Flash Fiction - setting exer.

She was back, but right beside me this time.  I could vaguely see her outline against the craggy rocks.  It was bitterly cold, given the altitude of the crossing.  The moon cast shadows all over and at first I wasn’t sure if I was just seeing things, but her contours were visible to me.  Even the multicoloured prayer flags I had noticed that afternoon fluttering around us, seemed to sense her there.

This Tibetan woman had first appeared to me in a dream when I was staying at a monastery in Amdo, just outside of Xining, waiting to embark on an adventure into Tibet.  Difficult times to get in there, but I was about to set off.   Some of my time at the place was spent attending pujas and wandering around the grounds.  The prayer wheels fascinated me.  They were large wooden structures inlaid into the walls of the monasteries.  There were mostly waiguorens staying at the monastery, foreigners, and back packers from all over the world.  There were very few Chinese let alone Tibetans.

I was her one night.  I had the long braids in my black hair, all 108 of them, and I was wearing turquoise and red coral necklaces.  Some of the turquoise and coral was in my hair.  I was in some sort of dress and I slowly spun prayer wheels one after another.  I could feel the weight of them as I pushed them into a slow spin.   One after another, chanting the mantra quietly in the dark.   Chanting it slowly, not the usual quick way I had heard foreigners going through the motions.  There was real purpose in this, or so it seemed.  I was sending mantras up into the air.  I made my way back to my room and I could see myself sprawled on my narrow bed on my pale blue silk dragon sheet sound asleep.  She was there as well and we both spent a few seconds looking at myself. 

I thanked her for the tour, but she was reluctant to let me get back to myself.  I tried to explain that it was me there, not her, and that I had to get back to myself.  There was a strange, brief struggle and I was back in myself, in the small dark room. 

Now this time she was beside me and appeared to be indicating a route through the pass.  Her long braids were swaying with her movement and her smile was enchanting.  I had made it this far, in the back of Chinese trucks filled with road crews.  The pseudo disguise of being a Tibetan man had helped in some ways.   I even managed to use my elementary Chinese with the drivers, who figured me out immediately.  I wasn’t in a sheepskin coat, but more of the tourist version of what Tibetans might be wearing.  It was a great travelling coat, long, and comfortable.  It fit loosely and was effective against most of the weather and all the dust that would rise during the long truck rides.   

A vague sense of unease overtook me, as I followed her around a towering rock.  A bitter wind was weaving around us and through us.  She paused every few steps as if she was waiting for me.  I couldn’t resist and left the sheltered spot I had found to see where she might be heading.  There was a slight scent of unwashed sheepskin lingering in the air and also the whiff of rancid yak butter tea.  Occasionally I could see moonlight glinting off the turquoise and coral in her hair.  I longed for the feel of those stones. 

A few steps later I felt as if I had slammed into a glass wall.  There was no doubt that she was on the other side and could somehow move back and forth between the two.  I noticed she had a mala in her hand and reached for mine. 

My mala is a plain simple wooden one, and as I fingered the wooden beads my Tibetan smiled.  She also became much clearer.  She seemed much more defined all around.  She passed through the wall and stood by me again.  She seemed to be chanting a mantra as she passed through the wall of sorts.  The wind whistled as I held up my mala to the moonlight.  I started saying the mantra in my head and moved my fingers bead after bead along my mala and sure enough I managed to join my Tibetan.  There was a strange feeling as I passed through the wall, momentary breathlessness, and then we were on the other side of the pass. 

The view, even in the moonlight, was stunning.  Endless vistas of plateaus all around us and prayer flags at various crossings moved in the wind.  Not that there was much chance in communicating with my Tibetan with words.  There were many more people on this side of the pass, but I quickly realized they were all spirits.  Not many took notice of me as they moved back and forth across the path.  One person did stand out though.  My grandmother?  What would she be doing in this realm?  I was delighted to see her and it was my grandmother the way she had been before her strokes.  What a treat to see her again.  Yet, as I thought to approach her, my Tibetan blocked the way. 

I tried to move past her, to tell her that it was my grandmother, but I was intercepted at every step.  I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no contact.  Hurt, but still curious about where we might be I realized that I was being edged back to the wall in the pass.  Leaving was easier, less mantras, or so it seemed.

Back on my side of the mountain pass the air felt colder.  My wooden mala still glowed slightly.  I opened up my tightly clenched hand and found a small piece of red coral in my palm. 

Big Think - Future Food writing pc

The maze of solar panels blinded us occasionally as we made our way along the rooftop greenhouses.  Some are whole floors of the building, but my favourites are the rooftop ones.  It was difficult to guess the time of day since we were usually only outside our respective buildings to gather food.  The sun seemed to shine most of the time, and evening at this time of year would come much later.

I can’t help but reflect on the gardens grown out of dirt.  Of flowers alongside vegetables, so groundhogs would stay away from more edible shoots just appearing out of the ground. There were woodland flowerbeds unattended by anyone that would blanket the woods with trout lily, or wild violets.  There was also scilla that had somehow made their way to North America from Europe.  We aren’t mapped that way any more.  Along the escarpment the white trillium would blanket the hillside every spring.  No one attended to them. 

The young girl beside me seemed content listening to her music in her earphone.  No more wires, or pods of digital information to be carried around.  No sense of weight to anything.

The greenhouses have their temperature regulated.  The timing of everything is also regulated and sometimes, but rarely, goes on the blink.   One of “our” greenhouses was teal with other patches of colour a little reminiscent of stained glass.  How do you describe the concept of stained glass when all I have left are old worn pieces of beach glass that belonged to my mother?  I still have non-digital artefacts much to my grandchildren’s amusement. 

The urban gardens are extraordinary.  Genetically modified food has made us a people of super-vegetables.  Given the modifications to most of our plants we no longer need to eat animals.  The deforestation has more or less stopped and the manufacture of food for slaughter has also stopped.

I wish my granddaughter wasn’t always plugged in.  Not that I’m an incessant talker.  I appreciate spending time with her.  The walk through the solar panel maze is almost the only time we are outside of our relative workspaces or homes.  In fact, homes and workplaces are all intertwined and linked.   It makes for very productive people.  And they’ve left space for creative people as well.   And lots of gardeners, some robotic, ply their trade all over the cityscape.

There is hardly any smell in the greenhouse.  The ventilation makes sure of that. The shelves upon shelves are mostly set up for hydroponics.  The mushrooms are grown in some kind of dirt, but mushrooms are almost an entity of their own.  Especially after we cultivated the one that ate plastic.  I am still reluctant to ingest that one.

I have managed to find a little corner where I planted a few seeds from a collection I had kept from another lifetime.  The blue forget-me-nots will scatter once they flower and perhaps flower over and over again among the mushrooms.  I’m not sure what I will do if the morning glories actually grow.  They love to climb and most of the greenhouse is bed upon bed, flats upon flats.  Plus, they are truly morning flowers and I would have to make my way up on my own to see them.  I believe these ones are a mix of colours. 

I would like to have my very own garden. My night garden took me many attempts, but I did manage to cultivate one before we were moved north, into these urban landscapes that try and look like forests or something akin to that.  My night garden of mostly white flowers bloomed in the evening.  The scents were extraordinary.   I suppose I could just go the mall and spend time in their gardens, but they seem so constructed. 

The malls have all kinds of stores, and entertainment centres alongside their gardens.  There is food grown in those as well, but not accessible to just anyone.  We have managed to keep the bees.  They have access to their own spaces full of flowers, but are kept segregated from most of us.  We don’t want to almost kill them off again.  Their spaces are spectacular with flowers of all kinds of variations and the honeycomb comes out in various colours.  We use honey for so many things.  It is food, but is also used for other things.  The bees are probably genetically modified as well.

I have a few things I still carry, my mother’s red Tibetan coral and a few rocks that I cherish along with the beach glass.  I hold them once in a while.  I live in a Granny Pod type of space. Most apartments have the capacity to integrate a Granny Pod into their living space, allowing me my space.  Of course, I kind of wish I wasn’t in a high rise.  The pod allows me a little independence and some peace of mind for the rest of them.  I have managed to keep a few real books with real paper pages.  They seem to entertain my grandchildren to no end.

We arrived at the greenhouse that is allocated to us.  My granddaughter immediately goes to look for the forget-me-nots.  They seem to be growing and this brings me and I think her, immense pleasure.  We collect what we can to bring back to our respective homes for the meals.  I fret that the power will die out or that the water will end up poisoning the plants and we will be left with little or no food.  Only a few of us fret about this.

We wander back outside briefly, with our fresh food, among the solar panels.  I am always looking for something growing outside of our boxes.  We pause briefly and look at the cityscape.  Sky views are limited.  It is my third time out of my space without my tracking bracelet.  Anyone interested thinks I am home.  So far no one has noticed my absences.   I want to celebrate the upcoming midnight sun somehow.