Dear Libby,

Every morning for several days I have taken Tobin on long walks, clearing his "tank" as Mom calls it and emptying my mind.  I want to write you a work of art in the form of a letter, today, when I realize that most of my conversations with most people have been monologues on one end or the other.  But the difference between talking to someone and with them is that call and response, like a choir might sing.  I remember this letter that I wrote that was by some fluke a gem classic, probably because I had just woken up after driving to an exciting new place in the dark.  That was Celo, a Quaker community, nestled gently in the hand of Mount Mitchell and the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Why had I gone for all this time without being aware of this place such a short drive from my birthplace and home?  I watched and sculpted my letter just as the fog lifted off of the highest peek, exposing the silhouette of the mountain majestic.  Dear Mom, Feel free to pass on this letter to the rest of the family if you think they'd care to read it.  The river here is called The Toe River...  And so on.  Libby, I think the point of me bringing up this letter was that something in it held an inquisitiveness open to the depths of my fellow human beings.  One time a poet friend of mine (Nell Maiden) said to me that she felt much better about her life now that she understood the art of conversation.  I think those were the last words I remember from her.  She died of cancer.  The literature in my mind runs wild but not like the Toe River, that would be great.  I think it is more of a toilet that needs fixing.  I need to let the outside world influence me more, to have intercourse with the ideas of others.  Sometimes reading is like that.  Am I a narcissist?  Why am I still talking about myself?  Even my questions are questions that beg to be answered for my own sanity not to console the reader.  All of the happy people I know, all of the good conversationalists rather can instruct a query that feels genuinely interested.  How do you seem so interested in my monologues?  Are all of my friends just humoring me?

I am posting this to my blog, a further projection of my unruly ego.  

Don't speak all at once.

In the Dark with a good candle, Maggie