the message matters more than how it arrives
I have a cat and a flat and live alone.
Twenty-nine candles in an old brownstone.
I sketch a bit and design web pages
for ivory tower types, some twice my age.
I doodle in my diary, little flip animations.
I know it’s silly, but a comforting outcome.
Like schedules on my grandparents’ farm.
Harvest by season and tend cattle each morning.
We ( my sister and I ) survived the accident
that sent us to live with our grandparents.
Farm work was hard; the days full and long.
But I knew what to do and knew that I belonged.
Despite hurt and work, life’s good on a farm.
Earth-ground purpose I equate with home.
But I figured I had to find my own way,
so I went off to college; my sister, the navy.
That’s where doodles turned into panels
and ideas came like messages channeled.
The words were back and hinting returned.
My few friends drifted, voicing their concern.
Garbled messages and muffled noises
started when still a short-pants boy.
Kids said I was crazy or making it up.
When kept to myself, the teasing stopped.
I’d pick out words like swerve or drawer.
It was a bit of guesswork, but felt like more.
They’d guide decisions for minor changes.
Like buy-that-ticket or stay-down range.
I kept changing what I did, who I was with,
figuring change was life’s only constant,
until a note from myself to ward off harm,
prodded me back to my grandparents’ farm.
Now I get up each morning as I will do over,
forever and ever, even if I never remember.
I tend to the farm and figure out how
I’ll one day send signals to my younger selves.
Life returns in grand cycle, with hints I sent.
Snippets of caution. Bits of encouragement.
So I was talking to myself; hardly surprised.
The message matters more than how it arrives.
