============Original Message============
Hello again.
============Original Message============

‘Hello, goodbye? I don't know why I see goodbye, I say hello, oooOoo, OoOooo, Goodbye-ie-ie.’

Maybe, Andrew, there's less to communicate, maybe we've said it all.

It's that plaguing adage, come to life, which is such a stupid barrier to creativity. Everything written has been written before, there's nothing left unsaid, it's always been imagination on the edge of 'the twist', the genius, the 'old'.

Somehow, Now is becoming so cold, we hardly need snowfall, anymore, though we miss its air-fluid patterns and swirls and snowdrift minds of, purely, movement, passing, present and future, all in the winds of snow. What I wouldn't give for an old-fashioned Wisconsin winter blizzard...

Maybe over-Internet-communication is killing off, while building, unneeded and reseated fragments of our souls.

Ah, yes, maybe, I wax histrionic, coming off a small-town 4-H morning fundraiser, selling goat-meat, or beef, tacos at a goat show... Do you find that obtuse? Why? People do eat goats. man... Anyway, yadda, yadda, our shift is done. Drive home 45 min., take a break, and go to the humungous PD Morenci Family Picnic, serving its 2000+ employees and families and guests and old-timers who've invested their lives in copper's procurement through racial divisions of labor and trust and years and you find they/things are the backbone of the ‘community’, and, that’s good. It’s the yearly company ‘transversion’, and appreciation, of its mining families, and, that’s good.

You'd think, after fifteen years, I'd feel comfortable here, but I don't.

And, by the way, I'm halfway, lingering, through Nora Roberts "Valley of Silence", the last book in her Circle Trilogy. The first I slammed down, the second, took more emotion-time, this third, dragging out with its reflections of my now, our now, its now. And, never before have I seen the truth in there is nothing new to write, except in a different way/style/tone/time, as I do now. All of a sudden, I feel very weary, and discouraged, I'll never write like that, any of those thats, ever, or any of them/me/to be. What’s the point?

Don't fret, don't fret, it's the reason I gave up reading two/three years ago, post-acute-appreciation stress syndrome, twisted with self-importance aka less self worth writing as a poet. I’m reading books, again, but, now it feels like … silence within the sounds of words, or it is the noise within words of silence, or, what’s the point. Basically, I/you/we could have done that, if we were the first. But, then, firsts become lasts. So, if all firsts become lasts, there must be new firsts, mustn’t there? Maybe not a Big Bang, but a little bang. Maybe not. All firsts don’t end as lasts at the same time.

Hello again.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/9/07