Unexpected email from Chris arrived at the WELL.
He was leaving town - abandoning his local system.
moving out in netspace on a carrier called photo.com
while I sat in Brennan's in Berkeley
with my leg propped up on the bar stool that stood between me
and a man I had never seen before -
a therapist with dark circles around his eyes.
He played the drums and had been to Africa.
"Deprivation", he said.
I squirmed in cold pain on the stool.
(Do you want to see what my leg looks like?)
Regardless of Joseph's words
("nobody telnets on the holidays),
on The Well, information was moving into my account in formation
"I think that many artists were deprived or isolated
in childhood," the therapist said.
On Arts Wire, I was going to respond,
but the system hung up.
Nevertheless, when asked,
I wrote my phone number in red ink
on a beer riddled paper napkin.
I was thinking about the German army marching into Eastern Europe,
ants moving to the water dish of the cat,
and the lines of information seeping in to poniecki@berkeley.edu
at that very moment.
(Do you want to see what my leg looks like? )