(I should point out 'bitches" here is addressed to either sex - not just women - and is meant to be equally offensive to all. Or not. On the other hand, if the shoe fits...)
"Blogged lately?" The question is asked repeatedly and I am forced to hold my breath, ever so slightly, and respond:
To which I might add "So? And?"
No. I have not blogged.
I am reminded of my father and myself as a teen-age boy. Whenever I would borrow, consume or solicitously eye his things, my father would point to the object: syrup laden pancake, button-up shirt, paperback copy of Siddartha, or whatever, and declare emphatically, "Mine."
He didn't exactly yell, but had a way of empasizing and stretching out the "i" (almost in a martial arts, "hii-yah!" kind of way) that was adamant. Buzz-amant. Whatever.
Under the heading, then, of "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" I declare this blog and its contents, the intellectual properties therein, to be licensed and trademarked under the sole proprieteorship of none other than, you guessed it, me!
Not so interested in my photos?
In other words, "MINE!"
Want to know when I'll be writing again?
I'll let ya know!
(Okay, yeah, co-contributor Seal might have something to say the above, but he'd have to respond after the fact, in his own post. 'Sides, I sincerely doubt he would begrudge me my little rant. Unless of course, the body snatchers have taken him. Or pigs have flown. Or hell has frozen over. You get the idea.)
Here's the thing - writing is like anything else - you get out of it what you put into it. So, even when I might have something to say, it seems like I hardly ever have the time to say it. At least not well.
And this may come as something of a surprise, but I don't always have something to say.
Maybe, just maybe, I'd like to come home from work, sit on the couch and stare vacuously into space, with one hand jammed down the front of my pants, ala' Al Bundy, and a beer in the other.
Plus I'm not so sure sitting here, typing away, re-hashing the minutiae of my life's events, is entirely healthy.
Example: "Evening at Carly's" - a blog within a blog.
Friday night M, myself and Shell had conjoined at Carly's when the topic of "comic timing" came up.
Shell, despite abstaining from alcohol, was her normally effervescent self, but then started to backslide, ever so slightly, into self-deprecation. She said she was "slow" (or some such) - and I felt compelled to debate her.
Shell has a natural comic timing - some would call it quick wit - I'll never posess. Only because she allows herself to be goofy and playful within a given moment, might her behavior be miscontrued as unintelligent - but only by the unobservant. I pointed this out to her and M chimed in.
Oh, and while you might question whether comic timing is a bonafide talent or not - speaking for those without - yeah, it is.*
I rarely have a snappy response ready to go. Maybe I'm a little too self-conscious, or not playful enough, or maybe its a genetic deficiency -but- the harder I try the less funny I generally am.**
With writing, on the other hand (or blogging, whatever) you can revisit each moment and re-create it. Didn't have the words? Now you do. Didn't come in on the beat? Now you can. This is one of the reasons I was attracted to acting. Or so I thought.
On stage, it seemed, I would always have the perfect response for every situation. And I would e never be at a loss for words.
Unless, of course, I forgot my lines. And then it was time for plan B.
In fact, that's what I actually learned from acting - to let go of my mistakes (and forgive my imperfections) even as they occurred. Nothing takes you out of the moment like self-loathing. And a mistake dwelled upon only snowballs into (dramatic pause) The Performance Fom Hell!
With writing, though, who cares? You can go back and rework the same moment over and over again, ad nausem, until you absolutely nail it. (Or grind into paste). But there is a flipside, of course. (isn't there always?)
Friday morning, I drove to work, thinking of the hectic day ahead, and I thought to myself, "just get through it and the weekend is here."
Then I thought about how many days I'd actually lived previous to this one. And how many more I had left. It was a bit sobering:
Unless I get hit by a bus, or am taken by the big "C", I figure I'm about half way to the finish line, give or take. That means I should have about 365 days times 40 years -or- a total of 14,600 remaining on this earth. Which sounds like a fair amount and yet is fairly finite. Or final.So then I thought, maybe I'll just ease back a bit on the throttle, try to enjoy what comes today. Not a novel idea, I know, but there's a difference between knowing something in your head and feeling it in you cajones, right?
So, of course, that went out the window once I arrived at work (racing from fire to fire) and I frantically rushed through the remainder of my day.
And now I'm writing this.
The funny thing is, I was going to wind this whole thing down with something like, "if you keep reworking old moments you miss the one at hand." Which would've been the perfect buttoning up of my "anti-blog" theme.
Now I'm not so sure.
*Interestingly enough, M, too, exhibits this talent in spades. Even, more so, she seems to be able to turn it on and off at will. Those that can't do... surround themselves with those that can, I guess.
**Yes, yes, I realize that's probably true of everyone, or, for that matter, of almost any task performed but if I try to be funny I'm just not, while others seem to be able to turn it on and off. M, for example, seems to do this at will.