You click away on your keyboards, and it’s as if I can watch you in your wordplay. Karen is hunting, stalking, sometimes jumping on her prey in a somersault wrestle to the ground, then quickly up again, fading back into the forest, moving stealthily forward. Mandy hovers above her scene like a goddess, watching the action like humans watch bees, detached yet involved, choosing random moments to intervene, knowing that her own existence is made manifest by the stories that call her into being. Holly sits there quietly now, her mouse scrolling as she ponders what just moments ago was pouring out of her, a gush and rush, cavorting like puppies who have now worn themselves out and so briefly rest.
I, like Mandy, come to this night odd, unsure of how to enter or what to bring. Recent travels have changed me and the newly formed landscape within seems too wild to map, too foreign to explore, too private a place to bring outsiders. I look for distractions I can toss into the mix, ways of acting like I’m contributing without revealing how much I’m not. I’ve been writing nearly daily at home, brimming and overflowing with integrations and insights, excited to bring them to the surface. But that writing is a world away from this one, and no bridges yet exist to carry what I know there to this place I sit with you.
Holly scratches her belly and yawns loudly. “It’s not going anywhere!” she laments. She is bored with what is not getting written, bored with our silent clicking efforts, asking if it’s time to read, no matter how rambling the writing has been ‘til now. Karen studies her screen, scientist of life, ever willing to see what might be there. Mandy squints her eyes, bites her lip, and keeps typing. I lift my own fingers up, sigh loudly, say, “Ok…” Holly eagerly and loudly concurs, drawing a fond smile from Mandy as her fingers continue. Soon we will read.
Diana
Karen A.
hollyhorrible
Mandy
