The rock we choose to live under can sometimes be quite plush. Moss is soft, moist, and well, green with enriching chlorophylls. That, of course, being only on the north side, and probably not actually felt under the petrified substance we call home.
But, we dream, anyway.
Funny thing about classical musicians. At least, I speak for myself. We are often, while certainly capable – as current research results suggest – of integrating massive amounts of intricate data across both hemispheres with lightning speed, we frequently miss what is going on all around us in the realm of our listening audience.
By this, I mean, the real world.
Did I know that blogging was not confined to the newsworthy pundits and the commenting anonymous? Did I realize that amateurs and professionals interact with occasionally seamless ease in this apparently not-so-new medium? Did I really think that legitimate “publishing” was confined to the big houses where a price tag was assigned to every jot and tittle?
Sigh. So, there are poets who convene on poets’ blogs, and students of writing on theirs, and everybody else just everywhere. “Publishing,” I guess, is now become a synonym for reaching a mesa that hosts unknowns.
It’s time to go talk to the man about my paralyzing schemas. Yeah; this writer is reading that book, at any rate. More later.
That is, if anybody is. Still reading.
Ruth Ann Scanzillo