I feel like I’m bringing more progeny into this world to die in my stead; the blog version of a witch drinking baby’s blood to stay young forever. Melodramatic? Perhaps. It’s how I roll. I try not to roll down the avalanche chutes though. Not possible here in this flat verdant landlocked tomb. I won’t be here forever. I’ve left more times than a person should have to. But I digress.
No. Wait.
Digressing is what I do. No apologies; bad way to start. It’s like “Hey baby what’s your sign? I’m sorry, I don’t read the horoscope and I’m married and I see by your beard that you are male. Sorry.” Yeah, no. I mean starting another journal. The web is littered with my dead journals, even the website, deadjournal dot com, if it still exists, has or had some variation of haredawg on it. I was writing a letter to a friend suggesting in a mawkish and maudlin fashion that I had left part of my soul in the Columbia Gorge and went further to suggest how splintered I am across the map. Because I want her to be delicate I didn’t mention the skin and hair and semen in drains I’ve shed on one side of a line or the other.
Funny thing that, the pieces of this body are measurable, the pieces of the soul --- I’m not really sure there are such things, and yet something yearns for my gorge, yearns in a way that hair and skin and semen can’t.
A friend invited me here for a game invented a long time ago and far away, in web years and distance it’s at least a thousand years and a million miles ago. I’d like to play. Perhaps in another folder, as, after my long minutes here, folders or books is what defines this as being different from that.
The question is; can I write a flash without my soul intact? If there is no such thing it should be a piece of cake, no?
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