Happy Birthday to Jamwall!

Ode to Jamwall
on his birthday
this 207th day of the calendar year

i. første vers
In a landscape of 10,000 frozen lakes
and snow upon snow upon snow
a rare and precious gem appeared
seven and thirty years ago.

Fiery red, it blazed and burned
with peerless gifts and talents
in the soul of the boy;
to emerge as he grew,
lending wit, and vision, and balance.

ii. andre vers

No ordinary boy was he
nay, never.
Not to this day!
His eyes bear the spark
of vivid untiring imagination.
His mouth utters only kindness, humor, and love;
his heart is a drumbeat of loyalty.

Oh!

Your heart, your little heart …
it knows not how it sounds.
for it is the drum of drums,
it is the song of songs.*
Thumping in the rib-cavern of that
beautiful spirited child
for all the days
that came before I knew you.

iii. tredje vers

On a distant shore I lived
and wandered alone and wondered
whether in all my days I’d find a match
for the silly and lively spirit inside.

... A spirit that needed taming and compassion.
A spirit that compels with its fierce humor.
A spirit that sometimes does not brush its hair
and eats things it finds on the floor
and wears a box instead of pants
and draws oddly
and writes poems about raining noses
and cannot spell the word scissors.

Who would ever come home
to a spirit like that?

I had stopped looking;
I did not realize.

I did not know, I mean ...
... that you were there.

Nobody told me.

iv. fjerde vers

One day, suddenly, you appeared, beating your gong.

Verbally jousting with me
in the back-rooms of this virtual world.

Your writing tickled my funny bone
and brought out my inner feisty beast.
My true colors were fully unfurled!

Nothing was sacred, nothing was safe:Runways and hoo-hahs and relish,ice cream flavors and gobstoppers …
all of these we’d embellish.

When you said you "loved my guts" I fainted, a little.

v. femte vers
There was once a secret blog;
a playground we kept on the side.
Some of us would take comfort there
and lower our guard for a time.

In that hideaway long gone, you first
unveiled your face to me, and to the others.
I will never forget reaching out
and touching your face with my hand
on the flat-screen of my monitor.
That puckish dimple in your chin
has inhabited my dreams
every night hence.
Even now, two years since.

vi. sjette vers

One summer’s day in Boston-town
four bloggers were united
for a weekend of frivolity
and extensive monkey-business.

On the trolley, you touched my knee.

vii. syvende vers

(Angelic Chorus sings to the tune of Don’t Fear the Reaper):

Her knee! Her knee! You touched Spinnerina's knee!
The kneebone’s connected to the lipbone!
The lipbone’s connected to the heartbone!

viii. åttende vers
(Man with Cowbell clangs instrument three times and shouts):

Silence!
Let me explore the space now, baby.

[mellomspill] --- Bare ku bjelle (Cowbell solo) ---

ix. niende vers

Jamwall, thanx fo' show'n me T-H-to-tha-izzat you love me in all tha shawty ways . Ya fuck with us, we gots to fuck you up. I started yo' shit, and I'll end yo'shit. You is always there fo' me so jus' chill. I love you so mizzle fo' sho'! I cizzay imagine gangsta day going by wit'out you in mah life. Throw yo' guns in tha muthafuckin' air!

x. tiende og siste vers
Well, then.

Nothing sweeter
or simpler and truer than this,
so still your jibberish and listen:

I cherish you.

You are a comet that streaked into my life
and landed.

Happy birthday, sweetiepants.
Happy now, and always, and then some.

(final strike of cowbell)

(curtain)

*with thanks to Annie Lennox

p.s. I didn't get you a card, so bask in this meager tribute. Jeg elsker deg!

Repost: A Birthday (May 24) Tribute to Fritz

Today marks a most special day here in Blogland; it is the birthday of one of my most special Pig-Pilers, Fritz. To know her is to hold a rare gem in the hand, if only for a moment.

Michael helps her realize how beautiful she is; we knew all along.

Fritz first caught my attention in this comment thread. It was a debate of sorts, something about vaginas ... BOBI really stepped in it when he tore apart (figuratively) the twat. Fritz came at him with both barrels blazing, and won my respect from that day forward. She helped me to see that expressing your opinion (and vehemently) doesn't cost friendships, it galvanizes them. I wish I had her bravery and her conviction.

Then she wrote me this ode. To this day I have received few gifts so touching. I keep a printed copy by my bed and often read it before sleep, to remind me that, hardly knowing me, she saw the best in me. I wish I had her love for humanity and her depth of feeling.

Then we had a fight, in which we called a draw. It wasn't a real fight; it was an imaginary wrestling match. I loved that she drew me as a svelte fighter-girl. I love that she thinks I am some skinny willow-wisp of a blondeen, when in truth I am a luxury liner of gigantic womanly proportions. I wish I had her ability to see the best in everyone.

Fritz's avatar has undergone numerous permutations; here are two of my favorites:

eek!

The first one, and my favorite.

Fritz wrote a story once, that continues to be one of my favorite things EVER. It is called Symphony for Life and here is just one tiny excerpt: "I was born in the rumble of the city, beneath the elevated rail, beside the gassy bus, above the bright yellow taxi cab, shrink-wrapped in checkerboard. I was born in the spring of Chicago, a crumpling between cold and hot, a defrosting of the grimy streets at dawn. I was born in a nondescript hospital room, cinder-blocked walls, a cross over the bed, a doctor, a nurse, a wailing woman. The room had a window; the woman insisted on a window. Through the grimy panes came the faded city sunlight that morn, and as Barber's Adagio for Strings grows with strength, so did the sunlight as I emerged from the cave of fertility. I was born unto light, in the simple white linens of sanitary bedding, between the gristle bone and blood of my mother."

Writing like that makes me want to stand under naked trees and wail in ecstacy. I wish I had her talent.

But at least I take comfort in knowing that Fritz and I are two card-carrying members of the Mutual Admiration Society. She has, alternately, dubbed me both Athena and Arachnae, nicknames I embrace as my own and cherish. And she thought my real name was Muthana, after she took my quiz! How adorable is that?!?! In seeking the perfect name for her, I did a little research, and settled at last upon a choice.

So then ... My dearest Fritz, in honor of your birthday I name you Eleos, Greek Goddess of Mercy, Pity and Compassion (Roman counterpart: Clementia, or Misericordia). You extend an arm of comfort and solace to those who most need it, the weakest and most pained members of society. You stand up for your beliefs, even in the face of termination. You see the ills and flaws of those around you, and love all the more fully. Happy happy birthday to you, with sincerest gratitude for helping me to be a better person. I love you!

Eleos

aka Fritz

aka Elizabeth

you have more names than a Tolkien character!

The Flocking Continues [*UPDATED*]

YourNameHere has flocked to me. He didn't know that the proper form of blog-love is an ode, stalker art, or perhaps an egg sculpture. I think a semi-erotic tribute to my avatar qualifies. All the people must flock to me. Yes, et tu must flock to me. Come come, children.

UPDATE: In response to his general fabulosity, and the fact that he may or may not be in love with me, YourNameHere is now on the Spinning Bed. Make room, people. Of course, Jamwall & Jiggs still get to share my pillow and Miss K still gets to have one hand inside my pants. Monkey, as we all know, is nestled down the front of my shirt. Where he will dwell forever and ever.

A Birthday Tribute

Today marks a most special day here in Blogland; it is the birthday of one of my most special Pig-Pilers, Fritz. To know her is to hold a rare gem in the hand, if only for a moment.

Michael helps her realize how beautiful she is; we knew all along.

Fritz first caught my attention in this comment thread. It was a debate of sorts, something about vaginas ... BOBI really stepped in it when he tore apart (figuratively) the twat. Fritz came at him with both barrels blazing, and won my respect from that day forward. She helped me to see that expressing your opinion (and vehemently) doesn't cost friendships, it galvanizes them. I wish I had her bravery and her conviction.

Then she wrote me this ode. To this day I have received few gifts so touching. I keep a printed copy by my bed and often read it before sleep, to remind me that, hardly knowing me, she saw the best in me. I wish I had her love for humanity and her depth of feeling.

Then we had a fight, in which we called a draw. It wasn't a real fight; it was an imaginary wrestling match. I loved that she drew me as a svelte fighter-girl. I love that she thinks I am some skinny willow-wisp of a blondeen, when in truth I am a pleasure liner of gigantic womanly proportions. I wish I had her ability to see the best in everyone.

Fritz's avatar has undergone numerous permutations; here are two of my favorites:

eek!

The first one, and my favorite.

Fritz wrote a story once, that continues to be one of my favorite things EVER. It is called Symphony for Life and here is just one tiny excerpt: "I was born in the rumble of the city, beneath the elevated rail, beside the gassy bus, above the bright yellow taxi cab, shrink-wrapped in checkerboard. I was born in the spring of Chicago, a crumpling between cold and hot, a defrosting of the grimy streets at dawn. I was born in a nondescript hospital room, cinder-blocked walls, a cross over the bed, a doctor, a nurse, a wailing woman. The room had a window; the woman insisted on a window. Through the grimy panes came the faded city sunlight that morn, and as Barber's Adagio for Strings grows with strength, so did the sunlight as I emerged from the cave of fertility. I was born unto light, in the simple white linens of sanitary bedding, between the gristle bone and blood of my mother."

Writing like that makes me want to stand under naked trees and wail in ecstacy. I wish I had her talent.

But at least I take comfort in knowing that Fritz and I are two card-carrying members of the Mutual Admiration Society. She has, alternately, dubbed me both Athena and Arachnae, nicknames I embrace as my own and cherish. And she thought my real name was Muthana, after she took my quiz! How adorable is that?!?! In seeking the perfect name for her, I did a little research, and settled at last upon a choice.

So then ... My dearest Fritz, in honor of your birthday I name you Eleos, Greek Goddess of Mercy, Pity and Compassion (Roman counterpart: Clementia, or Misericordia). You extend an arm of comfort and solace to those who most need it, the weakest and most pained members of society. You stand up for your beliefs, even in the face of termination. You see the ills and flaws of those around you, and love all the more fully. Happy happy birthday to you, with sincerest gratitude for helping me to be a better person. I love you!

Eleos

aka Fritz

aka Elizabeth

you have more names than a Tolkien character!

Immortalized; Food for the Soul

I think it is almost time for me to write another Ode ... I have a few subjects in mind. No requests, please, the Muse works alone. There was a phase here at 11.5 when we wrote odes to one another. I post for you now the Ode that Fritz wrote for me, which I love, and which makes me feel better about myself at times, and which I printed out and read before sleep. Below that, my Ode to Bobi, on the occasion of him meeting Bethie, whom he adores, and who is worthy of his love. With apologies in advance for length and reposting, I now present to you ... the Odes.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

ODE TO SPINNING GIRL (by Fritz)

CHILD MOON

The child's wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, "See the moon!"
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth
-Carl Sandburg, Chicago Poems

I preface this Ode to Spinning Girl with Carl Sandburg. He is one of my favorite poets, because he eagerly brought nature and the city together in his work. His lyric schemes are landscapes of sounds and verbs. Perhaps not a teacher in the traditional sense, Carl Sandburg and Spinning Girl are two cut from the same cloth.
And Now....(drumroll)...the Ode to Spinning Girl.

Canto I.

There is a classroom in a town in Connecticut
Where a very tall woman presides.
Her hair is like that of a moth's wing
and her nose is aligned with pride.

She talks about history or math
Or perhaps, physics and atoms.
No matter the subject she's teaching,
it's more than the students can fathom.

She's brilliant and oh-so-pretty
With eyes clear and bright with intellect.
She tells stories about lions and children
And nary a student she rejects.

Canto II.

Spinning Girl is the moniker she uses
When she dabbles with internet pleasure.
Her words are like little rubies
and her blogs are unexpected nectar.

She has readers, far and wide.
Her passion is unrelenting.
The talent she has in her little finger
Daunts my own, like a thimble.

At times, she may seem contrary
But this mood is never lasting.
Back she'll come with a comment
always funny, always witty.

Canto III.

I myself live in Georgia
With a boyfriend and a cat.
I have lots of issues
keeping thoughts intact.

But Spinning Girl is Athena
A goddess wise and fair
And when I read her blogs
I'm refreshed of my own flair.

She does this crazy stuff
with Adobe Photoshop
And lots of times I'm duped
by pictures that she's cropped.

Canto IV.

(Muse in fairy garb swings across imaginary set in my mind, changing entire mood of 'Ode to S.G.')

If there is a soul out there that nears Spinning Girl,
may that soul be bright and cheery; may that soul be
rested and unweary. May that soul
be kind enough to listen to Spinning Girl's words
and learn the immortal lessons she teaches. May that soul
be good enough to keep her safe at night.
When all the lights have burnt out, or a power surge erupts
and you and I and BOBI can no longer read her stuff,
let us pray that Spinning Girl and her ephemeral life
go on and on like Fate's three threads:
epigrammatic, ambiguous, enchanting.
Let us all remember Spinning Girl, and sing of her to children.
If every teacher taught like her,
all minds would be like fertile fields of Narnia or Elysian Lands,
or the soft light stuff that makes up heaven.

Canto V.

(A little child sings):
Thank you, God, for your bright star.
Spinning Girl, Spinning Girl, wherever you are.
Teach me now, teach me at morn
Weave me a tale
To last through all time.

(Curtain down)
(Applause).

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ode to B.O.B.I. (by Spinning Girl)

on the occasion of his birthday two and twenty

this sixteenth day of Tenmonth

in 2005 the Year of our Lord.

Song I

Beyond the lakes and the wide, wide river
in the North, in the cold
of the snowy, frozen plains
within the walls of a spacious abode
together there live three Men.

Dane is the second
the third is Another
but then there is the One,
and that One is BOBI
he is the One of whom we sing.

Gather now, and still your noises
Silence your iPods, turn off your toyses
and listen to the tale of this One.


Song II

We speak the name of Bee-Oh-Bee-Aye
with reverence, with love of a kind
for he has chosen us as the vessels
for the magic that he pours
from his brightly blazing mind.

He speaks to us of the world of wizards and of emus
and of drunken nightly mirth
of Alan Rickman and Target
of the Universe and its rebirth.

His brilliant blue eyes alight
at the mention of Lord Vader
His hands and feet point directly
at a shapely, promising bubble-invader
... who primly nods and prances by
obliviously passing up
a chance at bliss unequalled
at the hands of this young suitor.


Song III

For BOBI's single quest
condoned by Gods above
is to be finally dealt a hand
that wins the game of Love.

He throws his net and hopes, and longs
and it catches, time to time
on a likely find
then comes loose and drifts again.

Night after night, day after day
he casts far and wide.
Ever the net turns up empty
ever the cupboard is bare
ever the cold desert of BOBI's bed
calls out for a soft pink soul
to warm it, and the bountiful heart that lives there.


Song IV

A Spinning Girl sits at her wheel
spinning away her days
and weaving a wondrous web on her loom
of storied threads and nostalgic ways.

One day her web catches and holds
this wandering Lancelot, this BOBI lad
He tickles her fancy
and pokes at her mind
and awakens the sleeping Muse.

They spar and they duel
on Middle Earth's fields
sharing fireside secrets by email
A battle of wits
and of hearts has begun
In his company, she finds
respite and sustenance for life's long travail.

In dreams he mounts his shaggy steed
A guanaco? Alpaca? No indeed!
No less than mighty Llama-kind
for the russet knight-errant
when he courts his maiden fair.

(an ominous low chord sounds, and holds for entire last stanza)

But in night's dark hour
her fears and doubts
denounce his affections
she tosses her web to the wind
and BOBI flies free of her charms
to wander the world once more
heavy-hearted, yet happier, somehow.


Song V

(A chorus of soft girls' voices)

pianissimo

: O sweet wanderer
never fear, never doubt
for love will come to you. :

Song VI

What now for this knight, this knower of souls

this delver, this digger, this miner of the unkown?

This speaker of languages both real and imagined

This master of sword and of bow?

This coaxer of melodies from cello's strings

And singer of harmonies low?

BOBI will rant, and wax philosophical

about fecal bullets, and domos, and jelly

miniskirts, afros, and schooldays bygone

no topic too sacred, no topic immune.

He finds solace in a soul who lives close to his heart,

awaiting the day when One comes to his side

and climbs on Life's coaster with him

together to laugh on the dips in the ride.

Song VII: Finale

(a great and rousing chorus erupts)

Let those who are worthy and those who are strong

who've come from afar and traveled long

gather now, to BOBI and all flock about

to sing his praises in a glorious shout:

"No other so mighty, No other so true!
BOBI’s tremendous, through and through.
BOBI Majestic, we really love you!"

(curtain)
(thunderous applause)

Ode to B.O.B.I. on His Birthday

Readers of this blog and that of Rex Tremendae know that he is a special member of Spinning Girl's inner circle; I would like to honor him now with this, my first-ever (and possibly last) attempt at writing an Ode. What better way to sing someone's praises? Happy birthday, dear one.

Now then, without further introduction, the Ode to BOBI:

Ode to B.O.B.I.

on the occasion of his birthday two and twenty

this sixteenth day of Tenmonth

in 2005 the Year of our Lord.

Song I

Beyond the lakes and the wide, wide river
in the North, in the cold
of the snowy, frozen plains
within the walls of a spacious abode
together there live three Men.

Dane is the second
the third is Another
but then there is the One,
and that One is BOBI
he is the One of whom we sing.

Gather now, and still your noises
Silence your iPods, turn off your toyses
and listen to the tale of this One.


Song II

We speak the name of Bee-Oh-Bee-Aye
with reverence, with love of a kind
for he has chosen us as the vessels
for the magic that he pours
from his brightly blazing mind.

He speaks to us of the world of wizards and of emus
and of drunken nightly mirth
of Alan Rickman and Target
of the Universe and its rebirth.

His brilliant blue eyes alight
at the mention of Lord Vader
His hands and feet point directly
at a shapely, promising bubble-invader
... who primly nods and prances by
obliviously passing up
a chance at bliss unequalled
at the hands of this young suitor.


Song III

For BOBI's single quest
condoned by Gods above
is to be finally dealt a hand
that wins the game of Love.

He throws his net and hopes, and longs
and it catches, time to time
on a likely find
then comes loose and drifts again.

Night after night, day after day
he casts far and wide.
Ever the net turns up empty
ever the cupboard is bare
ever the cold desert of BOBI's bed
calls out for a soft pink soul
to warm it, and the bountiful heart that lives there.


Song IV

A Spinning Girl sits at her wheel
spinning away her days
and weaving a wondrous web on her loom
of storied threads and nostalgic ways.

One day her web catches and holds
this wandering Lancelot, this BOBI lad
He tickles her fancy
and pokes at her mind
and awakens the sleeping Muse.

They spar and they duel
on Middle Earth's fields
sharing fireside secrets by email
A battle of wits
and of hearts has begun
In his company, she finds
respite and sustenance for life's long travail.

In dreams he mounts his shaggy steed
A guanaco? Alpaca? No indeed!
No less than mighty Llama-kind
for the russet knight-errant
when he courts his maiden fair.

(an ominous low chord sounds, and holds for entire last stanza)

But in night's dark hour
her fears and doubts
denounce his affections
she tosses her web to the wind
and BOBI flies free of her charms
to wander the world once more
heavy-hearted, yet happier, somehow.


Song V

(A chorus of soft girls' voices)

pianissimo

: O sweet wanderer
never fear, never doubt
for love will come to you. :

Song VI

What now for this knight, this knower of souls

this delver, this digger, this miner of the unkown?

This speaker of languages both real and imagined

This master of sword and of bow?

This coaxer of melodies from cello's strings

And singer of harmonies low?

BOBI will rant, and wax philosophical

about fecal bullets, and domos, and jelly

miniskirts, afros, and schooldays bygone

no topic too sacred, no topic immune.

He finds solace in a soul who lives close to his heart,

awaiting the day when One comes to his side

and climbs on Life's coaster with him

together to laugh on the dips in the ride.

Song VII: Finale

(a great and rousing chorus erupts)

Let those who are worthy and those who are strong

who've come from afar and traveled long

gather now, to BOBI and all flock about

to sing his praises in a glorious shout:

"No other so mighty, No other so true!
BOBI’s tremendous, through and through.
BOBI Majestic, we really love you!"

(curtain)
(thunderous applause)

This Posting Life

On this beautiful late afternoon, I am outside dealing with a situation and mulling things over; and by things, I specifically mean this Blog Life and how different it is from what I thought it would be. It’s better, worse, more bizarre and more real than I ever could have imagined.

My thinking is fueled, of course, by the wonderful Ode that Fritz wrote for me. Who would have thought, back in June, that a passion-filled whirlwind in Georgia would care enough about anything I had said to immortalize me in an ode? Who would have thought that I’d be driving along in my car, wondering if a redheaded, big-hearted genius in Minnesota has gotten out of bed yet?

But here I am, swinging my sledgehammer and thinking things like that. Don’t be frightened; the thinking isn’t driving the sledgehammer blows, it’s just that this idiot wasn't paying attention to his driving and … well, never mind.

When I started blogging in early July, my main mission was to vent out some things that needed venting. My early posts were a mish-mash of ire-filled rampages (since deleted, so don’t even look) that nobody read. I don’t think I was even set up for comments, at the time. Once I had finished spewing that poison to the web, I started poking around other blogs just to see what was around. I commented here and there, and started writing a few simple lists (the earliest entries that now appear) to try it out. I visited Casual Friday, PostSecret, and BadGod. Some of my earliest readers still come around, and over time a community of regulars has evolved.

My avatar has changed a few times, and I’ve also begun to reveal more and more about myself, both at my own blog and others. Starting out, it was imperative that I keep my identity a secret. While that’s still important (I really don’t want the local PTA moms to know I used to hit the sauce and suck pebbles), what is surprising to me is that I am more and more willing to show who I truly am, and that my blog-mates accept my flaws along with my better qualities. Early on I put sort of a persona out there, one that was more abrasive and had an edgier life than the one I was actually living. I did this in the interest of protecting myself, of keeping people at arm’s length. Over time the falseness has fallen away. I tinker with the balance between revealing enough and revealing too much. So far so good. But who would have thought that I would actually begin to care? And with caring, comes the capacity for faraway people to really affect me, to influence my moods, to potentially [delight, sadden, enrapture, enrage, hurt] me.

What I struggle with is how real/unreal Blogworld is. This is the part that gets me. Behind each profile is a person with real feelings, whose life knows joys and pains that I have only the tiniest peeks at, depending upon what they choose to share. We support each other (when we feel like it) or go on our own rants. It’s really living out your life in bits & pieces. Each little bit and piece helps me take a more honest look at my own life and to see where I need to improve, how I could be better.

Fritz’s ode moved me in how it portrayed me, yes, but what moved me most is that she would even do it. I can only aspire to be a Fritz, someone who looks far enough outside herself to recognize another person’s qualities and to offer them up, shiny and polished, for the world to see. Fritz humbles me. I want to have her capacity of love for humanity.

The frustration about Blog Life not being fully real is that I crave more, and more, and more, which as we know is impossible, or at least unrealistic and generally not the way the game is played. I want to sit and drink iced tea with Heather and talk about living life as the sole survivor of triplet birth. I want to go knock on BOBI’s door and tell him to stop playing that video game and come play Lord of the Rings trivia with me!!! But no, I cannot get my own way out here, so I have a tantrum on his comments and go on my way.

Living on a blog means learning to accept that I live on other bloggers’ terms when I am off my turf.

But isn’t that how life is, anyway?

It’s not about me all the time. That’s been a hard lesson for me to absorb, because I thrive on being in the spotlight; I don’t mean to be so, I just am. Several teachers have, independently of each other, referred to me as the Pied Piper. I say “all must flock to me” only half in jest. I pull these young adults along by sheer force of my personality, charming them into loving me enough to achieve wonderful things for me. I don’t know how else to be. I want to weave a web of wonderful people all around me. What I need to remember is that each of them has a web of their own, and if I am in it, I must be attentive to them as well. It’s a daily assignment to remember that.

What on earth is my point?, I think, as I tie off the last wire in this heinous project.

Just this: That there is no way to remain removed as a blogger, at least not for me. I’m fully in it. With that, I have begun to actually care about what my readers are doing, and how they feel about what I’ve written. It’s a dangerous place to be, though, because how long can it last? Does it just go on & on (nay), or do people come and go, the way friendships peter out and fade over time (probably)? I don’t know, I’m too new at it. What I do know right now is that when there’s unrest at one blog, I feel it viscerally as I would if it was someone in my real life. When there is joy, I celebrate with you. When I’m snubbed, insulted, praised, or playfully teased, I feel all of those on my skin as if you were standing before me.

Yet only one of you knows my name.

Well, maybe two, since you two guys must talk once in a while.

So that’s how it is right now, and I don’t even really have a question. I’m just marveling, aloud, at how strange this experience is. I wouldn’t change a thing, except for slowing down just a little after the kiddies show up tomorrow, and I wear my teacher face all day.

Maybe the blogging me is really the best me. Like Glorfindel's brilliance the time Frodo saw him on the “other side”, my truest self is here in Blogland. Now if I can bring what I’ve learned here and let more and more of that light shine offline, then I will be truly and fully alive.