I am sitting at a plastic table, next to tarmac stained with indecipherable blots of black. In the absorbed and muted shapes of oil, the meaning of life lies for all to see and few to understand. I see but I do not understand.
Above me black poles string wires across the sky. Beside me paint peels. The coffee is hot and sweet and delicious.
Females in expensive blue jeans squawk and peck at each other and the world from the next table. I suddenly understand how women might be referred to as birds. They notice me, an older woman alone, ruffled by wind and sitting opulent in frayed overalls and a wrinkled shirt. Missives fly by me as their conversation dips and turns to a discussion of writers and eccentrics. I stare into the blue sky and wonder. I do not want to understand.
Today, my morning walk includes a quiet cup of coffee. I am quiet; the "birds" are not. Near this outdoor table and chair vehicles pass, each calling out in a different voice, a different language. There is variety here, there is movement, and there is noise.
It is difficult to maintain a sense of self in such an environment. Just as these thoughts form, a winged bird perches on an overhanging wire and calls insistently for my attention. I see; I hear, and I do understand. As all else fades to background, I find that I am sitting here with myself once again. How is it that my own species cannot comprehend me, while this winged creature captures me so easily with a dispassionate eye?
It is much easier to write when invisible. In a larger city I could sit quietly, mind my own business, and watch the world go by. I would be invisible. In a larger city, scruffy old women in overalls scribbling madly into notebooks would not be considered unusual. They would not be considered at all. Sometimes being ignored is not the worst thing.
The weather is lovely and warm. The sun shines, breezes blow. Attila has been busy and absent. It has only been a few short weeks since he was snatched away. The adjustment, although jarring, is now nearly complete. We have fallen together into a new rhythm of absence and presence. My initial loneliness has been replaced by, "Goodness, your home already! How lovely!"
My many interests provide a wealth of easy and varied entertainment. This week I have rediscovered and taken up my bodhran. Sometimes I will play the beating of my heart, at other times I will play with recorded music. On rare occasions I play with other humans, other hearts that open and share. On rare occasions, when that fifteen minutes of fame is forgotten, the me becomes the we and dancing hearts cavort and frolic as one. Quality costs money, the best things in life are free.
My last journal entry was spoken into a microphone and edited on a keyboard. This journal entry was written with a pen on paper and manually typed into the computer. In the past, most of my journal entries have been typed into the computer from the keyboard. I wonder if the way words are recorded significantly changes the style with which they are written or the choice of their content and focus.
Perhaps I will notice a difference while listening to some of these entries as I totter around a nursing home with my walker, lightweight pocket computer, and headset.
|RECIPES :: Cast
Beside the Table
By the Easy Chair
The Vision of Emma Blau
by Ursula Hegi
Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 3
5:37 PM DST
Temp: 24` C
Wind: S 19 mph
Barometric:101.5 kPa (v)
Sunrise 6:18 AM DST
Sunset 8:24 PM DST
Above the Table
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