Which is not to say, by way of exclamation point, that such things as will be shown below are rare. The truth is that Megan is pretty amazing and creative and stylin’.
Also, I am not biased at all.
As my loyal readers know, I was in Wyoming recently for a month, exiled there to work on poems and stories and a novel. Why was I so punished? It is better not to ask, lest you be subject to the same dictatorial powers yourself. Suffice it to say that I wrote enough that my Literary Masters saw fit to free me at the end of the month and I am now safely ensconced again in Houston, free to experiment with my own devices.
But while I was there in Wyoming (O Beautiful Countryside!) I sometimes fell prey to doubt and self-dissension (O Wind-Torn Landscape!). In order to talk to Megan (see subject of this post), or anyone at all besides my fellow prisoners or our illustrious captors, I was forced to trudge up a hill to the only phone box in the area, quarters weighing down my pockets (since it was twenty-five cents a minute to call persons you wished to speak to; free otherwise), which made for great exercise, but little else.
And don’t get me wrong, I actually treasured this loneliness. It was amazing to be in the midst of so much land and space and be able to see so far in any direction and yet see no other living soul. Or dead one, for that matter. Wyoming is known for its ghosts.
But some days, depression sat on me like an elephant. I looked at my writing, and saw no good in it. I looked at my books, and saw no life in them. One of these times I sent Megan an e-mail (quicker — or at least less tiring — than a slog up the hill) asking for her to send me some good vibes, because I needed them, and I believe in airborne transference (and diseases). Also, knowing she had just seen Vincent Price (O Dramatic O’er-Master) in Dr. Phibes I said that I needed no vibes from that man-monster.
This is what she sent in return.
Oh, but I do. I do! (i.e. It is never wise to refuse Dr. Phibes.)