A man speaking sense to himself is no madder than a man speaking nonsense not to himself. TOM STOPPARD.
Sometimes I turn, there’s someone there, other time it’s only me. BOB DYLAN.
The original tagline for my first blog, Dick Jones Patteran Pages, ran thus: A patteran is a coded configuration of leaves, sticks and stones left at the roadside by Gypsies to communicate with each other. This is my digital version, left for any passers-by… It was pretty much the first message that I launched into what was then a very sparsely populated blogosphere and it carried with it a sense of the tentative, the hesitant – an overture proffered more in hope than expectation. I couldn’t have anticipated the sheer speed and magnitude of the coalescence of bloggers around common interests and the mutual babble that came about during the following few years. Nor could I have imagined that 12 years on I would count a number of those early pilgrims amongst my closer friends.
Circles turn; ends become beginnings. The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill. I find that once again, in a sparsely populated corner of the blogosphere, I’m proffering the spirit of that tagline tentatively, a little hesitantly. Who’s left? Is that an echo or another voice?
Well, no matter. This time round what I post here will be simply a graphic extension of the talking to myself that fills the silence as I push the daily broom, make the beds and sort the laundry before buying myself a little time to write. If there are eavesdroppers to my out-loud dialogue then by all means join in: a three-way conversation would be welcome…