The feedback is starting to roll in. I knew it was just a matter of time. Nothing as simple as email, I’m talking the real thing, like a postcard covered with 3-cent WWII victory stamps, just the stamps and my address typed with a manual typewriter, no return address.
Feedback scribbled on the back of a grocery list and tied with cat gut to a rock and thrown thru my bedroom window just before dawn.
Feedback strapped to the leg of a carrier pigeon that landed on my shoulder.
Feedback floating out of the sky under a lavender parachute.
Feedback stuck in an empty brandy flask fastened around the neck of a Saint Bernard, feedback typed in Morse code and delivered as a singing telegram, feedback glued to the inside of a wicker basket full of coral snakes and cobras.
This isn’t fan mail or a review in the New York Times, this is feedback that demands respect.
I stuck my hand in the wicker basket with all those snakes and ran my fingers over the message–it was in Braille.
I weighed the stone thrown thru my window on a precision scale.
I sang in Morse code while walking into town to do some shopping.
I took up sky diving and built a pigeon coop on the roof.
I filled the empty flask around the Saint Bernard’s neck and set my my old Smith-Corona on the kitchen table.
Thank you, I typed on a fresh sheet of typing paper.
Thank you all for your continued support and encouragement.