e-'s as in ease

e-thernet
while scrupulously, but subconsciously so, surfing the w3, i wonder about the intitial goals of global socialization. here we are led to believe we are leaving no one behind, then why is the feeling sometimes just that? not in a bad, devastating or irreparable way. but has global interaction led to inner depth, i ask thee. when i was still blogging nationally, i dared looking over the hedge for grass that looked greener on the other side. but only recently i read that e-commune may not be so social after all. my intial doubts, dating back to a time when blogging hadn’t nested itself into my life, pop up. does it all and only have to be about me, me, me?

e-volution
how lovely though to be able to time and mind travel. whilest my upper body is strolling along ‘that rolling thames’, both my feet are stomping the brussels’ pavement. none too bad for a stomp, i agree, and fortunately my daytime job, stressful at times, proofs to be a frolic jaunt from daunting dales through to sky high peaks. speaking of which, my collegue at work, bee, let me in on the sleeping craters under yellowstone park in the us. the worst case scenario on natural volcanic awakening looks particularly bleak. i wonder about such activity. do natural calamities carry a message? has iceland, notoriously known for its sagas, initiated natural retribution? [did we ever think we were mightier still than mother earth?]

[photo : by kind permission of bell - mother made m]
e-ruption
when woolf wakes up at 3 am, she realizes in an instant what time it is. dead hour means the ancient world is whispering. she may well have her own private volcano sitting on the night stand, patiently waiting to erupt. and when it does, there’s no stopping it. so woolf leaves off the night lamp and practices blind words in the dark, graphite scraping over a bunch of papers. for words are precious, and when they flow like lava, she wants to catch the sparks before they cool off. between waking and drifting off, woolf lets the pencil slip through her fingers, or else she dreams she does. in her mind’s eye she’s surfing the comfortingly contained outline of the soul. she stirs when the pencil finally drops onto the floor boards, the pointed sound dying soothingly into silence.
e-posts dedicated to all those who travel; [e-]globally, intensely, sparsely or internally. and incognito, if prefering it that way.