraped the sleep from his eyes. He lifted the covers from his sweaty body and shuffled his way to the kitchen, breaking eggs into a sizzling pan and adorning his plate with fresh grapes from his yard and thick apple wedges. He poured a half glass of lemonade and casually peered out into his garden, at which he leapt up, ripped the sliding glass door open, and frantically filled his water can. The rhododendrons seemed calm enough, the light not yet hitting their great balls of tiny flowers; they were intact, delicate still. He gave a thorough dousing of the whole of the left side, meditatively walking from plant to plant, feeling their robust leaves and vibrant petals. He sighed amidst his dewy garden splendor, and nonchalantly walked back into the rush of air-conditioning within his kitchen.

            As he applied the last tomato slice to his turkey sandwich, the doorbell rang. His heart raced maniacally and he froze. As it rang a second time, he peered around the door entry to the living room and walked on soft feet, past the open window, up to the opaque door, and braced himself as he opened the threshold between content living and the brilliance of the unknown, and saw a thirty some woman with intensely curly hair and rounded features beaming at him.

            “Hello! It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Paula, the woman who left that strange note yesterday. I’m sorry if it was a bother, but I didn’t want to disturb you.” She peered her head forward and looked around inside. “I came here for Mary, is she home?” looking dreadfully excited.

            “I’m sorry miss, but she passed on about a month ago,” stopping for a moment. “Did you know her?”

            “Oh God. I’m sorry. No I didn’t know her. I’m so sorry, mister. I was just, I just have these things of hers that I thought she would greatly appreciate to have them returned. You see I recently bought her mother’s house, who was a very old woman and passed away about two months ago, and in the attic there was a whole collection of dolls and stuffed animals that were very old and in near perfect condition. I thought it would be nice, you know, in old age, to have those back, remember childhood fondly you know? Well, it seems silly now, but I have them all boxed up in the back of my van, and well, I could keep them, or I could just give them to you…?”

            He stood there stunned for a moment, and then exclaimed, “ Sure, I’ll take them. I didn’t really know much about her childhood, Mary’s. Thank you so much dear. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

Currently Playing Bringing It All Back Home By Bob Dylan see related

"Awareness in action"

A woman waddling in a plastic walker pants while exiting Walmart,

As a man drags two sad kids to their Plymouth with his eyes sunken and shifty,

And an old faded woman with her hair tied back smokes Virginia Slims while her dog takes a piss on the curb.

I get sick of the lighting, sick of that smiling yellow asshole rolling back prices so 10 million children get 10 cents less pay,

And drive past a house with a blooming pear tree where a woman in a shawl coughs in a chair eating 20 pills a day and dying without a word to say,

While her neighbor just waters the lawn.

I feel sick with abstraction, rolling down my window fast to feel the air and smell the mix of trees and asphalt,

Feel alive today, in this fluid moment in time, live in the moment!, those words you read in self help psychology and Buddha’s sutras alike.

I see still trees with chopped off branches,

Anonymous cups with sun bleached writing trying to decay into gravel,

And the sun 93 million miles away making shadows and making life,

And burning blue circles in my retina if I take a glimpse too long,

Stopped at a red light with my arm out the window

I see the glittering substance of the here and now,

The bush obscuring the “Burke Centre” sign

And the kudzu taking over a telephone wire.

I’ve been living in stories of harmonized Indians or the quick quips of enlightened ascetics wandering in mountains with fog and forest shacks,

Conversing with idealized poets all ecstatically happy

With the birth of a flower making fires in the desert and riding mules in a canyon,

While my fingers fumble to fold the laundry.

I’m going down tonight to the Pohick Library and I’ll attend that meeting for the Peace Corps,

Waving to the woman who looks unnoticeable and normal yet is carrying a copy of Cat’s Cradle by Vonnegut,

And smile feeling the ground at my feet even though five yards down a big angry man kicks his sports car while his wife silently studies the dashboard.

well, well, well, i'm not planning on making this a long entry because lee will be calling soon, panting back from his scooter adventure at the beach, and i actually still have a great amount of homework i should be doing at all times til mid june because it really is just that much- ridiculous. i am thoroughly ready to have all high school work obliterated from my daily routine and my consciousness, this is impeding on keara's love and excitement of life! i feel like i've done my share gimme a break. oh well though there really is such a very small amount of time left that this bickering soon enough will become inconsequential. i've felt pretty excited lately, a lot more has been happening in reality (skipping school and spending the day in occuaquan, driving all around with people i barely get to see and roaming around a graveyard! and trying to connect with people who were alive in the 1700's. that was such an awesome, yet surprisingly cold day for may.) i believe those parenthesis stopped to serve their purpose as that turned into not the intended blurb, but something worth delving thoroughly into. germaine even took pictures of the graveyard, on that overcast day, when the sun had already set, but there was still light out. so when we got to elliot's though and he was going through the pictures, there actually were freaking orbs, white gooey looking orbs, floating around gravestones. now there could be some perfect explaination for this, but it was still freaky, and so amazing, to have those orbs right there to at least ponder, what could possibly be something akin to pure life right there, and considering i asked if he had ever seen anything like that on his camera and he said "no," and he takes a lot of pictures, it was at least worth taking note. ahh, well actually i've had this entry up for a few days now because i keep getting interrupted, so i'll give a brief update for the rest- the next day i went to kings dominion with jen and robert and elliot and rachel and sam and sierra, and we had such an awesome time, and i had the opportunity to get a lot closer to sierra, and she really is a unique and interesting, and just aweosme person, and i hope we can hang out again sometime. then uh week days happened school blah and last night i actually had a lot of fun, going to see the short plays which were incredible! and i was so impressed with everyone for writing and directing such funny, witty, for the most part professional quality plays. tiffany's play was so absolutely amazing, and i am so proud and so amazed at all that the play came out to be. the acting was absolutely brilliant, all the added humor to the story worked surprisingly perfect and it added so much, and the way the story unfolded and all the poignancy and insight were beautiful. i couldn't believe it. i actually really wish i could see it again, or that they taped it or something. ok well it's getting a little later and i have a lot to do today so i'll try to do an update on all that's i've been feeling and thinking and how i can feel such change coming that i have no precedent for and i don't really know how to react but to just see how things go. well yeah i'll get into that later.

Love,

Keara