We’re neighbors that live along the back road of the lost coast. We sit around the fire with plates of deep-baked ulu in our hands, bare feet crossed in summer grass.
The Songwriter’s words drag me from primal smoke and flame to the virtual realm of cyber-speed ether. 3am. Those are my words. Cast to this diaphanous space in some hope of grasping something tangible. Touching something real.
The Songwriter smiles and reminds me that he likes to start his morning with a little ritual, part of which includes reading my random threads. My mind scans to recall my latest posts. More poetry than prose, as of late. Watery and vulnerable.
Good god – someone is reading this.
As July marks the surpassing of 10,000 visitors to the Archives (as per WordPress site stats) one would think I’d realized that these words do fall on cyber-eyes.
But I’m like this. A DJ on the radio, playing my music, talking on the microphone, pretending I’m alone in a room. Until the station manager reminds that at any given time, 5000 people are tuned in. I’m a writer waking at dawn, sifting through dreamy spaces on an internet landscape. Skimming mundane details. Revealing deep pockets. Feigning that no one will see.
I spent a little time recently, just reading some of the daily chronicles here. The titles seemed unfamiliar. The words reaching me from places that had been lost in the bustle of full sunlight. Forgotten in the day’s cell phone calls and scheduled drop-offs.
Who was this woman writing?
She is still in my discovery. She is still compelled to rise and come to this screen. And this morning, she was resting. Sleeping in well past 5.