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Swampland Elegy There ARE things I love about this city. I take great comfort in the sounds of traffic jams, particularly when I may observe them from a position safely aloft of the action. The sounds of impatience, frustration and disappointment reassure me that I am not alone in this mess we call "Life". Upon returning to my current office assignment from a productive lunch in which I scribbled about two note-pages of text on my current situation, I received a very loud phone call (I'd forgotten to set the ringer to vibrate) from an area code which hadn't appeared in my caller ID in quite awhile, the area code where my heart lives. And as if to remind me of my heart's presence in the state that invites you to "Come as you are. Leave different," the voice on the other end of the phone served me official notice that my heart is once again broken. There's too much back-story on this one to post right here and right now, but I'd been warned, and I knew that things might turn out this way. And if my heart can't be repaired down there, rather than sending it back to me, I hope he'll simply cast it into the cool, murky depths of the bayou, where things one doesn't want found may stay lost forever, that I may remain as untouchable as these towers of glass and steel and concrete that I love so dearly. r
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