Pumpkin patch kids… “I want it to Exist”

Week 4

I’m wearing a long green skirt and I’m happy. This is the red striped top I ran my marathon in.

Silence. Electricity down, no WIFI. No service either. Switch on and off. Still. No buzz. (Except the flies trying to get out, who won’t go out even when I open the window. Plenty of carcasses.)

Instagram down too. Cut off from the other world.

I like seeing the window frame from the donut hole. Frame in frame. And then, mountains, rippling.

Ah, silence.

It’s always the silence after the astonishingly beautiful cacophonous symphony of voices and music and bantering and laughter of the party... it’s the silence that is the relief. Return to. Comfort, calm. The original scents take over.

Week 4 and I’ve thrown a dinner party. As I do. As I did at 22. So I do a 31. And 40. And on and on as long as I derp on. Derp on.

It’s a privilege, eh. I know. To be surrounded. By people who, who what – not ‘adore’ me, not ‘know me’, but nonetheless, are comrades, are new family, are community. It’s wild, no matter, no matter which corner of the world (ha, flat-earth Tong), no matter which language, which living room, which kitchen, which life- damn, people are really... precious. Are same. Same, same. Ya know. Just wanting, to be Good, really. To belong. To feel and contribute to some warmth. To share and consume, to laugh, to be together and care and take care. To be taken care of. If given a space. If someone makes the effort to create such a space – we really are, ubuntu. Us. Wǒ mén.

The cheesecake was meh. Apple crumble delicious. Dakdoritang so tender. Mac and cheese not bad.

Ah, electricity back. There’s the buzz. The ever-omnipresent buzz.

How much effort, eh. Each tiny grocery walk. A few ingredients at a time. And plates, utensils, picking thorny wild roses. Running for tablecloth. Coloured paper. A canvas. Just splashing black on white. Just brushing black paint, layer upon layer. That satisfaction.

I should go pack lunch. It pays off.

Guilty pleasures after late night practice. It’s enough. Enough is enough.

Should I get a piano? Skye.pianist. “Why ‘Skye’”?

I want someone to kidnap me for a drive.

Texas sun, eh. Alberta moon.

//

Week 5

“How do you like living here?”

“Don’t you get bored?”

“Do you plan to stay?”

Stay where? With you all? Of course. I do. There was always a commitment. Even before spoken, before signed (mysteriously through face ID in a language I cannot read on an app that was set up for me), before all this blessed home-making.

Because I would always stay. With myself. My core core. Or, I find it again. Somehow. Always.

Truth and courage.

(The kitten won’t stop screameowing.)

Even as I discover more streets in ruins. Pink teddy bear tossed near the sewer. Strollers, toys. So many single shoes. To the monastery up high in the clouds of this ‘black garden’ Qara, Bakh. Like a time stamp. An action frame. Mid-fight. A boot here, a military backpack there, surgical equipment there, broken shot glasses, rusted box of bullets, Jesus, razor, underwear, cots. A notebook with an alphabet. Someone was learning something. Someone was praying. Someone was saving someone dying.

(The wind rises.)

I close the window. There’s my Thanksgiving menu, blown over. Scattered dried rose petals. Flowers my students gave me. We had such a wholesome, slightly awkward dinner.

“I want people to hear me play, and say, ‘that’s Tong Wang’s student!’”

“I was so happy to be placed in your studio. I was so discouraged from before, but now I’m inspired to work hard again.”

“I want to travel abroad and become a better pianist.”

“I want to start my own music school in Shusha.”

The leaves are starting to turn. Crunch crunch returns. There are a few maple trees. There is red. Wild rose thorns draw blood.

People’s laugher seeped into these walls. And the two-days straight of air-fryer roasted chicken. Cornbread. Stuffing. Mac and cheese. Cheesecake. Apples caramelized in cinnamon brown sugar butter.

We gotta light candles. Even with matches on the stove.

We take walk, talk of dreams and frustrations. I want to pick up the bottles on the streets and turn them into art. I want the students to have a vibrant life. Festivals, games, clubs, sports, movies, singing, dancing, drawing, anything, all the things.

(The kitten starts again.)

We make matcha and cookies. I know I want to fall in love with falling in love. It’s cuddle season. It’s the crisp fall air that entices that lull, to daze, to cozy up, for blankets and a dream of pumpkins.

One month, and it feels much longer, we say.

Everyday someone says my name. I wave to someone on the street. I love living here. I love the ordinary and the ordinary shocks. One step away is a landmine. One call away is the country I call home home.

Hole in a pit is a toilet. People are people and everywhere people celebrate. People love, and people gather, consume, eat, give thanks. People help each other. It’s incredible. The tiny unnoticed ways. To hold back a branch for the person passing through. To extend a hand. To put 18 hands together, hand on back, hand on back, pushing a car together out of the ditch. No one bats an eye at the scratches on their cheeks and arms and legs.

“Make it Holy.” Rituals, ceremony. Making meaning. Gathering. Moments to curate, moments to participate in, moments to observe.

The mountains are truly stunning. Layer upon layer. Onion. Onion Lily Tong. A jar of gratitude. A life. A disappearance.

(Kitty stops.)

I drew a pumpkin. There’s always a way.

 //

“Saunder”

“Limerence.”

The beauty of the limitations. The unknowable other. The unknowable self, even. Pink Skyes. Create Time. Fall. Orange, magic. Spice. Fairy Tales.

//

It’s October. It’s okay.