Dear Bleaders,
I've been 1 poor correspondant and I been 2, 2 hard 2 find, but that don't mean that you ain't been on my mind. Everyblogger flaggs in her faithful log flogging eventually or now and again, but in this case it was deeply work specific. There was something I needed to get done and in order to do it I had to stop chatting at the secret societies. You are one of my least and therefore most secret society, I've hidden you in plain sight. So this is what I wrote to you around this time in 2009 (slightly tweeked).
My dearest Bleaders,
Today is the kind of day the word susurration was born to serve. The trees out my window are full of dry leaves and seed pods and the wind is blowing around the bower. A visiting longhaired cat is glowering at big leaves bumping around with the breeze, and a lone last pepper dipping on its branch like a grounded fledgling flitting around. Riveting programing.
It is reasonable to be seasonably sensible to Keats, at least so much as to respond to the need for an inner struggle to take place in a physical space and that space to be a stubbled field after harvest.
But are we bird, or leaf, or cat? Real or imaginary? I'm the pepper, you're the cat. Sadly, there is no bird. There is a mansion in Asia Minor in which each room is a poem. In the parlor, women come and go talking of Michelangelo, in the kitchen there are cold plums, in one bedroom a girl slumbers in the curve of a colossal marble ear, in another a beauty marries the bed. Out front there is a beak in a heart and a form on a door. Out back is the newly shorn staffs of wheat and corn. And there we are, on a picnic blanket, not forlorn but arguing with our actual demons who are plump and angry and we are grotesque but they are getting tired, even of us. Let's just try to hold on and see what happens after dark.
love,
Jennifer
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