Monday, October 19, 2009


I just wanted to start off the evening by saying that...Rosebud.

There is this little old lady.  She is pale white, small, slightly hunched over, and she prepares some tea for herself.  She brings it to her little round, wood table, not much larger than the circumference of what would enclose a chessboard. 

She sits by her little storybook window with diamond shaped, lead filled pane-frames.  It is drizzling and windy outside.  Her view out of her small brown house is of many green plants and trees in rich, brown soil, which are blowing in the wind gusts.

She wears round spectacles with thin, wiry frames, which magnify her great powder blue eyes many times over.  She holds the cup handle with her left hand and supports it with her right and she is lost in thought.

The patter of the rain and wind blows across the roof of her house nestled in the jungle-like hills of a lost forest. 

The little lady has not seen anyone socially in ages.  Just the postman who makes his trip once per week, and the food delivery truck that comes by every two weeks.

She reads and read and reads.  That’s how she spends here time in the quiet.  She is tranquil and content in her way of life.