August 18

I live in a quiet world of solitude.

It isn't the silence of noise that pierces
for there is a lot to hear

the ringing of the 5:45 am church bell
the cackling of a hen chased from pooping on the front porch
the bubbling of water from cooking rice or the popping of cooking corn
the scurrying of lizards across my metal roof
the tearing of weedy roots like the sounds of ripping teeth from their gums

No, it is the lack of English that envelops me into a bubble of quiet aloneness.

I read a book a day filling my mental silence with stories and conversations for my eyes to devour.

My ears feel neglected.
Sound can be a touch of human contact.

When the sun sets, I imprison myself under a net with mosquitoes guarding my access to freedom.

Anyways there are no coffee shops, no theaters, or music halls to attend. Where else can I be but at home?

With the star-filled sky as the stage, I slip in a CD and listen to the dramatic brass, the sad guitar strings, the voices of theatrical emotion expressing love, rebirth, anguish, strength, justice, and injustice as tonight's hearing of Les Mis fills my need for contact.

And I cry when Eponine dies, a star shooting across the black sky.
And I cry when all of the songs on the ruined disc 2 skip, a 3 hour showing shortened to 1.5 hours.

The stars keep falling to the sounds of crickets, to the sounds of solitude.

And I am content.

I can hear without distraction.
I can feel and listen in ways that are lost in a developed world surrounded by English.

Yes I am at peace, a monk studying the art of being.