Sometimes I imagine some ultimate consumer dystopia where the true currency is attention (ok, not hard to imagine, I’ve got four sons, and attention seems to be the most sought-after commodity here) but if I am investing attention in your fabulous blog, oh dear, the metaphor marches inexorably towards dividends in this spark of connection, getting to be happy on your good days, on the rough days thinking “yes this is a rough day, but how much cooler is it to have even the tenuous connection of the blog than those long dark nights I remember (sort of pre-four-sons who present other sleeplessness problems entirely) challenging the universe just to give me an interesting phone call, a fortuitous poem, even a shooting star as some evidence that being alone wasn’t going to crush me.

No it’s not just attention invested, it’s being drawn, rather to my surprise to caring. And that’s not just liking your writing or suspecting that I’d really enjoy having lunch with you, but, despite being given to my own bouts of self indulgence and self pity, finding the act of caring enriching in and of itself.

And writing back is peculiar, because I think I am perfectly happy with the one-sided nature of it (though there’s a self-conscious, “oh she’s going to see how many times I’ve checked for a new posting today on sitemeter and realize I REALLY have no life.”) So the gratitude flows both ways, baby.