I have moved my
self out side to the pinc nic table under the patio roof, hoping to
be quick enough so as to not interrupt my grandmother thoughts. I've
also just put some bread for the birds and a pile of unshelled
peanuts for the squirrel. It's still a mellow pace nothing
threatening rainy day. A pair of blue jays just flew in for an
argument over a rye crust while the other birds just hang out of the
rain like little discreet decorations placed in the shrubbery that
surrounds my Mother's yard. I’m remembering a dream from last
night, a dream about my sister well about her tomato plants as she
wasn't really in it but I knew it was her who cut down all her five
foot plants, cut them in half and then transplanted them to the other
side of the tool shed and I thought to myself that it must be too
late in the season to transplant and besides who ever heard of
pruning tomato plants? And when I looked at the ground where they had
been the grass had already covered where her garden used to be.
I just lit a
cigarette and about 25 birds went up with the smoke. The squirrel is
still eating his peanuts; his tail laid up over his head umbrellaing
him from the rain. He looks ridiculous. The Siamese cat I call Maggot
watching from under the table, too lazy to risk the rain for either
squirrel or bird. The rain harder now, the last few bits of bread
aren't worth it for the birds but the squirrel is strung out on
peanuts. As for me it's time for a fresh cup and a piss. Now even the
squirrel is gone, maybe his umbrella got a cramp?
"It is
only when we can believe that we are creating the soul that life has
any meaning...." May Sarton. Journal of a Solitude
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†卯汩瑵摥†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††”
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†††ü
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End Part 2A, Salamanders Green.
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