This place is every man for himself - and woman, too. I am still new because I refrain from becoming a regular part of the scene, I prefer being an understudy of myself in these parts. I am nearly half the age of some of the people I call my friends here. What is a friend when you are not present beyond where you find yourself and happen to see another, in the late-night supermarket, dropping off an errand, in the forum of editing the same online spreadsheet, stopping by only to get coffee because I really have to go, but see you soon. And where? I cannot connect to anyone by any means from my home, nor do I make the plans to travel to them, nor invite them to me. I feel greedy in the mornings as I wake under the dirty pentagram skylight of my geodesic cabin, waking to the rising sun above the canopies both coniferous and deciduous, a rare confusion of climate that makes me swell with pride to see all day, that is, "all day" when I find myself free from obligations that require a cell signal, Internet connection, or person. There is a small tickle of selfishness when I walk down the stairs in the morning to brew coffee and stretch breaking my fast into an elaborate ritual of comfort consuming experimental eggs, romaine wraps, or coconut pancakes, before taking some reading out onto the porch overlooking the creek. I ran out of all my groceries weeks ago with commuting between lives I have not severed nor birthed, so I feed the pregnant pause of my mornings - timeless as one is when entirely disconnected - with tinned sardines I have collected like the proud owner of a private marché. It is selfish because I am keeping this joy private, only until I have to leave to pickup a connection or attend to the life I put on hiatus, keeping it alive on a shoestring in the hopes that it will come back to life fully. If I pull the plug on anyone, it will be this selfish pride, here where I find myself, isolated and gone and as good as an email that gets no reply because what proof has there been that I am more than a download? As of late I have been split between embraces, the fast heat of myself months ago and the slow germination I have forged into a young growth now. I am in transit between two states in the same state and ultimately don't know what to expect in the end - "the end" so sweet to muse over because where there is death there must be life, but which comes first is one's disembodied chicken against an animated egg.
Eggs, I need to buy eggs, but I'm leaving the glory of selfish mornings for a few days of haunting ideas of Future's past. I'll suffice with my usual accompaniment, the company I always keep in supply for demand as discipline: the fish released from their tin sealant croaking hello, a salty party, headless but with a spine.