Tuesday, October 27, 2020

Oh Poor, Neglected Blog. I'm So Sorry.

 I realize I am rather abruptly posting on my sad, dusty little blog after years of ignoring its existence, however, I do find lately, that at least once daily I have had something of interest I wanted to share with anyone who might be listening. Hence, my renewed hope that this will not a be another one-off post in the echoing emptiness that is this blog. 

Dangling bits of string in front of my cat's nose: 
one of the many things I've been doing instead of posting here.

I have always loved the idea of journaling daily. I so admire those with the discipline to sit down once a day and put down the thoughts and events they've collected over the last twenty-four hours in a book, preferably hard-bound and hand-written. Sadly, every time I have tried to become one of these people, all I end up with is one or two entries, each the size of a novella. The problem is, I don't know how to stop. I sit down at the end of the day, full of enthusiasm and practically glowing self-congratulatory serenity knowing that I am about to become a more self-aware, reflective, purposeful human being the very minute my pen hits the first page of the fancy new Leuchtturm1917 notebook I spent an hour and a half choosing, 15 minutes ordering, and 4 days dreaming about and all the wonderful, introspective sort of things I was going to write inside it once it arrived. The first evening of the day it does, my pen hits the paper and instantly I feel regretful that I've inevitably made some sort of aesthetic error right away (and M with 3 humps or a D that's too portly) but it's too late to stop now. I furiously scribble my every inner thought, and every remotely significant incident of my day. By the time I look up, it is 4 a.m. The next evening, the same thing happens and by evening number three, I've fallen asleep at 8 p.m. from the sleep deprivation of the last two nights and the spell is broken. The notebook joins the legion of its kind on a dedicated shelf in my home library that brings me deep feelings of shame every time I glance in its direction until sufficient time has passed to make my latest failure seem like a fault of past-me that current-me feels ready to conquer again.

My attempts at blogging don't involve the fancy paper goods or the handwriting anxiety issues, but the results tend to be similar.

So, here's current-me once again. Stopping here before I get out of control again. 

P.S. (Oh no. I found a loophole. I promise just a couple more sentences.) Here's a link to a poem I just fell in love with, from the pages of Cultural Weekly. It's by Laura Grace Weldon, who not only has a marvelous way with words, but also one of the best author photos I've seen in a while. Enjoy: 

Laura Grace Weldon's "Heat"