I’m member of a fabulous community. One of those which can only exist on the web, where you’re not judged by your looks or your smell or the clothes you wear or the colour of your skin but rather by what you give, what you tell. The one I’m talking about is a gathering of different tribes, of moms and witty jokers and les-bi-gays plus friends and esoterics and cat-lovers and recipe-fans.
We’re all freaks, sort of, in there.
We’re proud to be freaks.
We’re proud of who we are and what we do and what we write about.
We treat each other with a kindred spirit and good humour.
It’s the community of the Tribal Blogs. My own input so far: answers to tweet- or stumble-requests, replies to problems with computer-virus-infections, comments on other people’s posts. And Haikus. They are meant to describe the particular mood of a particular day. They are like millisecond-snapshots, paint dots on a vast and empty canvas, expression exercises, hasty poetic constructions shared with the other members to convey a glimpse of Paris, the weather, my personal life. Life in short. Two weeks ago, on the first sunny Saturday for ages, I posted this:
The blue sky opens
On sunlit Paris at last…
Lush bliss fills my heart
Last weekend, the weather had turned around, the sun had said ‘So long, French dudes!’ I wrote:
Wet splashes dribbling
Round the corner, summertime…
Heat-wave, just not yet
The Tribal Blogs ‘headmistress’, brilliant red-haired Jen, had remarked that she liked my Haikus. Thus, I dedicated one to her warm-hearted personality. It went:
Red hair gently waves
in the cuddling, soft May breeze –
smiling, I wave back
Finally, this Thursday, summer had made a spectacular break-through. I had been sitting at work, hot and tired, looking out of the window at the suburban landscape and the courtyard of the school across the street, daydreaming about sitting in the shade of a palm-tree on a sandy beach with my feet dangling in the turquoise waters of a paradise bay. What this did to my perception of reality was this:
Chestnut leaves whisper –
Through the open windows, shrieks
Of sun-streaked pupils