Today, I find myself feeling very sad. Although I should say straight away that it has nothing to do with the sadness I see here. Completely unrelated, is it. But how you feel, or at least what you write about how you feel, is how I feel. Just at this time. Not always. I have no good reason for it. But I felt it earlier, and felt comforted to see you.
While you have been away, I have been rather ill (nothing serious, just a protracted stubborn cold which has “taken out” for weeks, much younger and stronger men than I) It put me quite behind in my sonnet writing. And now I have this strange feeling. This. Having descended over me. I have no good reason for it. But one or two difficult correspondences led me there, I think.
I do not presume anything regarding the way you, nor anyone else, might feel. I do know that sometimes… perhaps it is because I am not of the true “cyber” generation… that I feel remote… distant… helpless… and perhaps also unable to comfort those who feel as I do.
I merely began writing a sonnet tonight, or rather, this morning, inspired by those correspondences. Something regarding humility. These were not of great consequence–these emails back and forth: A precocious young man and a vexing but adamantly pursued area of interest; A young lady concerned with matters of faith–and my odd relationship with such matters; A writers’ group whose kind invitation I nonetheless feel I must decline. A few other such things… So that now I feel myself quite melancholy. Quite at “sixes and sevens,” as it were.
Yesterday, I found myself, finally well enough to get back to writing and so I spent a very enjoyable evening answering comments. By no means have I gotten to the end of them, but I did make a considerable dent in them. Still, as the night wore on, I felt I was perhaps delaying my actual work by engaging in this much more enjoyable and carefree activity.
And today, I found, quite by accident, a number of emails waiting for me–they were in the wrong place and so I might have missed them altogether, as they were sent to the address I have which is set up to collect automatic responses and such other annoyances that blogging generates–and stubbornly refuse to be turned off. I believe I have gone a good deal further in see that people find and use the correct public email when they wish to send me some correspondence which, for what ever reason, they prefer not to appear on the blogoshpere; but I have found that no matter how technically adept one might be, it can sometimes be most difficult to ferret out such things. Particularly on wordpress.com where one has no control over the code nor any database access.
In any case, In answering comments yesterday, I came upon a number of yours which of course were “404” if I tried to respond to them. Still that led me to your gravatar link and I noticed there was a new image there… haunting and somehow befitting of your new site. And then this morning, not long ago, I found your nickname among the handful of new “follows” that had come along in the last hours.
I felt happy to see someone familiar, although clearly I was well on my way to feeling most unhappy. But following the link to your new site, I found your latest work to somehow fit my melancholy.
There are doubtless many grammatical errors and omissions in the above, however, in all sincerity, I truly do feel a bit too melancholy to go back through it all. I will however quote this in my “reflections” sub-blog, and perhaps I will correct it later if and when the mood comes upon me.
There comes a time,
when all strength is lost.
When efforts collapse,
and people pay a cost…
David Emeron: Sonnets 
I feel such honor that you took precious time to write to me and read my work once again David. *xoxo*
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At times such as this, I simply wish everyone could be as happy as I know I will surely be after a bit of rest.
There are things I cannot truly know–cannot understand, and therefore, must not act upon.
The most difficult thing for me in this brave new cyber-world is the helplessness I often feel when I find myself, liking, caring for, worrying about, even loving people I will most likely never meet.
I cannot clean their living rooms when they break their legs. I cannot take their dog for a walk when they are ill. I cannot, cook them dinner, nor can I hold, or comfort them when they weep.
Although I am the more technically adept among the two of us, Mrs. Emeron has adapted I think far better to this reality than have I. She has even made friends close enough to meet a time or two; which naturally took quite some time. Our dear Machinist friend and his wife quite literally drove several thousand miles in order to, among other things, spend a few days with us. It was wonderful, and quite surreal both : )
I presume very little about most people–particularly those who are well out of my reach. I tend toward the positive in my comments, and this is not for the usual reason on wordpress, I think. I actually do feel first and foremost that I should find and comment upon whatever I feel is good and positive. I don’t criticise. even when asked to do so; also for that reason; although additionally, I feel as though, as I writer myself, I am completely unsuited to the task. Writing causes reading to be skewed. We read with an eye toward writing. It is unavoidable. Were I not a writer, I would be better suited to comment on what elements of someone’s writing I did not understand, and would be more willing to share my misconceptions about such things. “Regular” readers are a much better measure of ones work than other writers, I feel.
Because of this, and due, additionally to my desire to find the best in everything and everyone, I generally find myself most definitely not melancholy as I find myself this morning.
I know only that I do not wish other writers–whoever they are–to vanish; because quite often this thin blogospheric line is and will most likely be my only link to them.
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Likewise. I myself (re your previous comment) create several kinds of backups of my site (although I am less concerned about my blog entries than I am about my sonnets) Although I may seem as though I am a quite consistent old fellow, I am not (trust me here!) beyond such rash action. I once accidentally lost more than half of a novel length story. And then, in my despondence, deleted the other half.
Still, I was lucky in that case, because the whole thing was quite fresh in my mind and, as it turned out, I very much enjoyed rewriting the whole thing. Still It would have been a much easier task if I had kept the first 50 chapters or so (the form is one of very very short chapters, so it is not so vast as it sounds, but even so, quite a lot of material)
If I were to delete all my sonnets in a moment of despair, the moment would have to last for quite some time because of all of the ways in which it is backed up now.
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Remember that you are not alone in this, my dear. Remember how I cried when I was learning to help with the other website and people would have to leave? Everyone thought we were quite too twee and quaint with all our courtesy and caring in those early days but we made something of an early community that others are now trying to emulate online and it is working. As you put it so beautifully, this thin blogospheric line — where we can lift someone’s spirits and give them courage, hope, laughs, understanding, and a virtual shoulder, or just a presence and a witness — is a reality, and you ~ ever of tender heart and kindly sensibilities ~ are wishing what is right and normal to wish.
I hurt with you when you hurt for your associates. Thank you for supporting me when I was learning this world. Now I hope I can support you. I am sorry that you are sad today, dearest.
I love you.
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I remember well. I sometimes thought it was too much for you; or that perhaps you took it all too gravely serious. But you always made me proud. Particularly when you became an administrator!
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