The Speed of Connections

Waiting for post-move broadband to arrive like a digital saviour, I have been reflecting on the speed of connections.

With a sloooow connection I miss the speed of online connections: the chance to talk, chat, converse, discover, the easy ways to read and browse, to tweet and blog and tumble, to type, fast, in rapid-fire tweeting conversations, to smile and laugh and nod and wonder as I type, as I hear your voices while we’re typing, as my writing brain warms up with these interwoven words and stories, these words fast written, like playing scales on a piano, limbering up my fingers, firing neurons in my mind. I feel sluggish, disconnected, with a so so slow connection.

With a slow connection I find time to write. Other things, different things, deeper things, parts of a story I need to make time for, parts of my story I need to make room for, fragments of poems that keep on asking to be written and when the offline time comes, unbidden, so the words come knocking at the door, connecting up parts of my past, connecting up words in patterns and rhythms, making slow connections through the verse.

With a slow connection I go outside to work, to dig in the garden, to grapple with weeds, to clear some rough ground and feel the dirt on my hands, hear the birds singing loudly, feel the breath of the May day, run drenched from the rainshower, watch ferries on the river, notice bugs and beetles and centipedes and a robin waiting hungrily. I feel the pleasure of slow, slow connections to the soil, to the earth, tired, aching, grounded, mindful.

Waiting for a fast connection I’ve been reflecting on the speed of connections.