I have a very brilliant reader out here who is anonymous to everyone but me.  Let's just call her Anonamiss!  Never a prop, never a comment anymore but apparently resolute in always catching up with me. 

And this, Anonamiss maintains, is the most revealing way to read blogs: a month or so at a time.  She maintains that with such a perspective, little nondescriptly mentioned things begin to make sense, fall into place, enrich the larger picture. 

For instance, she has observed that, in the long run, I go through repeated cycles of running/action blogs, frustrated/tension blogs, and carnival poetry love stuff.  When she told me that, I actually fell over laughing in my seat.   Apparently, I as a blogger wasn't fully aware of what my very astute readers are capable of seeing!  As woodnymph coyly put it in a recent comment to me: "*puts her fingertips together in contemplation* Veddy interesting, nfp. Anything else you'd like to share?"

Well, yes there is!  I'd like you all to know that my knowing that I have a detectable pattern will Heisenberg it.  That is, my very awareness of your awareness has already rippled creatively within and caused me to shift the way I waft.  Hence, forthcoming, expect the new and the different.

Oh, by the way, I ran today!  And even though I'm still feeling in midstride on my second trip around the world, I now realize that the 25,000 miles plus I've accumulated running so far have failed for a good part to provide a truly scenic view of the world's wide splendour.  How sad and irrecoverable that aspect of my running has been.  Yet while I ran today and moped upon that realization, a brighter memory revisted: my very first love! 

First Love

Her name was Melody
(Or is this now all just a mistaken memory
of notes too faded  by time’s unchimed passing?)
She always greeted me from her 3rd floor apartment balcony
Smiling down upon me as if I were her 8-year old Romeo
(and she my pre-nubile Juliet)
And yet, no less tragic was the distance between us than
that of the Montagues and Capulets.
Her dad would never let her come down and play
(he must have thought the stripped and stolen car
in the parking lot below that I played in
was stolen by me!)
I wasn’t going to take her away, I swear!
Just have her sit next to me and play with her hair
or caress the fuzz on her arm—
No harm, just a gentle affair.
But no closer could we ever come but with me
ground-bound,  looking upwards and beholding
her giggling playfulness, her longing to descend
and befriend this “neighborly hood” of a boy.
I thus missed making her acquaintance,
yet have never loved a girl more
than Melody
seemingly blowing me kisses
from her 3rd floor balcony.