Wicked Wanderings on the Porch
The dusky breeze coaxes the flames of pillars of waxen light, occasionally snuffing them out when it sighs heavily as the sun sets behind the west hills. An ambient music station streaming over the internet tickles my ear lobes and the neighbors BBQ grows more lively as the beer lubricates the hipsters inhibitions. I wait. I type. A candle goes out, I light it again. The cigarette dies. I flick open the zippo and strike at the flint, gold sparkles shimmer and die, fuck. I grab the butane lighter used to light the candles because of it's long neck. It to flickers and dies.The fuel seems to be waning, the flames are in danger of dying. The will to continue down this path is in danger of only being lit by the cold light of the LCD screen.
This road leads to well of a wandering and wicked woman dwelling in an ancient forest on the beach of vast sea.
Wicked Wanderings made it's debut in 2003 while it's protagonist sat on a front porch of a Swede Transvestite. The woman typed out the tale of a journey newly begun. Her life recently initiated through a secret order, and lived out through ordeals of heroic proportions. She wanted to share these inspiring tales with friends and family back home. The medium of blogging as a means to communicate across miles with multiple people seemed a fantastic idea.
A year later our heroine re-evaluated her posts to a semi defunct website, and had little time to devote to redesign and revision of her flight from the den. She pondered the hows and whys of starting the page in the first place and decided that the pages needed to represent her in more ways and more aesthetically. And thus was born the Page you view now. The desire to blog wanes with the moon it seems and not always succinctly, but she keeps returning to it as a means to rant or share information that piques her interest.
The well remains even though the ivy has piled up around it and sometimes branches fall onto it, prohibiting the retrieval of the wooden bucket rotting on the ledge. Sometimes the bucket finds it's self falling into the depths of the well, only to float on the surface of the dark water, waiting patiently for the woman to thirst and come pull it from the pool of muck growing stale from lack of stirring. The time is nigh and the woman approaches the well, pulling up old dead water, so that the fresh spring beneath can bubble up.
The light of a candle has gone out, the coffee cup empty and a zippo needs filling. The neighbors are winding down, as the hour for sleep draws near. Another cup and a smoke. Maybe even another post.
posted by iSirkus @ 9:05 PM
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