So, it's been awhile. I know, I've been thinking about you. It's not that I don't want to visit you. Sometimes, though, I just don't know what to say. And then it's even more awkward, which makes it harder to say anything meaningful. Do you see what I am saying?
In fact, I've been feeling guilty about not coming to visit. And when I do, my reaction is to become defiant, all "what right does it have?" "What about my feelings?" "I'm pretty busy, you know."
There are lots of excuses. I have been busy. The kids hog all my time. The computer is never free. B broke his leg. J has been playing soccer like a maniac. I planted a lawn. In the good old days, those wouldn't be excuses, they would be photos with shot-at-pith taglines. Now they are just reasons I don't sit down and spew.
But the truthiest truth is that I haven't had all that much to say. I fear that banality, the kudzu of after forty suburban life, has smothered the blog-worthy life items. I got nothing.
So, it's type or get off the blog. The next few days will tell.
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"What am I doing? I'm spinning in a miasma. And because I'm spinning; can't keep from falling down." --John Croslin
7 comments:
Welcome back!
Thanks. The experiment lives another day.
How did B break his leg? Poor thing!
A wrought iron fence demarking the boundary of a sidewalk cafe fell on him. Broke his femur. OUCH!
Ouch indeed! Hope you know a good lawyer.
Indeed. Only I can't afford him.
"banality, the kudzu of after forty suburban life"
Perfect. I may have to steal, er, liberate that.
But it's really about writing. You sit, you write, wondrous stuff springs forth pushing through the kudzu like creative little strangling fingers of Roundup(tm). Or something. I didn't say it's all genius, just that there's always more, like Doritos. Hey did you see the Pringles can inventor was buried in one of his own cans? His ashes I mean. True, and yet boring, story. Where was I? Oh yes, forced-march writing, it clears away the 'zu like the scythe of St. Jerome. Says the wannabe writer, not writing but commenting. Ah commenting, the crack cocaine of writing.
Egads, where's that hook---)
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