SANIBEL ↔

Carly.

Blue, mostly. The colour of water off a shell beach, and of the string a bow finds lowest.

i — strings

A violin under the chin, played the way only years can play it. But when the room goes quiet, it is the cello I listen for.

Lately on repeat: “Step,” Vampire Weekend. Ahead, a hobby made of sound, or of light.

ii — the handmade tongue

Python by day. By night, a language of my own that speaks in iambs.

Enter Carly.
  Thou art as lovely as the sum of a warm cookie and a cello.
  Speak thy mind!          # yes, actually. handmade.
  If so, let us proceed to Scene II.
Exeunt.

# the thing i am proudest of having built

iii — lanes

In the water I swim. From the stands I watch basketball — the arc of a three, the hush before it drops.

iv — shelves

On the desk, My Brilliant Friend. Next, Camus — The Plague, probably.

Before them, Long Way Down and Outliers. On screen, still: Cars, Ratatouille — a rat who cooks, a car who learns to slow down.

v — the other life

Somewhere, I am a marine biologist in a shack on Sanibel, sorting shells by their spirals.

Biology, zoology, ecology — the other majors. The real ones: computer science with an eye on AI, and English, for the poems. London is the place I keep not going to, yet.

vi — sweet

Chocolate chip cookies. In autumn, pumpkin chocolate chip. A pint of Tillamook Mudslide, or anything chocolate from a real creamery.

For seven Halloweens, a dog. Some years, a princess dog.

vii — the work

To be an independent technical narrative consultant: to find what a thing is worth, and say it plainly.

And if time cost nothing, I'd learn every language, so no one is left alone on the other side of one.

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