nedful things

The rain fell mercilessly
washing my life grey
until even those drops of hope
fell upon me like a weight
of unseen and unspoken
pooling about me in
puddles of doubt
and self-recrimination
I would step around them
but instead I waded
each step disturbing
and erasing
predictable patterns of the world
in which they walked
and my hair drinking in
until inebriated
was encouraged to a spree
left order for abandon
waving down like Rapunzel
like the days of my life
lengthening in time
not long enough yet
to effect rescue

If I file my application
in triplicate
with references and recommendations
with resources and skills
(with a resume unfinished)
is there a position available?

It's all
Work
small jobs
Big projects
daily Schedules
and Appointments
(dreams and
disappointments)
so much on the plate
(yet I feed my soul on crumbs)
you will drop more
you say
if I can hold out

But I have noticed
the way you sweep them up
as soon as you see them fall
ever the meticulous one
trimming and tying all the loose ends
never leaving one
for me to hang onto

Tangled brush and branches tightly embracing
Hugged the corner for so many years
In spring adorned by dots of wildflowers
Tall weedy spires of purple and gold
In December held out woody stems
That reached out through winter's blanket
To point a finger at the sky
A painted sign pushed in amongst what was free
Advertised the price of conversion
And a three bedroom with attached garage
Tamed the space with landscaped dreams
A two-wheeler clumsily thrown by a porch rail
Promised of other memories waiting to be made
In the scarred tree where I nailed together
The house where my childhood lived

The circus came to town this week.

I hate the circus.

First of all, I don't like clowns. I don't trust them, you never can tell what they are really thinking. Notice all those fake, painted-on expressions? Well, I have to do that every day without the benefit of stage make-up. I have to settle for a little Maybelline and bravado. Remember that movie "Killer Klowns from Outer Space"? Based on a true story, I swear it. Trust me, clowns are evil and very poor actors. Let them try to convince you that bucket is full of water without the floppy shoes and rubber nose. If anyone other than a clown came up to you and dumped a bucket of confetti on you, you'd deck him.

Then there are the elephants. There is, of course, the basic question of the inhumanity of keeping such large creatures in man's small environments and taking them from the natural wild life they are supposed to have by birthright. But beyond this, I have watched enough Real TV to know that there is always the rogue elephant who after years of complacent and servile performance in the entertainment industry decides one day to stampede (usually with some hapless rider on his back) and wreak havoc and death all around. They have probably realized that other celebrities get better PR and luxury accomodations and as they are unable to express their need for a larger dressing room and more perks in any other way, simply trumpet and stomp. Who can blame them?

Worst of all are death-defying acts. I haven't figured out the fun in this part yet. I can't look as people go flying about in the air over my head, hoping that today is not the day gravity will get the best of them. This circus has advertised the Flying Wallendas as a special treat. Really.

I remember that fateful day in 1973. I was innocently watching some television, probably a soap opera, when that serious voice they employ just for these occasions broke into the telecast to say "We interrupt our regular broadcast to bring you this Special Report". Ever notice that "Special Reports" are never good news? When was the last time they broke into a sitcom to announce that the GNP was up or that gas prices were down? So, I should have known better when the video of an old man walking a wire on a windy day began rolling before my eyes; and yet I watched until the faceless voice spoke the words "Karl Wallenda of the Flying Wallendas, 73, fell to his death" and then ... he was gone. He flew well but landed poorly.

I hate that.

So when I drove by the caravans all gathering upon the spot that would host the show, I lied to the children. I told them it was National Camping Day.

The rain that moments before was a drenching emptying of the clouds had turned to a fine drizzle and nearly stopped. Now, a hollow plunking as water dripped off of the fire escapes onto the steel garbage cans lined up along the brick walls was the only evidence of the sky's tantrum. Jynx grabbed a handful of the black hair cascading over her shoulder and pulled, stripping it off and tossing it in one of the cans as she hurried down the alley. She took off her coat, turning it to its reverse side, from the beige poplin to the very convincing faux mink . All blondes should wear mink, she thought with a smile. She was sure she had given her pursuers the slip but as she turned the corner she gasped in surprise.

It was him.

She stared wordlessly at the trench-coated apparition before her. Code name Adrik. Russian, meaning "dark". It fit him perfectly; thick black hair, his dark eyes framed with black lashes, his visage all jagged angles arranged so as to make him hazardously handsome. He was also one of the most adroit and deadly agents she had ever challenged. How many times had she anticipated his presence, and yet feared it? How many times had she faced him in their battle of wits and imagined him, yet scorning her imagination? How could he now appear before her, like this, after all her careful planning? She had followed all the tips, she had studied all the manuals. She had eluded his tracking before. Yet appear he did, and in a dream, he spoke her name.

"Jynx."

Something like fear and joy mixed in a tremulous sensation that coursed through her body. She wondered suddenly as it gripped her chest, if she had simply forgotten to breathe, the sight of him so immobilized her. The sudden sensation caused a spasmodic sucking in of breath like an inverted sigh and then released itself in a softly resonated "ohhh".

"You led me a merry chase, but I found you. Just like that time you tried to vanish in Istanbul, only this time I am not looking for stolen secrets Jynx." He spoke slowly, his voice rich and deep.

Why are you here? What do you want? Are you trying to destroy me? Questions hurled themselves through her mind but she never spoke them.

"This time, I am after your secrets," he said as if in answer to her thoughts.

She was motionless and without protest as he lowered his mouth to hers. She knew all his moves, she both admired and feared his cunning. Yet it was a strangely tentative kiss. He retreated suddenly, his face wearing a look of confusion at her unresponsiveness.

"Should I not have done that?", he asked. He reached a hand out to finger a lock of blonde hair, his speech never wavering from a natural calm, glib tone. " Will you now tell me I have misread all your signals Jynx? You are good at subterfuge but not that good".

"No, you shouldn't have done that", she answered. Her face was composed, her eyelids lowered. Her mind was a flurry of activity, thousands of neurotransmiters firing in tandem, ping! ping! ping! But nothing in her face betrayed the pinball reactions going off through her emotions.

Then impulsively, she closed the distance between them and putting a hand on the back of his neck drew him into a kiss, long and probing. Her fingers burrowed deep into his hair as she pitifully poured out her passion and hungrily drew life from him. For this was her whole life, right now, this moment. She determined to be lost in this moment. His hands found their way under her open coat and she crumbled into him as he wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her against him. She allowed herself to drown in a flood of desires so long held dammed. Yet a moment later, she released herself from the embrace and drew back.

"And I shouldn't have done that". She managed a cool smile that masked the fire burning within her. Jynx wondered if he would notice her trembling. She looked away lest he see the truth in her eyes and wrapped her coat around her, fastening the belt. "But now Adrik, we're even".

That is what she had always had to do, match him move for move. If she hadn't, any one of those moves might have given him the advantage. In their many matches she had raced to stay ahead of him. She played the game well no matter what it cost her. She realized now that she loved him; loved him too much to allow herself to hate him, even though he was her greatest adversary. Even though he had drawn her into the game and it now overshadowed her life. Day and night, he haunted her. She refused to allow herself to hate him, even though all hope was shattered the moment she had understood what she had now become. He was written into the pages of her memory and she couldn't erase him. It was not even unexpected that he asked no questions, that he showed no surprise at her words. Until this moment, there were boundaries, and yet, his one misstep beyond them he knew would be forgiven. It was a game they both played well.

"You shouldn't be here, Adrik" she said, relishing the sound of his name and the new feeling of it in her mouth. He knew that she was right, understood why she said it. He didn't belong here. He was forever breaking the rules of the game. "I have to leave now", she said.

She turned from him and ran to her waiting car. Her feet seemed to glide over the ground without touching it. The door opened for her before she reached it, and she slid into the driver's seat. This is where she belonged, in control. He had no right to insinuate himself into her thoughts. She knew she couldn't win, but she was determined not to lose herself to him.

The car engine roared to life but was strange-sounding, an incessant buzzing static. The radio came on by itself, blaring at the highest volume. Confused and disoriented she struggled to think. She was playing the game. No, she was sleeping. She shook off the urge to hit "snooze" and indulge her dreams a few minutes longer. She had to go to work, in a real world.

She pushed herself off the bed and stumbled groggily to the kitchen to make coffee. Tonight, she thought, he will be online. She would see "Adrik" light up on her list and he would find "Jynx". Then they would meet again for a rematch in the only arena in which they would play the game.

It's a new season and I wanted to try something new. I decided to write a nice little poem about spring days and warmth and the promise of the changing season. But somehow, I am just too "Ned" and everything turned out all wrong. For instance, the sun shone brilliantly today so I tried a bright and cheery nature Haiku:

The sun glared at snow
Tickling out drops of water
Turning earth to mud.

Then I thought "ending with mud, that's not very cheery". And that glare thing. But hey, have you ever tried to drive on a sunny spring morning? The sun is exactly at the right angle so that between the glare off the snow and the dirty windshield, you can't see a thing. I know, I could finally break down and buy a windshield wiper. I did go to Walmart to buy one but I got distracted. Anyway, back to the poem. The Haiku wasn't working for me, I decided they are too short to be warm. So I tried a limerick, can't go wrong with a limerick, they are always bouncy.

What Joy! Today the sun shone
Spring's promises we now own
A few without fear
Sallied forth in gym gear
Showing off their testosterone

No, that wasn't quite right either. Started off alright but then went off on a tangent somehow. Well, it was probably that trip to Walmart and the people-watching was simply heinous. The first day the temperature breaks 50F and these guys with their fake tans and their "pumping iron" gym clothes are wandering through the Walmart parking lot trying to attract some female attention. It was disturbing to see that in March.

Okay, well time to get serious. And the way to show you are serious? That's right, a sonnet.

The sun's warmth, though far its journey may be
Infuses with life all that it touches
And nature's observer stands still to see
His unwary feet trapped in mud's clutches

Ah see, back to the mud. Well, that didn't get very far. No, I can see this isn't going to work. If you want a heartwarming spring poem you will have to seek elsewhere in the blogosphere. I have to get back to work, I am trying to write a poem about daffodils without using the words "dead" or "forsaken" and it ain't easy.

My fingers tightly curled
sheltering precious drops
of my heart:
A fistful of dreams.

Rock, paper, scissors

You face it with aplomb,
negotiating diplomatically.

paper covers rock

Setting terms of proposition;

scissors cut paper

agreement reached by
resignation to Status Quo.

rock stalemates against itself

If you, unilaterally
took action -
Pried apart
the clenched fingers,

I could pour out on you.

Should players find themselves in a continuous stalemate situation, also known as "Mirror Play", a good approach can be to take a short "timeout" to rethink your strategy.1

1. (World RPS Society)

The clanging of metal on glass was incessant; there was not even a moment of silence between swings of the door. A few moments ago they were human cargo, silent and solitary in a crowded train, firmly bound to vinyl seats, absorbed by non-existent views, avoiding contact. Now they jostled and jockeyed for position, their weary lives crying for stimulation but settling for caffeine. The bell Harry had hung on the door to alert him to the entrance of a customer was not necessary on a weekday morning. Any who had recently commuted to the district passed by on their way from the train station to their office destinations, and they all stopped at Harry's. He had picked a plum spot.

He watched the stream of suits, entering and leaving. Every day the same, swarming and pushing, standing at odd angles to balance the weight of laptops and briefcases now shifted to one hand so the other might be employed to hold and dial the cell phone. They did not even take any notice of each other as they pressed their way up to the counter for attention.

Harry had been one of them once. For sixteen years he had raced the rats through the maze of subways and train stations to arrive at a clean and austere office, the decor just this side of institutional and depressingly pretentious. Prints of modern art adorned the walls, the furniture placed in the correct positions to enhance the appearance of power for the occupant of the desk, the other chairs assigned locations that decimated the audacity of any worker bee whose ideas were not in line with the corporate mentality. He had started school with a goal. He wanted it all: success, a six figure salary, an impressive home. By the time he left school a tiny spark of idealism had crept in, probably due to his minor in Philosophy. But what does one do with a degree in Philosophy? He went into the corporate world with his degrees in Business and spent the next sixteen years discovering that all he had achieved were days spent lifeless and without purpose, nights spent alone in the echoes loneliness makes in a 4 bedroom Georgian set back from the road and surrounded by no one. One day, when the cry of desperation emanating from his soul grew too loud for him to ignore, he handed in his resignation, cashed in his 401k of mostly company stock and plunked down a deposit on this storefront location. He sold the huge house whose roominess only mocked his singleness and moved into the apartment above the store. He spent the next few months in remodeling and advertising and thus was born "The Cafe Philosophy".

His coffee shop was busier than the nationally known franchise down the street, and not only because he provided a wider variety of better coffees and an unerring sense of which coffee to suggest for each customer. He had tables that were right-sized for the articles commuters carried and even wireless internet for those who wanted to work despite the relaxing atmosphere of the cafe. But he gave them something more. It was a peculiar idea and one of which only Harry could conceive. As they infused their bodies with caffeine, he wanted to inject something into their lives. Every order came with a small strip of paper, generated by the cash register, a miniature philosophy lesson, a quotation, a small slice of the soul of the author. Some customers just crumpled up the paper and stuffed it in a pocket, others glanced at it and tossed it in the trash bin by the door as they exited, he knew before they ordered who would discard them immediately and he knew they were beyond reaching. He knew also that at some time, those who had put it in a pocket might some day find it there again, like hidden treasure, and in a quiet moment they might read it and something other than the bleak prospect of commutes and board meetings would seep into their spirits. He had hope of them.

The first thing he noticed about her was that she always read the receipt. Well, that wasn't the first thing he noticed. He noticed the way one strand always escaped the pin that held her hair twisted in a bun at the back and the way it fell across her forehead. He noticed the tear behind tortoise shell glasses that she dabbed away surreptitiously with her finger after reading her receipt. He noticed the look in her eyes. It was a look he had seen in his own mirror for so many years. He noticed that at the end of the day, when he lay in his bed at night, he could still see her eyes and despite his overall satisfaction with life as he now lived it, the loneliness would return and echo in his dreams.

Then came the fateful night when the loneliness drove him from his bed. Through the night he sat at the table by the stark fluorescent light above him and carefully cut strips off a roll of receipt tape, reading and sorting the quotations into piles only he knew the significance of.
                        
The next morning she came into the cafe, at the usual time and placed her usual order. A medium Jamaican Blue Mountain with skim milk and one Equal. He had tried to dissuade her from her choice many times. The Jamaican was smooth and mild but he suggested the Kenyan blend, more robust and bursting with dark flavor, regular with cream and sugar. The sweetness of life must be real, he urged her, not artificially manufactured; but she would not be swayed.

This morning he did not attempt to alter her preferences. He made her order as she walked in the door and when she reached the counter, he handed it to her with the receipt already printed.

"Today it is on the house,” he said.

He watched her retreat to the usual back table sliding into the seat facing the wall, accentuating her isolation. He slipped aside from the crush of customers, leaving just the two counter girls to cope as he watched her from his vantage point by the bagel rack. She would read it, he knew. Would she know he was trying to reach her with the words? In the back corner table she held the paper up, looked over glasses and read it. She then silently folded the paper and tucked in the side pocket of her jacket. One hand went to her forehead and he saw her shoulders moving slightly up and down. He felt something inside him reach out, wanting to tell her what he had discovered, wanting to tell her so many things. But all he managed to say was printed on that paper. "We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us." 1

Day after day she came, his messages chosen so carefully, but could she know? A cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain, milk, one Equal and "I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope". 2  He poured out his life and his desires in words borrowed from those who could express the longings of his soul. He hoped she heard his voice as she read them. He couldn't know that she now did. He didn't know there was that day that she noticed him throw aside the paper from the register and produce another from his pocket, handing it to her with her coffee. It read, "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set her free."3

From that day he began to notice little changes in her. She looked into his eyes now when she spoke; the ubiquitous grey suit disappeared and was replaced with more colorful items of clothing. Gone were the expensive walking sneakers, replaced by heels. Even the heavy-framed tortoise-shell glasses were soon discarded in favor of contact lenses. Her chestnut hair, released from its tight bun, fell about her shoulders and swung carelessly with the rhythm of her gait. He became more bold, the daily message now being taken from books of quotations about love and romance; all lofty ideas, nothing that spoke of personal feelings. He longed to speak, to tell her of the turmoil in his being; but his courage lacking, he poured out his heart on little slips of paper, giving it to her with hopeful hands.

She no longer sat in the back but chose a table by the front window, bathed in sunlight that shone about her as a halo. She faced him often, smiling occasionally as their gazes met. He sometimes would make excuse to walk by her, pretending to check a paper napkin dispenser or straighten the straws in the holder. Her smile emboldening him, he fumbled for words of small talk, the awkwardness giving way to ease after time. Their chats sometimes focused on the words he had written, he not knowing she understood they were written for her. Before long he was sitting at her table, the conversation flowing easily. He no longer found that haunted look in her eyes but was astonished one morning when he realized what he saw there now. He no longer needed the mirror to see himself; he saw all he ever needed to know about himself in her eyes.

That morning she floated in like an angel, her eyes meeting his boldly and her smile spoke to his heart, filling it to where he thought it might burst. He had her coffee in hand but she blunted his attempt to give it to her.

"I'd like to try the Kenyan blend" she said softly. "Regular, cream and sugar. All sweetness in life should be real". She walked over to the table in the back this time and waited. He brought the coffee to her and handed her the message he had been saving, not daring to deliver until now.

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is love."4  Beneath this he had simply written "Harry".

She reached into her pocket and drew out a slip of paper, he recognized it as one of his receipts. He read: "The most eloquent silence; that of two mouths meeting in a kiss."5

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This, of course, is not the end. This is just another beginning.

                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
”When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him. In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”
Albert Camus (1913-1960)

I picked up love
and set it down
so many times
It can't even gather dust.

Initially elating
Intermittently deflating

Aspirations so pure,
I awarded myself
adjectives like ribbons.
Jealousies so rankling,
I hid my face
from my other face.

I laughed when
faced with my
smoothing of objections.
I railed with
resistance to the
soothing promises of
Time
...heals all wounds
...fades all memory
...slides sharp pangs
down the scale and into the key of
Nostalgia.

Transposed into
major then minor
keys so many times;
Staves of crescendo.

It's got a good beat but
you can't dance to it.

I give it a 65.

In the cellar-way on a hook
they hang,
once white, now
dusted gold
with the shavings of fine woods
they wait
for their owner's animation

how long a wait
for the familiar turn
of the knob
the echoing familiarity
of steel-toed boots
on the stairs

how long a wait
for the satisfaction of a hammer
shaft slipped into twisted canvas
bib pockets lined with
un-scribed graphite schemes*
Overall, fitted for their job.


how long a wait
for strong hands
reaching for their usefulness
hands sparse of flesh
Life's rivers rippling
over the tarsals
like mountains in relief
bold hands that wrought
habitations
plotting hands that fashioned
precise partitions

footsteps approach
faint, but familiar
reverent fingers disturb
their silent mourning
the knob turns again
as echoes fade

how long a wait
abandoned and unemployed
in musty remembrance
they wait
for one who will not return

There are times I wonder how...

I kept excuses
like scraps of paper
in convenient pockets
Each injury defiantly
proclaiming justification
If given all excuses
how many worlds
would I destroy
gathering materials
for my world's creation

I could have not known what I am

I kept this image
Free from examination
in mirrors that flattered
Carefully backlighting
To hide each flaw and crease
What ambition is now laid bare
If given all possibles
Whom would I erase
from time's picture
to people my own masterpiece

back when I believed

I kept my questions
Silent, I remained
Unchallenged
Until I met me
In this image reflected so coldly
I believed this impossible
Now I look into desperate eyes
my heart still
trading life for life
The lie exposed so boldly

this could never happen to me

It is supposed to be March. The temperature is supposed to rise to a fairly consistent forty degrees farenheit and the snow is supposed to be melting and soaking the ground to beyond its capacity to hold moisture. The grass should be long and yellow, held tenously in the soggy, swollen soil, drowning and yearning for sunshine so it may put on its green coat. The naked grey branches of trees, like arthritic fingers, should reach into a greyed sky and shiver at the blustery March wind.

But for some reason, it is still January. The ground still has layers of snow lying upon it. Once soft and pure it is now crystalized and hard, mottled with black and brown from shovels and plows and the spray thrown up by tires of passing automobiles. Often melting, but never evaporating, puddles of ice re-appear each morning in predictable places. Snow never cleared completely, but often driven over, becomes like cement set in some grotesque jello mold; ridges and valleys that leave no safe surface for feet and trip the careless. Flurries still powder the tree branches that form lacy white cobwebs against the sky. It is the Tim Burton vision of winter, dark and unrelenting, too angry to allow spring to soften its edges.

Spring is due to arrive on March 20, 2005. The weather forecast for the next week looks very much the same as the weather forecast for the past several weeks. Temperatures mainly below freezing during the day, occasionally dipping into the twenties and the teens at night. Expectations of snow flurries dot the almanac. Perhaps Spring has missed its connecting flight and is on a layover somewhere...

I suppose that dates are just that. Humans like structure and we are impatient with the seemingly haphazard ways of nature. We mark our calendars for the first day of Spring and expect that Nature will expectedly on that day, bring about sudden change. But nature does not take its cues from our calendar, it runs a course of its own. I remember days in April spent on the beach in 90 degree sunshine, and I can remember snow in May. Perhaps if it were not so unpredictable, it would not fascinate us so. Do we really want Nature to punch in and out on a timeclock? The season will change, little signs of spring warmth and promise will appear, a little here and a little there. I just have to learn to accept that it will come and not make schedules for it. Nature pays little attention to our schedules. I know this, because it is supposed to be March, and it is still January.

On the mirrored column
in the aisle display
a pair of specs
tentatively held
she read:
"Stand 15 inches away
To test magnification strength needed"
Lips pursed and brow lined
She digested these words
And realized
they must be written
Across her life
A distance slightly more
than one Foot
So that even if she took that step
She remained apart
She placed the glasses back
on the spinning rack
Why see things you can't reach?

I answer with care, Fighting anticipation, Suspended by hope. You probe beyond words, Excavating my soul and Exhuming my heart. What if I gave you Words that cry out for release? My aborted dreams. My contents displayed Yet, you are unsatisfied, Hungering for more. The words now fail me. Impotent and without charm, You judge them, lifeless. Unsure of welcome, Words form but will not leave me. They die unspoken. They lie written in eyes you do not see, and in tears never witnessed. No portrait contains, The irony of the wrinkles Pressed into my soul. How do I tell you? in the music of your voice I want to linger... Curled up in your warmth, my head upon your shoulder. my hand on your chest... Shall I say whisper dreams into my sleeping ear? But, you say, it's late. Abruptly complete Must sleep, you say, and goodnight. The sound of goodbye.

Scorned by thrill seekers
it stood, no music
or rumbling rhythms
no squeaks of old gears
or squeals of riders.
She clapped
excited hands.
He dug, to produce
from pockets deep
the means of a ticket.


With the accelerating
sounds of a Calliope
it groaned and began
its circular journey.
She chose a steed
Sleek and black;
He straddled
a stallion white
and true.
The chase was on.

The wind running
its fingers through her hair
She raced
the only possible course
Unsure who was
in the lead.
Did She follow Him
or did He ride
after Her in
hapless pursuit?


Her joy slid to a slow stop
the music fading.
The planking unsteady
gave way a little
with each step
as She dismounted.
A breathless journey
of no possible destination.
She smiled at Him,
"It was a lovely ride"

Something odd has happened to me. I know what you are thinking, and yes, there are things odder than I am. For years I have been somewhat enamored of the phenomenon known as "chatting". I discovered chatting after my son was born and I was home from work for 8 weeks. Before that I surfed the net only to read news and online magazines, filliing my mind with the erudite opinions of well-educated and well-informed journalists and occasionally studying foreign languages. What a waste of time, when all along I could have been chatting!

I was home alone with a child who didn't talk much. I now realize this is the best age, when they are less than two months. They don't talk and they are not very mobile. They pretty much stay where you put them and are always waiting for you when you come back. You know what messes up this perfect situation? All those parenting articles that tell you when they are supposed to reach those important "milestones" and you as a proud parent, fearing that your child might fall behind, do everything in your power to help them achieve these milestones of walking and talking. Trust me, you won't be so foolish with the second child.

So anyway, with very little company or conversation I thought, I ought to check this out; I ought to see if there are any chatrooms containing people of like interests to mine. At first chatting seemed very strange to me, I felt very out of place in these rooms where everyone seemed to know each other and anyone new was subject to verbal brutalization (and this was Christian Chat). But there is a flow to chat and you soon learn it. Over the years I have made hundreds of acquaintances and a few very good friends through chat. They say chat is addicting, but I used to spend several hours a day, seven days a week in chat and I was never addicted.

Then this blogging business came along. I was on AOL when I first started a blog and I pretty much used it the way most blogs are used, as an online diary. And after a while, I wondered, what on earth am I going to to with this? Eventually I did the same thing we all do with diaries of the deeply personal thoughts we write down about everyday life; I read it on a clearer day and was embarrassed by my own stupidity and deleted the whole thing. But somewhere in the middle of it, I started a second blog. On this one I started posting poetry. Since I had both blogs designated as private, no one ever read them and it was merely a hobby, something to fill time when I wasn't chatting. One fine day, I escaped from AOL and deleted that blog too.

But the seed was planted. I discovered Blogger through a friend's blog. I began blogging but I didn't tell anyone so it was really just an exercise. I allowed one friend to read the blog and then after a time another, and when it got to the point that perhaps as many as five people were reading it, I froze. The idea of being read completely immobilized me. But I chugged on, here and there, posting this or that. Slowly the initial shock began to erode and I found myself actually inviting people to read it. Then I started worrying that no-one was reading it. That is where the obsession begins.

Soon I found myself stopping in the middle of the day and thinking "I should blog that" about all sorts of little incidents. Luckily, I think better of blogging most of them when I have given it a little time. But there is this need that develops and grows and finally overtakes you - the need to find a suitable subject to blog about. Suddenly, no-one is safe, nothing is sacred, nothing is beyond being blogged. Then there is the duty to read and comment on the blogs of others. There are some fine blogs out there and I have a daily ritual of visiting them and dropping the odd comment (there is that odd word again). A short list of some of the ones I enjoy can be found to your left (unless you are reading this upside down. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I believe in maximum freedom of personal expression).

And then the strangest thing happened. Last night I after I turned on the computer, I checked email and blogged and visited other blogs and commented and suddenly realized, I had not signed on to my instant messenger. I have some friends that I communicate with through instant messenger almost exclusively and so I did sign on but lately...

This blogging is starting to lure me away, first from chat, and now from fruitless hours spent talking to people who are bored (they usually tell me this up front). I assume this is why they have IM'd me. If they had something better or more amusing to do, obviously they would be doing it, at least that is what is implied. I am not sure, but it is altogether possible I won't miss this constant bashing of my fragile ego as the last refuge from their boredom. Hmmm... maybe there is a blog in that...