Dispatches

For the third morning this week I pick up an empty out of the driveway projected by a probable Canadian-American racist alcoholic. He seems to be targeting my Black Lives Matter sign. There aren't that many of those out here in this town. Homeboy drinks Molson and Bud Light. I'm imagining he's not too bright.  It's a pretty good bet he's flying a trump flag.

I'm also imagining staking him out, locating his residence, and emptying the contents of a dump truck - preferably rotting food waste - in his driveway. Return to sender.

A book arrived in my mailbox today. A collection of short pieces, something like what I write. Except these are about something and good. I don't know how the sender got my information, but I guess we're not so hard to find these days.

I left the dating site last week and feel a general sense of relief. But I kind of miss the habit of checking and returning messages. Stimulating correspondence is nice but it can become a lot to manage. When I talk to too many people - even via typed message - it's not long before I feel diluted, over exposed, and kind of stressed out. 

The old fashioned way - a letter arriving from overseas that took a month to find you - was best. You waited. You remembered. You imagined. You wrote down your thoughts. You tried to write down your heart.

There was silence between letters and time. Time for anticipation and yearning to develop. The waiting was so much of the experience. The distance created the agony and the desire.