my little nephew is sick. leukemia, brain sugery, chemotherapy, pain. other than the pain, he is thriving. lots of attention, his vocabulary is exploding. his mama is proud and frightened. his papa is proud and anguished. they provide posts filled with facts and day to day happenings. people write in supportive and loving comments daily. i am struck by how small is our vocabulary in communicating support, the word variance from post to post is about that of a dr seuss book. how clever i am to use similie instead of descriptive terms. why do i disdain my effort so? why do i find artristry to be at odds with authenticity? skill to be artificial? why do i so value that which is heartfelt, as if that which is mitigated is somehow less than that which is spontaneous? clearly i want to be protected from the spontaneity of others' sweaty raw emotions, yet i disdain the powdered perfection of drawing room parlance. "the cambrige ladies live in furnished souls." yet i respect poetry, artifice at the sublimest level. and i respect the dalai lama, authenticity and kindness of the most disciplined order.

first

i've always said i'd write. but i've never had the structure either internal or external. how odd to find structure in a cyberspace that doesn't exist created by someone i won't ever know. is this human generosity or grace? i recognize that it is likely neither, just the workings of the machine, the forces of entropy ever widening and consuming. and so i am consumed, and find grace, within this nonspace.

thank you to anonymous, rather thank you to the multiple anonymi whose energies have converged to create for me this moment. this moment that no one might ever see but me. but the possiblity of being seen provides a slight frisson. to be known so intimately and so anonymously. but i write for myself alone. don't i?