far and wee March 1, 2012Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Toulouse Street.
Of course I look at the little bars in readership stats, going up and down like the little barometric bars on my cheap weather station. You can say you write just for yourself but you always know that’s not true or it wouldn’t be written here.
I love those bars because its like looking up at the stars. You’re reminded of your own insignificance, and still you keep looking, for something: a shooting star, the face of god, Orion sailing away into the west like the ancients taking winter with him.
You want to tell someone, to call someone but you can’t get into a long conversation. You’re outside because you’re avoiding working on Chaucer, doing the dishes, a long list of things. And you have to tell someone.
So you crush out your cigarette and go inside and write something like this (did someone mention Chaucer?) and what you write drifts off like a balloon and perhaps someone else sees that Icarus flash of mylar in the sky or they don’t, and the balloon doesn’t care. It has its own reasons.