Excerpt: There, But For Fortune (working title)

-Excerpt - "There But for Fortune..."

I don't know who these people are, where they come from, or why they are bothering with me. I suppose its just an accident of circumstance that brought them here to my little prefab house just outside of Udora. I'm an old woman. I'm a cranky old woman. I've never liked surprises. And these people are certainly surprising. They have a strange colour and texture to their skin. And they have something strange about the eyes. They do have hair, or maybe it isn't hair but just something that looks like hair. I haven't had the nerve to actually touch one of them yet and thankfully they haven't seemed inclined to touch me either. Either it grows like that, bald except for a fringe along behind the ears and where their slender heads crease into their short necks, or its some kind of fashion statement with them. Or maybe its a practicality of some kind. When I look closely I see what appears to be oval spots, one on each side of the head, where the skin looks thinner and you can almost see something moving inside. They seem like a decent kind of people. Treat me well. Better'n I can say of some of my own kind over the years. But i like it fine when they go away and leave me to my solitude. To my painting and my writings and my music. Can't do much of that with a lot of folks around, human or otherwise. One day I'll have filled my eyes enough with them, especially that one with the big oval eyes and the purple fringe, that I might be able to paint a portrait of him or her. I can't tell, except that some are slighter than others and seem to have some kind of gentle authority that commands respect from the larger ones. No clue which is which though. Since I can't speak their language I can't ask em either. They talk like their tongues are too long for their mouths. But somehow we manage to get the basics across to each other. Some sign languages seem to be universal between our kinds. Of course it helps that they have the same number of arms and legs, ears and eyes. Even fingers, though I haven't seen their toes to count them. At least I think they do. And of course this could all be some sort of wish- fulfillment acid flash back. Or a dreaming fantasy. Old women, crones like me, have been burned as witches for less than harbouring leathery- skinned people from some other planet, or maybe even some other galaxy.

But what ever it is, it is somehow both exciting (if I had the energy to be excited) and comforting. I often wonder if I'm the only one they have gotten in touch with here. Are there others out there like me, who have these new friends? Who also keep it all to themselves partly because no one would believe them and partly because we don't believe it ourselves? Perhaps. I suppose it would be somewhat egotistical of me to believe I was the only one. But its a pleasant fantasy.

So they come, as they have been coming for a few weeks now, and they speak softly to one another and sit without moving until I'm done with what I'm doing. They seem particularly fascinated by the paintings. I suppose the writing doesn't interest them as much, if they can't yet divine the meanings. I gave them one of my old Oxford Shorter's to get them started on that, though I suppose they have lots of pretty high-tech equipment somewhere that would do the job faster. But you never know when the good old Shorters will come in handy.

Of course all I'm working on writing right now, and probably for the last six months or so is my memoires. Like I've been saying in my memoires. I've lived a long hard life, a life full of pain and grief and disappointments. Too many raised expectations I guess. Except these last few decades which have been good enough to more than make up for the rest. But I figgered I would set it all down to try and make sense of it. I've been learning a lot about myself from it, though its almost as painful writing parts of it as it was living through it in the first place. For some reason they like to watch me write, though. I don't know why. Perhaps how my mood changes during the writing intrigues them. Still, they prefer to watch me paint it seems, and strangely enough I think I'm kinda getting used to them being here. Sad, really. I always have tended to get attached emotionally. One of the reasons I prefer my isolation. If you don't get attached, you can't have your heart wrenched out of you. But here I am doing it again. This time to people who will more than likely leave me to fly light-years away. Well if that's the way I am, and that's the way things are , well, that's all there is. So I guess I can stand to lose one more time. Its not as if I haven't had the practise. But for now , I'll enjoy their company.

I made some sketches of a few of them, yesterday and left them on the kitchen table for them to discover when they dropped by. I enjoyed their excitement over them. They seemed to want to keep them and so I somehow let them know they could have them. I'm not going to need them at the end of my journey, so why not? Then one of the slight ones, the one with the purple fringe, pointed at my manuscript. I don't understand why. What did she want? Surely not to have that to keep, too? Well it isn't finished. And it may not ever be finished. It was a long life, like i said, and I'm not sure just how much longer that's going to be. So I try to work on it every day. But more and more I find them drawn to the pages I've printed out. I know they can't read it, cause I tried to talk to them that way once, writing things down big on a piece of bond paper. They shook their heads and seemed to feel sad. Its possible they may have learned to read by now, though. Hadn't thought of that. Have they been reading over my shoulder for a while now? I hope they don't get too shocked by some of the stories I've told and have yet to tell about my life. I wonder why it tickles me, instead of bothers me, that they might be reading it?

Funny how like us and how unlike us they are. They have hands and feet (According to their footwear) that look like ours, with only a little variation in shape. The bones seem fine underneath their leathery skin, and they are a pleasure to sketch. Lately I've been sketching them more and more, but only after I've done with writing for the day. Two days ago I made some music for them on my computer. They didn't seem to understand what it was. They stood around looking perplexed, and slightly embarrassed if I guess aright. Wouldn't you think that some race that travels the distances between stars would understand about music? But then, maybe they have a different kind of hearing and what sounds like music to us, could sound like garbled static to them. I guess I'm just lucky they didn't cover their tiny ears and run screaming.

I'm learning to shrug off the peculiar mysteries where these folks are concerned. They've livened me up more than even having a pet dog as a companion would. Sometimes I wish I had the energy to follow up on my curiosity concerning them. I'd like to see their ship if they would let me. I'd like to go for a ride in it if I could. The atmosphere they breathe must be something like ours. They don't appear to be wearing space- suits when they visit me. The other puzzler is they always visit during the afternoon from about two to dinner time. Then they watch me eat, and go back to their ship (or where ever).

I'm trying hard not to give them names, especially the two that always come, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. Like I said they talk softly like they have too much tongue in their mouths so I could never learn their names. Naming them would bring on the heart ache even sooner I know. But I can't help but think of the smaller one as Evya and the big one as Jyorn. Where I dug up those names I couldn't tell ya. Maybe I over heard some thing they say to each other that sounds something like those names to my ear. Or it could just be the complete fabrication of an over- active imagination.

I was setting out fresh paint today, about to start on a new canvas, and Evya arrived early and alone, and seemed very interested in the process. For all I know "she" doesn't see the same set of colours we do either. But I laid out the primaries first, though I guess you can't really call cadmium red, alizarin crimson, cobalt an ultramarine blue, and cadmium yellow and nickle yellow the primaries since there are six of those and only three primaries as we were taught in grade school. But I think of them that way, three warm primaries and three cool primaries, and then of course a big blob of white and a little blob of black. The black for greying out the purity of the primary mixes that make up the secondary colours. You cna go along way painting with those 8 tubes of paint. And get the most amazing range of greens, too. From delicate spring hues to the shades of deep summer.

I don't know what made me do it. Curiosity again? or perhaps compassion? But I got the colours laid out and had just mixed some alizarin with the ultramarine and a touch of black to make a very dark transparent mix with which to draw my subject on the fresh canvas board when I saw something her strange eyes that I couldn't help think of as... as a kind of wistfulness. She was hovering very close watching my every move. So I pulled a fresh flat out my brush jar and held it out to her.

"would you like to give it a try?" I asked her. And I slapped the brush into her hand, expecting the usual human instinct of closing up the sphincters when someone does that, making them grab it..

But she was so surprised she stepped back of a sudden and dropped it. And then gave a cry and bent her knee to quickly pick it up and brush it off. My floors ain't too clean these years. I can hardly see that far without my glasses. But now she had it in her hand and was holding it almost reverently and I stepped away from the easel and motioned for her to take my place. She hesitated as if wondering if it really was ok and then she moved forward and confronted that awful empty white canvas. And this time I watched her as she struggled with the medium. That was a pleasant change.

Her friend, or co- whatever, Jyorn, came by an hour later. He was surprised to see that we had switched roles. And none too happy about it it seemed. I sat writing and watching her paint and she made a huge beautiful mess of colour on that canvas. At first he scowled at us both, and then he seemed to see something funny in it. Because he laughed. He laughed just like we do. From somewhere in his belly. And Evya, she looked like a school girl caught playin' hooky when he came in and scowled. But then her face softened and she looked at me and at the brush in her hand, and at the piece she was working on and she too laughed, and then I laughed too. Simply because it felt so joyful.