I’m gradually getting used to the idea that I can’t just phone my Mother, or drive the 5 miles to her house to have dinner. It’s not easy, there are highs and lows, but I know that’s normal and it’s gonna be that way for quite some time.

I’m also getting accustomed to using this Word Press App on the iPad, that I’m using for the first time, to make this post.

2012 is also when I have to change my writing habits, and do more writing atnhome in the evenings like I used to do, instead of grabbing time during breaks and lunch at work. They’re cracking down on ANY personal use of the computers at work, so all of my writing has to happen from the home PC’s again.

Which is no big deal, except sometimes it really slows me down! i can’t decide if I should write on the laptop exclusively, or get one of those Bluetooth keyboards for the iPad and try that during breaks. On the one hand, I do my best work at lunch, during the day, away from home. On the other hand, moving a file between the iPad and the laptop is an extra step, there’s no Word on this, just a pretty okay writing App that I still don’t have the hang of.

The keyboards run about a hundred, but right now I’m saving up to have a ring made with my half of my Mother’s diamonds …. Then I wanna buy a Nook … that’s the trick with using cash, you gotta save up for things, and prioritize. While I do have a novel to get back to, it’s also very important to me to have that ring made, so I’m thinking for now writing on the laptop makes the most sense.

Adjustments and Adaptations…that’s pretty much Life in a nutshell, isn’t it?

I write to you with news of the most peculiar kind. This day finds me again on the path that will return me to you, and I proceed with haste, my love. As you will recall, my journey was interrupted at the crossing in the woods, wherein I wished to continue to the North whilst another gentlemen traveler wished to go to the South. After an exchange of pleasantries, as I mentioned in my letter to you, an unfortunate misunderstanding did occur, and left me delayed, engaged as I was in a dueling of words with the gentleman.

As it happens, the issue is resolved.

Least you become fret with confusion, my dearest Prudence, I shall explain in detail, but in doing so I would beg your indulgence in burning this letter immediately afterward. In fact I am tempted to burn it currently, but as my travels to you have only just continued, and we have been apart for so long, I fear any further delay in receiving news would haunt you unjustly.  Therefore I shall assuage your stresses and inform you of the facts as they took place, trusting in your discretion with the evidence laid out herein.

It all became clear to me in the early dawn hours, as I was preparing to resume my daily labors and add more words to the duel of which I had become part of. Had it occurred to me sooner, my love, I surely would not have hesitated in my actions, but as it was, my own diligence and — dare I admit it — delight in the competition, led to my continued willing, if not ignorant, participation. However, on that morning, as the mists were still thick upon the grasses and the view around me somewhat dimmed, I heard a most peculiar sound.

At first, I was reminded of the woeful noise often emitted by the pots whenever the Headless Monks of the Leaf would brew the tea they could not drink. It is a sound like no other, so high-pitched and baleful as to peel back the skin from your neck and the sky from the heavens. The sound a mixture of endless desire and unrequited thirst, clouded by futility and echoing useless labors. I thought at first that the very Monks themselves had pursued me from the mountains, abandoning their tea-laden hell in search of the one acolyte who had learned to sooth their insatiable need.

But as I searched the mists for a sign of their cloaked and bedraggled image, and listened intently for the clanging of their pots as they dragged them behind, the sound clarified in the clear morning air, and I realized it was not the Monks, but none other than my opponent, Sir P. D. Augustus ZuZu Smith.

My dearest Prudence, I know you will find this difficult to fathom, and rest assured I doubted my own perception at the time, but you must believe me when I tell you that the sound — that which I had mistook for chilling cries from the pots of tea used by the Headless Monks of the Leaf — was none other than the snoring of one Sr P.D. Agustus ZuZu Smith himself!

Indeed, my Love, the gentleman was slumped over his papers, heedless as to the hour, unconcerned by the duel of which both he and I were currently engaged. His mouth lie open wide, and the corners of the parchment underneath his slumbering head moved inward and out, following his breath as it entered through his gaping maw and exited, noisily, through nasal passages partially blocked by the slight closure in his throat. His papers, which I found to be utterly pristine and without wordings, were damp, but not of the morning dew. Indeed, I did notice a line of shimmering thickness as if from a snail, stretching from his lower lip to the uppermost paper. I reached out a hand to rouse him, but stopped myself, suddenly possessed as I was with an urge to act.

And act I did, my dearest Prudence. Within that moment of unthinking, wherein one’s instincts take hold of one’s body, I propelled myself into action, taking forth from within my belt that sharpened piece of silver I oft’ use to open letters of correspondence. Before I had the opportunity for better judgment to take hold of my senses, I thrust the silver opener into the side of Sr. Smith’s neck, whereupon the gentle movement of his artery could be seen.

In an instant’s time, those pristine pages of parchment ran red with his blood, but Sr P.D. Agustus Zuzu Smith never uttered a sound, nor did his body make movement of any kind. He merely lay there, still snoring, whilst his very life force ran from his body as if in search of meaning elsewhere.

I dare say, Prudence my love, I felt no compunction towards guilt. Indeed, to this day as I write to you of these developments, I feel no hint of regret or remorse. For having slain my rival, and having remained utterly anonymous in doing so, I have been made free and capable of recommencing my journey back to you. As the morning’s mists cleared, and Sr Smith’s blood stained the grounds around him, I packed my things and left the crossed paths.

The spectators that once gathered to witness the duel had long since returned to their daily habits, and there was no one to judge either our dueling or my final act of predetermined victory. Albeit that sound, dearest Prudence — that which I had mistook for the chilling cries of the Headless Monk’s tea pots — has in some way found the ability to accompany me. I heard it last evening, as I made my bed among the pine needles, beside a softly babbling brook.  Just as the tea within my pot nestled beside the fire had reached its apex and began to boil, the sound returned.

Clearly it is wont to haunt me, dearest Prudence, into some admission of my guilt. Or perhaps Sr Smith is now among those ranked as the living dead, headless and in dire search of a pot with which to brew his own undrinkable tea.

‘Tis if no matter, dear Prudence, for I am grown accustom to the haunting of the Headless Monks of the Leaf. The addition of one more to their ranks would rile me not, nor shall it have affect upon my own musings as I continue my trek, pen in hand and tea at the ready, to return unto you.

Until next I write, remain hopeful and steadfast, my love.

I take this moment of pause and reflection and avail upon it a chance to send you news of my duel.

As you recall, on that day whence I was returning to you after so many long months secluded with the secretive Headless Monks of the Leaf, I came upon a gentleman by the name of Sir P. D. Agustus Zuzu Smith.  On that fateful day when my innocent swatting of a fly that had lit upon the person of Sir Zuzu Smith resulted in the declaration of a Word Duel, I sent you assurances of my sure victory.

Well Prudence, my love, it would seem victory is all but assured. I await only the time upon which this duel shall be declared won, no doubt by yours truly, and I may again resume my travels back to you after so many torturous months in seclusion. For you see, dearest Prudence, it would seem my opponent – the right Sir. Smith —  is wont of attention!

Allow me to explain, my love.

I noticed first, upon the very start of our affair – the dueling of words, that is, not that unfortunate misunderstanding last Spring between myself and Lady Gethsemane of Aspergum – that Sir. P. D. Agustus Zuzu Smith had a few, to use the colorful description of your friend Doctor Franken Farkenhault . . . Ticks.

I do not speak of the uncontrolled jerking of the muscles such as those of Madame Zuwalski, who had the misfortune of shattering five fine china tea cups before we learnt to serve her in a child’s cup for sipping. Nay, these ticks are of the peculiar kind.  At first, I believed them to be distractions. Sir. Zuzu Smith’s way of making me believe his attention lie elsewhere, thereby lulling me into writing more slowly and indulging in several rest breaks. But now, I believe otherwise.

During the first week of our battle, Sir Zuzu Smith seemed distracted by the slightest things. A butterfly lit upon his left foot one afternoon, and Sir Smith gazed upon it for hours. I began to fear the poor brightly colored insect to be deceased, but suddenly it flew away, as if mesmerized by the gentleman who was mesmerized by it. I realized with blushing haste that I myself had been wasting time observing him instead of applying pen to paper, and then it happened again.

Midway through the second week, I looked up and Sir Zuzu Smith was missing entirely!

Indeed, my dearest Prudence, I feared he had fled the battlefield entirely, for I could find no sight of him. Confused, I waited several hours, idly applying pen to paper, waiting for the judge to appear and declare the duel forfeit and myself the winner. But just as I was about to rise to my feet and summon the courts, we received a missive from Sir Smith.  It seems he’d been called away to a very important showing of mummified remains, to which his presence was required by higher authority, and he swore he would return post-haste.

And return he has, but this brings me to the reason for my letter, Prudence dear, for it would seem that, although Sir. Zuzu Smith has returned and presumably enters back into the duel he so insistently engaged me in, his attention remains elsewhere.

Why, in fact, I heard him declare just moments ago that he has ‘set aside’ his dueling words and has picked up a fresh sheet of parchment with which to pen something else entirely!

Prudence, I can only imagine he means to forfeit, unless this is a ploy designed to lower my guard. I must proceed with caution until I can be assured of his motives. Either this folly has entered his mind as easily and deftly as the butterfly that so captivated his attentions, or it has been his intent from the start.

So I shall persevere, Prudence my love, lest it be a ruse. I shall continue my dueling of words until victory is declared, and I may again resume my travels back to your loving arms.

Until that day, my dearest Prudence.