5000

One day she rode her beautiful dirty black Warrior mountain bike to old student street for dumpling lunch. Delicious.

She prefers old student street to boring new commercial student campus street. She enjoys mature green leafy trees filled with small wild sparrows darting down to feed in garden patches. She savors a wide blue sky and orphaned clouds. She swallows sky removed from blaring omnipresent bland Chinese TV soap operas and cell phone addicted youth.

“Text me baby! Reveal your passion in 5,000 characters. Say things with electronic letters and symbols you’d never find the courage to speak out loud. Your silence is deafening.

"Hold my hand. Better yet, my baby, when we walk covered in our innocent adolescent shyness, slowly rub your elbow against my skin so I know you care, reveal your shy desire with deference and longing. Our skin pours hormonal activity into the possibility we may eventually dance naked. Text me baby!”

A boy approached the table. “May I sit here?” 

“Sure.” 

“May I talk with you?” 

“Sure. You talk I listen.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

sound

My speech voice is missing.

I make rolling guttural sounds expressing metaphors, similes, intonations, frequencies, meaning, sense, time, ideas, dreams, relationships, secrets, my traditional family values, fear, passion, heart and sadness. Joy.

By the time I learned the alphabet it was late in life toward primordial dusk.

Late in the moment from before now and then. Late in the whisper of silent air singing from the trash collector’s plastic bottle. He pulls his rolling cart. Filled with cardboard. A muscular rhythm stirs sonomulent dust on broken stones. I see, said the blind girl. You can’t step in the same river twice.  

Possibilities and probabilities, chance and coincidence flutter finger fragments. Unknown mysterious sensations fling from my signing hands. Fingers and hands are language extensions. Blossom being. My lover visualizes me in tropical brown skin toned worlds. He imagines I will join a hearing impaired community. He’s a dreamer. I jump ahead in my story. It won’t happen. I am a slave.

secret

Shhh. I have a new secret short term lover while Thorny is home in OZ.

I am easy going with a willingness to share honest emotional connections. 

No commitment is a temporary abstraction. My passion is immediate truth in my brown eyes. My eyes are complete sensory awareness. I see voices.

I am a voiceless one, quivering lips and tenacious touch with my secret lover. I am a tiger trusting the darkness of respect where my sexual joy is shy and mutual. I dance a tactile tenderness in a silent breath. 

My unfinished symphony lives with visual touch, holding his small kiss along my spine. I do this because I love it. It is my destiny. A wild swan feels air lifting its wings. A flower opens its petals to sun, warming my heart-mind. It is my fate. 

My tender lover comes to me in the heat of the day. I welcome him with my eyes, gesturing a finger on lips, shh. He is kind. My passion is deep and strong. My languages speak eyes, smiles, hands.

Gestures create us in space. 

  

family stupidity

Ok so I'm a big seven as in 7.

My dad's not very smart. It's probably his DNA. A string theory of letters. Genetics. Gee.  Net. Icks. 

Let me give you a kind hearted example of his stupidity. It's the rainy season here in Laos. Slashing squalling delicious rain. Soft, cool, soothing. Like tears. Cry me a river.

So it's pouring like honey. What's dear old dad do? He washes his silver van in a downpour. Smart eh? Yeah, he's trying with intention, to impress dry watchers with his intelligent hose running water over rain. Cleaning.

He ignores me mostly.

He's very busy. He disappears for hours. Drinking beer with friends. Playing around with a secret squeeze in dark places. Starving for affection and cash. A poor girl from a poor family needs to make a living poor thing.

My mom's really smart also. After the rain, when it's dry and the smallest full moon of the year rises above the Mekong before a river festival filled with floating orange flowers and burning candles she burns all the plastic garbage. Yeah. Burn baby burn. Light my fire.

It's a sweet smell, let me tell you. Like that Duvall character when he said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Kinda like that. Smell. What's the word? Acrid. 

When she's not burning plastic trash she sweeps. Broom music. Stone cold. She cooks. She pretends to be busy. She's a baby machine. What's another mouth?

She ignores me mostly.

She's very busy. Later, she squawks. She's a soft kind later.

People here like parents and teachers and lazy passive humans love, and I mean love to pretend to be busy.

I guess it gives their short life meaning.

Their existence is one long perpetual distraction. Say what?

As Jobs said, You may as well do what you love because you're going to spend most of your life doing it.

Well, I gotta go. Feed the sparrows. Crumbs. They sing. They fly down. They eat. They fly away.

I'm too young to know much. Ain't nothing but the blues. Dust my Broom.  

your move

Amy is a shy girl. G7.

A wisp.

She feels sad because her father left to find work.

It takes courage to raise a child.

Reminds him of some adults - lost, sad, bored.

She is gradually becoming more self assertive.

She moved closer to his desk.

 

He asked about chess. Yes, she said, I can play.

Ok, he said, Let's play tomorrow.

The first day he immediately saw her thinking, planning and skill.

Now they play every morning from 745-815 before class begins.

Others stand around watching with short attention spans.

She had some opening weaknesses.

He gave her some suggestions to strengthen her play.

Castle early. Develop knights and bishops.

Now she plays with stronger confidence. 

This is a great joy.

He introduces chess to all the kids this month.

Life's lessons.

Your move, Amy said.

His heart sings hearing her voice.