“Human beings, vegetables or cosmic dust, we all dance to a mysterious tune intoned in the distance by an invisible player.”
— Albert Einstein

I’ve been thinking about y’all lately.  Yup, I mean you–in front of the screen, picking your nose or drinking a beer or sneaking a peak from the cold screen at work or sitting in the car with your Iphone.  You.  Time to talk about us, ain’t it?

There was this lesson I learned a long ass time ago about being considerate.  When I was younger (think eighties, a perm and several husbands ago) I had a character flaw that needed some adjustment: I would call someone, begin to speak and forget to ask them how they were doing.  Now, youth means immaturity–but this donkey dung quirk had to scadaddle.  Today when I call someone, lessen something’s bleeding, I ask “is this a good time” or mayhap “how are you today?” or even just “hey, shuga.”  A moment ago, I looked into my site stats.  Ninety “blog” followers, 856 Facebook followers.  Holy crap.  What happened to twelve? No pressure, right? After I repoured my wine (on account of I dropped my glass) it hit me.

I forgot to ask y’all “how’s it hanging?”  A bit to the left?

So, like a Coke commercial, this blog’s for you.

First off, let me extend my apologies for not replying like I used to do on the comments.  It truly was un-Southern of me to let that ball drop and no amount of nutballness in my fleshly world (ie: the Matrix) should keep me from it.  If you have taken the time out of your world, and gathered up some bravery for the worldwide web to put your word out there, my silly arse should take the time to hug you back.  Gonna’ work on that one.  I owe y’all homemade cookies and smooches.

Second, let me tell you what you’ve meant to me, “constant reader,” and how you saved my life: [1]

For all my hereditary, solitary, country-fried craftlife I understood that my path made me the target for some ass clowns in this world.  I have this hound dog who literally pees if you raise your voice to her, and while I’m a ballbustin’ Aries, when it comes to the craft I had been . . . let’s say a good friend of the closet.  Like, broom handles in my back and Comet for a microphone.  Would let it whiz right down my leg if someone cracked that door more than an inch.

Then one day last fall I was all: screw it.  I’m gonna die in a closet and the only one’s who’ll notice will be the mice.  I mean, I like mice and all . . . it’s just that I don’t feel that they have a helluva learnin’ curve, you feel me?

Might end up all petrified in there.  Smelling like Pine Sol.

And so, I got a bit uppity (and tipsy, truth-tellin’ matters) and made a bloggy thingy, figuring that students and my chillun’ and my hubby would have something to guffaw at besides my secret granny panties when I croak.

Then y’all showed up.

And y’all don’t smell like Pine Sol.  A bit like warm bread and beer, sometimes honeysuckle and river water.  But not Pine Sol.  Damn I love you people.  Fuck a bunch of mice.

So . . . this post won’t go long, or academic, or all Supercalifragilistic, but it will go a bit deep and quick.  Looks like we are in a relationship.  It’s complicated and I like it.

Just for the road, one quick ditty:

(I’m not messin’ with you.  You all saved my little witchy butt and I, therefore, care very much about you.  So, it’s story time.)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who could talk to ghosts.  Not just the spooky kind, but on occasion a grandpa or three, a slave or four, once an old huntin’ dog and whoever showed up to whisper in her elf ear.  (She had huge ears.  Folks made fun, but the movie Dumbo gave her hope.)  Now, the little girl had been born without natural fear–causing her all kinds of mudpie moments–but also allowing for a deep, abiding respect for souls.  She didn’t know the word “veil,” and truth be known, when she grew up she never saw one (but imagined it would look like Queen’s Anne’s lace) and therefore thought that her noggin’ had been affected one way or the other.

She was very, very alone.

When her hair began to turn paint white, she wondered if there were others like her whose fingers (when slung to the sky in anger) made gazebo lights flicker and dogs howl.  These things, she had been told, were the mark of evil, and the grown/little girl did not want to be bad.

But one day, on account of the government had decided that the little girl could buy spirits, she sat outside and cried some, laughed some and drank some.  She was tired.  She had become the tree.  And no one was in her branches to sing with, or swing with, or weep with . . . and so . . .

She wrote a word.  And the word became a friend.  And the friend became a heart.  And the heart became a world.

And no one called her evil, or bad . . .

But she did dance right out of that closet.  On a soft shoe.

The End

P.S.  Love you.


1. The first soul I ever fell in love with, at the ripe young age of nine, was Stephen King. He called me “constant reader” in his prologue–and I knew then. Some folks understand. It’s about the connection, not the ejaculation. Lol.

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