Visited The Network Castle where important and unimportant personages gathered to shoot the breeze. Visitors paid a fee to The Keepers of The Castle, received access. Other requirement was a generic image provided by The Keepers (akin to rubber nose and goggles), or send The Keepers an image of your choice.
Submitted The Solitary Novelist. Most icons were movie stars, old and recent; television stars, old and recent; sports stars, old and recent; all species of celebrity, old and recent.
Endless Castle. One could navigate its three-dimensional halls and parlors weeks without visiting the same room twice. Cliquishness within. I was not accepted. Perhaps the obscurity of my icon, its awkward wandering. I did not find scintillating conversation, Romance, intrigue—the alleged jewels within The Castle labyrinth.
My icon alone at the fireplace of a vast library. Stacks of antique” books, visible “virtual,” not touched or read.
Shocked from The Castle’s digital gossip-dungeons to my bedroom closet. Reality a battering ram through digital walls:
Jeans, jackets, Topiary Techniques t-shirts hung dead without me. Veteran vestments of Life’s tasks now separate, remote, indifferent.
Spooked me. Second time in Life my own clothes called me Home.