A long time ago, when someone once asked me why I loved the Midwest so, why I wanted to live there so much, I replied "The anonymity." The idea of living in Middle America, just one among millions, with nothing special to recommend me above my neighbors and fellow citizens, was absolutely appealing to me. Still is, really.
Funnily enough, I have achieved that anonymity in the blogosphere. I am merely one among many, and while my blog presence is by no means hidden, it is nonetheless unnoticed, surrounded as it is by the meta-presence of millions of others. I know, with absolute certainty, of only two people who read these words. One is my sister. (Hi, Eldest!) The other...ah, well.
The other.
In a way, it's rather reassuring; no matter how "below the radar" and unnoticed I am in the blogosphere, I can always be certain that my stalker (otherwise known as the Baby Mama Drama Llama) is reading, and then unsubtly critiquing my perfectly satisfactory life in her semi-incoherent blog. How do I know this? Of course I read her blog; it's like watching a train wreck. That is, if a train wreck were grammatically incorrect, filled with run-on sentences and sentence fragments, poorly spelled, and in dire need of punctuation. I repeat, it's like watching a train wreck...but the only victim is the English language.
The Elements of Fucking Style would have a field day with her. No doubt.
(Backstory: Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama is the ex-girlfriend to my ex-boyfriend, Mr. Indiana. I dated Mr. Indiana, we broke up--a couple of times, heh--we both moved on; me to my husband, Mr. Indiana to Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama. When he discovered her to be a compulsive liar, he tried to cut his losses and move on, but then she got pregnant and...well, you know how that happens. End result being, Mr. Indiana now has an adorable, delightful son and Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama tries to hang on to Mr. Indiana. Through it all, Mr. Indiana and I have remained good friends, and Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama has never been thrilled with this. One time, when I went to Indiana to visit Mr. Indiana, along with my now-husband--then boyfriend--Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama was, reportedly, convinced that we were flying out there for a three-way.)
From what I can tell, to the Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama, the online life ain't worth livin' if you ain't engaging in flame wars, circa 2003. Who knows? Maybe she's right. But thankfully, my Real Life takes precedence over my online life. Frankly, I am too busy to respond to her attempts to negate my existence. And when I am not busy, I am lazy. And let's face it, being passive aggressive (even as obviously as Crazy Baby Mama Drama Llama) and negative just takes way too much effort. And so, in the past, I have forborne from responding to her attempts to poke me out of my complacent online presence. It brings me down to her level, and all that.
The only reason I am breaking the habit of three years is because frankly, I begin to find her a little bit like an annoying fruitfly. Or maybe some other sort of household pest that, while fairly insignificant, still diminishes the value of the home. The existence of her blog, as a vehicle through which she can attack me, is a poor reflection not only on herself, but on the blogosphere as a whole. Her words don't hurt me, but they do annoy me.
There is, of course, a glaringly obvious solution: Stop reading her blog! Well, of course. But I prefer tackle a problem from more than one angle, and in addition to stepping away from her brand of crazy, I think it might also help if I simply removed the fuel from her fire. Bottom line? A part of me is thinking about picking up sticks and moving on from this blog. I'm thinking of setting up shop elsewhere, kinda like the blogging version of Witness Protection. If she can't find my blog, she can't read it. If she can't read it, she can't write about me and try to sanctimoniously point how pointless she perceives my life to be. She'll have to find other stuff to talk about. Hopefully, with better grammar. Of course, it would be easy enough for her to find me. But if my life and my blog matter that much to her, well, that's a pretty big stalker issue she's got there. However, in moving on and away from here, I will be free from her...and she will be free of me.
Of course, maybe I'm just tired of this blog, and think it's time to move on to something else. But I'd like to move on without her. Her baggage is not my problem. And my blog should not exist to as a way for her to try to tear anyone down.
I'm not going anywhere just yet. But I'll let you know when I do.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Woman at Work Wednesday
Sometimes I think my desk is a cruelly accurate representation of my life at large.
Today was one of those days where each time I tried to clear some of the work off my desk, more would come my way. Strangely enough, these are the kind of days that I like. There are other days—not many at all, thank goodness—that are so routine, so unremarkable that I find myself having a little moment of panic as I think, What if I wake up one day and I am 45 and I am still doing this?
(I should be so lucky. What’s to complain about? I work in a great environment with amazing, kind, patient colleagues and supervisors, and I have the honor of serving the public and helping along the enrichment of a large population.)
Anyway, today was not one of those “Oh god, will nothing ever change?” days. If for no other reason than there was simply no time for anything but hard work! I suspect my bosses keep passing on tasks and assignments to me to keep me out of trouble. Heh. Little do they know how adept I am at multi-tasking!
Just not so adept at the keeping the desk clean thing.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Maybe It's My World-view that Needs the Reboot, But...
(Before I commence this post, I will readily concede that I am looking at this through the worldview of a non-disabled person, and so my opinions are informed accordingly).
When I first heard about DC's decision to “reboot” a lot of their main characters, I was tickled pink. My interest in the comic universe is a fickle thing, usually inspired by movies with hot Wolverines or Batmen interesting superhero storylines, but I always get frustrated by the fact that I have to read back like 50 years to get the whole back-story—and then let's not forget the a/u story arcs! So to have Batman and Batgirl (among many others) reboot to Issue #1 is a great opportunity for me to get my geek on with relatively little effort.
I received the news about Barbara Gordon/Batgirl/Oracle “rising again” with more ambivalence. I am delighted to see her be more mobile and take on the traditional superhero mantle (so long as she does not give up her mad brain skillz); I think that often, in our society, women are relegated (and often relegate themselves) to a more passive, hands-off, intellectual/intelligent/smartypants role. One needs look no further than the American Community Survey, which is showing that 34% of women ages 25 to 34 hold a bachelor's degree or higher, as opposed to 27% of males in the same age range. So it has sometimes felt to me as though Oracle was typecast as the smart, behind-the-scenes, not-allowed-in-frontline combat character who was, through her disability, unintentionally reinforcing this new gender role for women.
Don't get me wrong. I am a librarian. I love to put people (men, usually) through the mincing machine of my brain. I recognize the need for women to show off their smarts as much as possible. And I recognize and honor what Batgirl came to represent to many people, myself included, through both her brains and her refusal to be restricted in what she could do due to her injury.
But the times, they are a changin'.
Batgirl: She's not just your symbol, your role model, be you a woman or a man or a person negotiating a disability. She's here to be a symbol and a role model for everyone, should they want her. She was disabled and confined to a wheelchair. And now she's not. Just as one is more than their hot body or beautiful face, so too can they be more than their disability or their wheelchair. It's their mind, their strength of spirit,their talents, their character which is the true role model. Everything else—their wheelchairs, their capes, their fancy gadgets—all these are just trappings. Her wheelchair is not an essential part of her personality; her brains are.
While I understand, at least on an intellectual, if not emotional, level what Oracle represents as a disabled person, to disabled people, she is more than her wheelchair. The story arcs of her as a disabled woman don't cease to exist; they simply re-boot. Oracle, Batgirl, whatever you want to call her, will still be there, just not in her wheelchair. Be angry if she loses her stellar brains, her ideals, her integrity, folks.
I understand how essential it is for us to be given examples of diversity though pop culture. We “other” people all the time, and shy away from them. Disabled people. Minorities. Women. Weird people in Amish garb. Little people. San Francisco liberals. Undocumented immigrants. You name it, someone is gonna be hatin'. And I suppose I could be accused now of “othering” people in wheelchairs because I am supportive of a Barbara Gordon that I can personally identify with—that is, a Barbara Gordon who is not confined to a wheelchair. It's neither my desire nor my intention to minimize the substantial obstacles any “other” in our society faces; I acknowledge them and honor every person who faces their obstacles head-on. But what it boils down to is this:
It's time to share her with other people; Oracle or Barbara Gordon or Batgirl doesn't need her wheelchair or her disability any more. She had it, it served as a beautiful, inspiring, and substantial storyline for years, but it's time for other things. We all need Barbara Gordon—as well as many other role models—but all Barbara Gordon needs is a large market of people who need her—and that means everyone, male and female, disabled and otherwise.
Was it DC's intention to turn Barbara Gordon into an iconic role model for the disabled segment of the population? Were they simply trying to get rid of her, make people hate the Joker even more, and then suddenly realized that they had stumbled onto something big, both as a marketing ploy and a vehicle for change and acceptance? Who knows? What I do know is that DC is being equal opportunity: everyone gets a reboot. If Barbara Gordon didn't get some sort of reboot, that would look very odd indeed. Her wheelchair never really stopped her before—and so it won't stop her from being rebooted, either.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Desert Exile: Closing Party for the Palm Springs International Shortfest
The condo is fairly silent; the only sounds are the near-constant hum of the air conditioner, and the periodic mewls from the cats as they follow me around and cast me alternately aggrieved and expectant looks. What they want, I have not a clue. (But then, I don't have a clue what I want, either, so at least we're all even.) They won't be getting much attention from me tonight, for I'm engrossed in my toilette.
Tonight's the night of the closing party for the Palm Springs International ShortFest. Two years ago, I had not a clue that the ShortFest existed. I did not know what a Short was. And then a former boss/colleague/friend/mentor gave me a call. "I've got a spare ticket to the Closing Night show and the party. Want to come? Lots of young men from LA will be there."
(Now I can't think of anything less appealing. But two years ago? I was itching to get out of the Desert, or at least get some lovin' before I did.)
So I went. I enjoyed some charming short films--an animated film about a boy and an annoyingly persistent penguin stand out in my mind--and I noticed someone.
"Former Boss," said I, "Who's that handsome man, streaking past like a blonde comet."
Former Boss followed the direction of my gaze. "Oh, that's Himself," she said. "He runs the theatre. I'll introduce you later."
And she did. And then, four months later, we were engaged, and eight months after that, we were married. So I will happily admit to having a soft spot in my heart for the ShortFest closing party.
Now, though, there's no such sentimental claptrap floating about in my brain. I'm in a race against time; I need to be ready to head out the door the second Himself calls. So I twist my hair up, wishing my neck were longer and my face more angular. I truss myself into a halter dress and am momentarily disconcerted by the cleavage which fairly overflows from my dress. There will be plenty of suggestive looks later at the party, but for the love of cats--right now, my girls are an asset. So I'll use them as such, and so shrug off the feeling of uneasy exposure which comes when ever I market myself in a revealing light.
On goes the powder and concealer, the eyeshadow and the mascara and the lipstick. Jewelry takes a few more minutes--nothing necessary on the neck, why should I detract from the natural charms? My hand hovers over a pair of crystal danglies, and then pluck out the Hello Kitty danglies I picked up in Cozumel last year. No sense in being too fancy, and the Hello Kitty earrings will make a quirky contrast to the black and white revealing dress. It's an international crowd which will be there tonight, but despite the language barriers, it always feels as though they follow a uniform fashion code of more hipster garb, or else the very newest casual trend. My garb--very much last year, and JC Penneys to boot--doesn't have a hope in hell of being fashionable, so what's the point in trying to underplay the sparkly, curvy elegance of my halter sundress? It's mine, therefore it's fine. So Hello Kitty earrings are discarded, and the crystal danglies now adorn my ears. They look better with the dress anyway.
This is far more effort than I ever used to put into what I wear. In my early twenties, I usually wore boot-cut jeans, a tank-top, a flannel, Skechers, and a do-rag to my college classes, and was quite happy and almost belligerent in how I sported this look. But the years have changed me--I now try to "dress for the job I want, not the one I have", and while no one would catch me buying Dolce and Gabanna, or some such nonsense, I do try to clean up now. I learned my lesson after last year's ShortFest closing party--I was recovering from a far-too-wild party held the night before (also ShortFest related) and praying that no one recognized me as the chick who had been on the floor of the Ace Hotel's bathroom. I also had not put too much effort into what I wore. Which is of course why it stood to reason that one of the event photographers snapped several pictures of me with my husband, and I think at least one of them ended up in the Society Pages of Desert Life.
Tonight, before the party. I'm not sporting
a hangover this year, thank goodness!
Later:
The party is now over, and I am once more at home, in a comfortable (and ugly) pair of jammies. The party was great; there were so many people that I already knew that I had to spend virtually no time talking to the LA crowd. Yes, I know they are our bread and butter, and I welcome them and thank them, but I don't know them. Working this party scene over the last year, I've come to realize it's not the parties themselves that I dread, it's the having to make conversation with person after person after person whom I have never met. Invariably, they are kind and interesting and sometimes drunk, but it's exhausting. Socializing never sat easy on me; it did and does take a huge mental effort for me.
So I am home, and I have a splitting headache, and my throat is raw from hollering over the music, and I feel drained from it all. But it was a good, good night, with good, good people. And I can retreat back into my hermit cave for another week, and put away the cleavage and the sparkly earrings.
It was a fun night. And who knows? Maybe for someone else, it was a magical night. Maybe someone else met their future life partner tonight at the party. Maybe someone else's life completely changed.
Tonight's the night of the closing party for the Palm Springs International ShortFest. Two years ago, I had not a clue that the ShortFest existed. I did not know what a Short was. And then a former boss/colleague/friend/mentor gave me a call. "I've got a spare ticket to the Closing Night show and the party. Want to come? Lots of young men from LA will be there."
(Now I can't think of anything less appealing. But two years ago? I was itching to get out of the Desert, or at least get some lovin' before I did.)
So I went. I enjoyed some charming short films--an animated film about a boy and an annoyingly persistent penguin stand out in my mind--and I noticed someone.
"Former Boss," said I, "Who's that handsome man, streaking past like a blonde comet."
Former Boss followed the direction of my gaze. "Oh, that's Himself," she said. "He runs the theatre. I'll introduce you later."
And she did. And then, four months later, we were engaged, and eight months after that, we were married. So I will happily admit to having a soft spot in my heart for the ShortFest closing party.
Now, though, there's no such sentimental claptrap floating about in my brain. I'm in a race against time; I need to be ready to head out the door the second Himself calls. So I twist my hair up, wishing my neck were longer and my face more angular. I truss myself into a halter dress and am momentarily disconcerted by the cleavage which fairly overflows from my dress. There will be plenty of suggestive looks later at the party, but for the love of cats--right now, my girls are an asset. So I'll use them as such, and so shrug off the feeling of uneasy exposure which comes when ever I market myself in a revealing light.
On goes the powder and concealer, the eyeshadow and the mascara and the lipstick. Jewelry takes a few more minutes--nothing necessary on the neck, why should I detract from the natural charms? My hand hovers over a pair of crystal danglies, and then pluck out the Hello Kitty danglies I picked up in Cozumel last year. No sense in being too fancy, and the Hello Kitty earrings will make a quirky contrast to the black and white revealing dress. It's an international crowd which will be there tonight, but despite the language barriers, it always feels as though they follow a uniform fashion code of more hipster garb, or else the very newest casual trend. My garb--very much last year, and JC Penneys to boot--doesn't have a hope in hell of being fashionable, so what's the point in trying to underplay the sparkly, curvy elegance of my halter sundress? It's mine, therefore it's fine. So Hello Kitty earrings are discarded, and the crystal danglies now adorn my ears. They look better with the dress anyway.
This is far more effort than I ever used to put into what I wear. In my early twenties, I usually wore boot-cut jeans, a tank-top, a flannel, Skechers, and a do-rag to my college classes, and was quite happy and almost belligerent in how I sported this look. But the years have changed me--I now try to "dress for the job I want, not the one I have", and while no one would catch me buying Dolce and Gabanna, or some such nonsense, I do try to clean up now. I learned my lesson after last year's ShortFest closing party--I was recovering from a far-too-wild party held the night before (also ShortFest related) and praying that no one recognized me as the chick who had been on the floor of the Ace Hotel's bathroom. I also had not put too much effort into what I wore. Which is of course why it stood to reason that one of the event photographers snapped several pictures of me with my husband, and I think at least one of them ended up in the Society Pages of Desert Life.
Tonight, before the party. I'm not sportinga hangover this year, thank goodness!
Later:
The party is now over, and I am once more at home, in a comfortable (and ugly) pair of jammies. The party was great; there were so many people that I already knew that I had to spend virtually no time talking to the LA crowd. Yes, I know they are our bread and butter, and I welcome them and thank them, but I don't know them. Working this party scene over the last year, I've come to realize it's not the parties themselves that I dread, it's the having to make conversation with person after person after person whom I have never met. Invariably, they are kind and interesting and sometimes drunk, but it's exhausting. Socializing never sat easy on me; it did and does take a huge mental effort for me.
So I am home, and I have a splitting headache, and my throat is raw from hollering over the music, and I feel drained from it all. But it was a good, good night, with good, good people. And I can retreat back into my hermit cave for another week, and put away the cleavage and the sparkly earrings.
It was a fun night. And who knows? Maybe for someone else, it was a magical night. Maybe someone else met their future life partner tonight at the party. Maybe someone else's life completely changed.
The Girl With the Uber-Hot Movie Poster
I will start by saying that I am not a fan of Daniel Craig. He's a bit weasely for my tastes.
I will continue by saying that I am also not, as a rule, a fan of American re-make of foreign movies.
I will continue further by saying that I think Noomi Rapace embodied Lisbeth Salander perfectly in the Swedish Millenium Trilogy. She is my current, and strongest, girl crush.
Given these parameters, it's kinda funny that every time I see the poster for the American version for The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I just about have a mental orgasm:
The pirated trailer for the US version was compelling enough, but this poster? Omg, omg, hawt!
Daniel Craig looks as weasely as ever--not to mention possibly constipated--but seriously? He is so much better to portray Mikael Blomkvist than this dude:
I'm a ladies' man, yeah! No one is impervious to my charms.
I will continue by saying that I am also not, as a rule, a fan of American re-make of foreign movies.
I will continue further by saying that I think Noomi Rapace embodied Lisbeth Salander perfectly in the Swedish Millenium Trilogy. She is my current, and strongest, girl crush.
Given these parameters, it's kinda funny that every time I see the poster for the American version for The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, I just about have a mental orgasm:
The pirated trailer for the US version was compelling enough, but this poster? Omg, omg, hawt!
Daniel Craig looks as weasely as ever--not to mention possibly constipated--but seriously? He is so much better to portray Mikael Blomkvist than this dude:
I'm a ladies' man, yeah! No one is impervious to my charms.Lest I be accused of being a typical shallow American, with no concept of beauty outside our narrowly-defined standards here in the big ol' US of A, I will say this:
Uh, well, maybe guilty as charged. But! I simply don't see how the Swedish version's Mikael Blomkvist could possibly be so appealing, and it strained credibility. In addition to lacking physical appeal, I just don't see how he even offered any sort of charismatic je ne sais quoi that Larsson's character possessed. Vaguely rodent-like though he is, I think Craig's a pretty good choice for our American remake. Not conventionally attractive, but still--there's something so elementally raw and sexy about him (at least in the movie poster) that no amount of feigned dyspepsia can diminish.
Psychologically, the poster is hot. I can't even begin to go into describing how, exactly, without giving you (and perhaps me, too) an unwanted picture of my psyche. But even that movie picture pales in comparison to the uncensored (that's right, it gets hotter) version:
I will, however, lament the lack of Noomi Rapace in the American version. Have I mentioned she's my current girlcrush and I would happily let her kick my ass and steal my lunch money? Yes, plz!
Let's just save some time. You give me your lunch money,
and I won't have to kill you dead. I have piercings that could impale you.
Uh, well, maybe guilty as charged. But! I simply don't see how the Swedish version's Mikael Blomkvist could possibly be so appealing, and it strained credibility. In addition to lacking physical appeal, I just don't see how he even offered any sort of charismatic je ne sais quoi that Larsson's character possessed. Vaguely rodent-like though he is, I think Craig's a pretty good choice for our American remake. Not conventionally attractive, but still--there's something so elementally raw and sexy about him (at least in the movie poster) that no amount of feigned dyspepsia can diminish.
Psychologically, the poster is hot. I can't even begin to go into describing how, exactly, without giving you (and perhaps me, too) an unwanted picture of my psyche. But even that movie picture pales in comparison to the uncensored (that's right, it gets hotter) version:
I will, however, lament the lack of Noomi Rapace in the American version. Have I mentioned she's my current girlcrush and I would happily let her kick my ass and steal my lunch money? Yes, plz!
Let's just save some time. You give me your lunch money,and I won't have to kill you dead. I have piercings that could impale you.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Reflections from a Barren Womb: God is in the Details
"After 30, I think (if you have any sense at all) you begin to contemplate your mortality more. You begin to be aware that your youth is, by and large, behind you, and your days are far more limited than you ever imagined. The days are long, but the years are short, and there's terribly little time left to do what you think is important. I can understand, now, the reason why some people choose to have children--they say they want to live on. I had always thought that was an arrogant statement; after all, what's so special about us that we should live on? And who is to say that our kids will be like us? Now I know, it's not that our personalities themselves live on; in our children, a tiny portion of ourselves does continue on, to carry on our work and our lives, or rather, their own variation of it.
Those of us who still opt out of child-bearing, therefore, are working with a more limited time frame. All we've got is this life, however much or little of it is granted to us, with no accommodating offspring to carry it on. So we've got to work harder, and faster, to make our lives as fabulous and wondrous as possible. Without children to give our lives profound meaning, we have only what we can generate with our own hands and minds and spirits and hearts. And maybe all we generate will be small things, quotidian things that are unremarkable to all but ourselves. Perhaps our fulfillment will come from little selfish luxuries as we carry on what others may see as a pointless, childless existence.
But god is in the details, yes?
This is a quote from a letter I've been writing, on and off, over the past few days. It will be sent to a friend of mine, back in Indiana. I love writing letters; I can express so much more through my words on paper. Plus, there's some really beautiful stationary out there! Back before I moved to Indiana and got all burdened down with the nonsense of adulthood, I wrote religiously to a friend of mine. I would savor his letters; back and forth, we would wax philosophical, in the most delightfully unselfconscious way. Whenever I would sit down to write him a letter, I would light a candle, put on some music, haul out some stationary, and the words would flow. It was tn intensely spiritual experience for me; it is one that perhaps I should try to take up again. This time I shall add a glass of wine to the mix, and once more savor the candlelight and the scratching of the pen as word by word, I draw closer to my own essence, and hopefully closer to my recipients.
God is in the details, yes, but god is also in the relationships of those around us--not just with our children, but with our other family, our spouses, our colleagues, our friends past and present. The only immortality I need is in the ink of a pen.
Those of us who still opt out of child-bearing, therefore, are working with a more limited time frame. All we've got is this life, however much or little of it is granted to us, with no accommodating offspring to carry it on. So we've got to work harder, and faster, to make our lives as fabulous and wondrous as possible. Without children to give our lives profound meaning, we have only what we can generate with our own hands and minds and spirits and hearts. And maybe all we generate will be small things, quotidian things that are unremarkable to all but ourselves. Perhaps our fulfillment will come from little selfish luxuries as we carry on what others may see as a pointless, childless existence.
But god is in the details, yes?
This is a quote from a letter I've been writing, on and off, over the past few days. It will be sent to a friend of mine, back in Indiana. I love writing letters; I can express so much more through my words on paper. Plus, there's some really beautiful stationary out there! Back before I moved to Indiana and got all burdened down with the nonsense of adulthood, I wrote religiously to a friend of mine. I would savor his letters; back and forth, we would wax philosophical, in the most delightfully unselfconscious way. Whenever I would sit down to write him a letter, I would light a candle, put on some music, haul out some stationary, and the words would flow. It was tn intensely spiritual experience for me; it is one that perhaps I should try to take up again. This time I shall add a glass of wine to the mix, and once more savor the candlelight and the scratching of the pen as word by word, I draw closer to my own essence, and hopefully closer to my recipients.
God is in the details, yes, but god is also in the relationships of those around us--not just with our children, but with our other family, our spouses, our colleagues, our friends past and present. The only immortality I need is in the ink of a pen.
It's a Blog's Life
It must be the heat.
Last summer, I was a blogging fool. I had actually built up a following! Of two people, mind you, one of whom was an Indiana-based stalker, but that's beside the point. She needed someone to aspire to be, and I like to think that I gave her a good example. By-and-by, however, in typical Gemini fashion, I wandered away from the blogosphere.
But now it's summer again, and the punishing sun here in the desert is exacting its terrible price that we pay to live here. On the first day of summer, we maxed out at about 115 degrees. In the face of such terrible weather, I unfailingly retreat to the comfort of our condo. Once inside, I turn the air down (now that I think about it, our electricity bill is the terrible price we pay to live here), draw the blinds, and keep the home as dimly-lit as possible.
And then my fingers get a metaphorical itch. I want to revive my blog, I want to develop an online presence, blah blah blah. It should be as simple as type, edit, post...and maybe it is that simple. But at this moment in time, it's not. I think I am just overthinking it. Do my posts have to follow orderly themes; do I have to limit my posts to one time a day; should I restrain from making the occasional political commentary?
Does it fucking matter? Aside from using correct punctuation and grammar, shouldn't my only goal simply be to get it out there? Since when did I give a frickety-frack if people liked me or noticed me? (Well, I'm sure I've always cared; I am certain we all want to be liked or well-regarded. If you say no, I say "liar!") But that's beside the point. It's my space. Without all the perverts and lousy bands. So, I suppose this is my blog's kingdom. My blog's domain. It's a blog's life. It's my blog's life.
Last summer, I was a blogging fool. I had actually built up a following! Of two people, mind you, one of whom was an Indiana-based stalker, but that's beside the point. She needed someone to aspire to be, and I like to think that I gave her a good example. By-and-by, however, in typical Gemini fashion, I wandered away from the blogosphere.
But now it's summer again, and the punishing sun here in the desert is exacting its terrible price that we pay to live here. On the first day of summer, we maxed out at about 115 degrees. In the face of such terrible weather, I unfailingly retreat to the comfort of our condo. Once inside, I turn the air down (now that I think about it, our electricity bill is the terrible price we pay to live here), draw the blinds, and keep the home as dimly-lit as possible.
And then my fingers get a metaphorical itch. I want to revive my blog, I want to develop an online presence, blah blah blah. It should be as simple as type, edit, post...and maybe it is that simple. But at this moment in time, it's not. I think I am just overthinking it. Do my posts have to follow orderly themes; do I have to limit my posts to one time a day; should I restrain from making the occasional political commentary?
Does it fucking matter? Aside from using correct punctuation and grammar, shouldn't my only goal simply be to get it out there? Since when did I give a frickety-frack if people liked me or noticed me? (Well, I'm sure I've always cared; I am certain we all want to be liked or well-regarded. If you say no, I say "liar!") But that's beside the point. It's my space. Without all the perverts and lousy bands. So, I suppose this is my blog's kingdom. My blog's domain. It's a blog's life. It's my blog's life.
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