Bonjour. Look, it's the edge of 2020 and we're all still standing.
I am happy to have returned to read some and partake, awake, or take apart.
Over here the reality is since climbing off the boat from the murky waters of the Mekong and down from the airless trails of the Manaslu and regaining abilities temporarily suspended, I have taken on a few projects, all of them gazing my way with expectant eyes. I drink my Dream infused morning smoothie and turn on awhile (for who among us aspires to uselessness?), then wander back into common reverie found through wandering the woods communing with trees and fearless deer.
What I mean is, oui, I am again present. If you will endeavour to maintain things at some rhythmic hum, a subtle slow train huffing through the station of an arid sparsely populated village from a Marquez short story, I think I can pace these rooms of mine and assess a few caps again between the other. Yes, because we like it. I like story and the tellers who beckon me into the weaving of one.
Can we will we shall we dance with or without our soft shoe or jack boots on?