Dear Reader,
Well, you never know when that was your last transmission, do you? It has happened several times; I am no longer writing to you here. Why? You might say: What has happened? Are you okay? Are you unwell?
We are all unwell, and I have not written to you because they said to me, when I was young and impressionable, a little duckling, imprinting on aphorisms that are the equivalent of Twinkies as nutrition, they said: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Let that ring, will you, in your years for a couple million minutes.
Are you ready? Are you with me? Are you going to continue to believe that if you tell people how you really feel they will not love you? My work here may be done. Or, rather, I may have nothing more to say.
On the other hand, I liked that saying- I held, I hold, dear the idea that we should not spread misery with our words. I have known people that I began to avoid because they would only tell me of the terribleness, of the suffering. They never had a sentence for the good things, of which there must be one or two. I give you some right now: Daffodils. Titmice. Sameness, a thread, in old old friends, a kind of reaching back to yourself in being with them. I guess my question is this: do we report only on the things that keep us going, or do we only sardonically allude to the things that kill us? I want something in-between, but I don't know if there is a there, there.
It is just a riff on Silence is Golden, anyway, and I don't think silence is very useful between humans, because we have not worked much on our non-verbal communication skills in what must be a 100 thousand years now. I will give it a try, now, to say something to you without words:
(this is now a pink air, a mist of light)
(listen to this quiet)
(I am setting my hand over yours, palm down)
(I am tapping out a slow beat with my foot; barely audible)
(let us now both notice the feeling of the pink air, the dampness of it, the smoothness)
(end transmission)
