A bowl of milk with a large pearl floating in it
“Last night I dreamt I had this huge, gaping wound in my stomach.”
(Then I woke up and realized that I’m a blogger now.)
Our woollen shade-blind blackens all but a thin border of white…
meaning moon’s still out….it’s six a.m.
Leap out of bed, push blanket aside to see soft white sky overhead, confined by our narrow canyon’s high sides.
Clatter down the ladder and down the staircase…
Scattering raccoons marauding the pool…
and flip open my silver book to write to you, my faithful reader/riders.
I am wondering just how much of my ‘wound’ I dare shine a light on…. one never knows how things sound in “Flirtual Reality” .
On the CD player: Richard Thompson wailing about a misdirected dart.
Under my fingers: plastic keys that click, but never warm to my touch.
Under me: a hard, old chair relieved by a barely padded needlepoint cushion, each salvaged from different piles somewhere in this blog-forsaken County.
Tapping hands? virtual vastnesses?
I’m so glad I roll out on that bicycle daily, well, almost daily.
Real time pedalgoggy allows me to note that the hell that is Southern California is real; the hazy air carries the particulates of the fires below. Our own heaven will burn too, but maybe not this year.
Meantime…volatile California is my home, my oily skin is my room, and I’m gazing dry-eyed into a milky screen pondering
the meaning of connection
and the means of connexion.
Will you take me as I am?
Will you take me?