Monday, August 29, 2016

Contemplation of the act of "posting"


A lot on my mind these days.

The need for an audience, 
the need for obscurity.
I've been blogging for over twelve years now.
This is my fourth blogfront.
Congrats if you're on board
I suppose.

My first "posts" were mailed out, thirty years ago.
Letters.
Postal.
I don't remember what they said
except for that one letter about star-gazing and constellations.
That one glittered.
But poor boy.
Poor little boy who got letters from that strange 
lonely tomboy in the adjacent town,
who promised with each that it would be the last
and then couldn't stop writing.
Needless to say, this is an old habit;
this message in a bottle act
that is somehow public now.

I've lost one of my longtime regulars 
and I'm mourning her absence.
She mattered, though I'm not altogether sure why.
Probably has to do with how I respected her own writing
and the fact that she's always seemed 
to have it together.
I know she didn't,
not always,
that's the illusion
—the seemingness of online installments.
But when these reliable characters 
go on extended hiatus after a years-and-years 
pattern of checking-in,
of being there daily to read your words when no one else is
you feel the loss.

I feel the loss
of the woman who read my blog 
every day 
for three years.

Even when the depth of connection we shared
was no more than a daily URL hit
from somewhere back East
where I've never been.

Even when what is gone is no more than an idea 
of how cool she must certainly be.

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