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Lee has been known to hide his feeling within his stories. Sometimes, I wonder how he handles the ability to represent a character looking at himself within a story. Wouldn’t the character see himself looking at himself or is a person able to be unconsciously self-conscious? Ah,, who cares. I’m more interested in getting you to see him for what he is. Before I raid his room again, I’ll let you in on what I found next to his typewriter this morning.
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I haven’t been here in a long time; that is, at the typewriter, recording messages of this thing called MIND for posterity’s sake. Last night, I took a non-acid induced trip through the universe, pondering my existence as self, as human being, and as piece of the universe. Of course, I came up with no answer because I posed no questions. I wondered about a lot of social issues like pollution, censorship, love and violence. I considered a remark by a Japanese visitor that Americans are idealistic. Eventually, I fell asleep.
Now, I sit here in front of this typewritten page and listen to space music through headphones.
So far, this story contains eight "I"s and eight sentences. So far, I’ve said nothing important...so far...
Smoky-white clouds covered the sky. Several trees still glowed green but the majority stood bare to the wind, a few red leaves floating in the air, a few brown leaves left clinging to dark-brown twigs waving in the wind. A column of ants clambered up a trunk, finding less and less honeydew dripping from the aphids, the cool, crisp wind pulling aphids and ants along into winter.
I had closed the window day before yesterday so last night I had to strain my ears to hear the chirping crickets outside. The rays of a full moon shone through the window beside my bed, forming a crisscross pattern on the bedspread. Shrill, sharp notes of a bamboo flute played through the pillow speaker beside my head. Right before I fell asleep, I remembered a thought from earlier in the day and jotted down some notes onto the notepad beside my bed. Slowly, I drifted into sleep.
Leaving behind a trail of slime that glimmered in the leaves, a bright reflection on such a gloomy day, the black and white striped slug inched its way along to the soft blades of some new autumn grass growing beside a maple tree. A robin, separated from a group headed south, hopped among the leaves, searching for a juicy afternoon meal. A drop of rain darkened a spot on the sidewalk nearby.
Awakened by a dream I could not remember, I felt uncomfortable lying on my side. I rolled onto my back, interlocked my fingers behind my head and tried to recall what I had dreamt. I could not. I turned back onto my left side and slept.
Running to the shelter of a nearby car, the Siamese cat stopped beside a black cricket haphazardly flinging itself across the sidewalk. Ignoring the rain for a moment, the cat placed a paw on top of the cricket. The cricket pulled away, one leg crushed by the pressure of the cat’s paw. Its soft, brown-gray coat getting more and more wet, the cat clamped it teeth around the cricket and crawled beneath the car.
I stirred in my sleep, pushing the pillow and pillow speaker off the bed. I awoke again and rolled onto my right side, counted to ten, and drifted back to sleep.
The rain pelted everything in its path, knocking the few remaining leaves from the trees, forming rivulets in washed-out gullies, dragging man-made chemicals out of the sky. Geraniums and marigolds, dropping their petals from their last autumn blooms, bowed before the rain, rejoicing in the cleansing during their final rites before the onset of winter. The rain fell continuously for several hours, packing the dead leaves and fading blooms into a colorful mosaic, an autumn quilt. Blue sky shone through patches in the clouds and the rain stopped falling in sheets. As the clouds disappeared and the sun shone down, the cat, the slug, the robin, the ants and the aphids continued what they had been doing. Water slowly dripped from the trees.
I awoke late in the morning to the sound of hammering which I assumed was coming from across the street. All day yesterday, workers had been replacing the shingles on a neighbor’s roof. I looked at the clock and considered sleeping a few more hours but decided to get up and fix something to eat. Eventually, I made my way to the typewriter and read this typewritten page.
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So do you see what I’m saying? Lee doesn’t just write about characters. He IS one of the characters. What I think is funny (and you may, too, I don’t know) is that...well, I know this sounds absurd but not impossible, could I be part of his imagination, or better yet, are we all part of a bigger story? I wouldn’t normally bother myself with these thoughts but I found the following writings in a drawer in Lee’s room. He certainly knows how to wax the ol’ philosophical surfboard.
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