It is a home of exquisite lighting, all warm and inviting. Windows, windows everywhere. It is construction and projects and an art room to the right. Her own studio, it looks like heaven. An easel stands tilted in the top third of the room, three small canvases in varying degrees of finish within. It is clean wood floors with a shine, a large piece of patterned cloth placed. I tiptoe around it and say, This is incredible. Can I take pictures?
Sure, she says and leads me into a kitchen. A tall, wide, warm, I can't come up with enough adjectives room containing an adopted casted puppy in a box.
I can't take this so I drop to the floor and start harassing Walter with a camera. You know how comfort food feels? You remember Christmas morning? There is no way I am getting this shot. There is too much here, too much lighting consideration, too much to show you to even wrap my head around talking to Karen and taking pictures of Karen and what Karen has created. There is too much space of everything so I give up and have a glass of wine in front of a fire.
It is not long before Karen joins me with her own glass of wine and a tray with cheeses and olives and I don't know what all because I have been overcome with a diagnosis of attention deficit disorder, severe and crippling. Who could eat with all this going on? She sits diagonally across, on the left of the fire. She talks, asks questions, moves around in her chair, crosses her legs, uncrosses them and the power goes out. It blinks first, three or four times. Then no more electricity but not dark. We are not spooked, and Karen tells me so. There is orange from the fire and white from a lantern. I bend her ear for two hours. There is not enough time. She is fascinating and creative and lovely and single and intelligent and beautiful and she refuses to mow her lawn or color her hair. There's a book she's working on, contacts she's made, projects she's done and everything she's thinking. Why do I not own an audio recorder? Why am I not taking pictures? Why am I not taking notes? My yellow notepad has some scribbles but I am in awe.
Later I sit in my living room, trying not to write down everything I saw but my mind is filled with it. Go to sleep, I say. You'll have to write in the morning, just let it be. Slater walks into the room to tell me about his day and I listen and he smiles and paces and laughs and so do I.
He finishes and I say, You would not believe Karen's place, Slater. And I try to tell him everything, even with my hands, but there is no way so I finally give up and say, If that is a glimpse, any kind of glimpse of my future then oh man, it looks great.
|Walter, stop it. I'm taken. I can't love you this much.|
|Dear Karen's Life, |
I couldn't even imagine until now.
Here is Karen.
Grateful for dreams in reality. Grateful for people who walk this Earth with open hands.