Tuesday, January 21, 2014

This whole blog thang

So, I've started and stopped this blogging thing a hundred times. I keep asking myself why. Why do I start? Why do I stop?

Let's tackle starting first.. perhaps it's ego. Maybe I simply think I have so much wit and insight that people would be crazy not to read it. I'm sure that plays a part. I'm pretty sure that plays a part in just about any and every blog on some level. Otherwise... Anyway, there's more to it. At least I hope. At least I'm telling myself that.

Maybe it's a way of spewing out the crazy. Maybe it's how to tame the countless people living in my head. I know that's why I write plays. I get taken over by characters and they won't leave me alone until I put them on paper. I guess the cast has found a new way to garner attention and applause.

Maybe it's a way of tracking and documenting my life. There is an underlying fear of forgetting. It's not as deep as I wish. It's poked the surface several times as I'm getting older and realizing my own mortality. Combine that with the fact that I have a wee human to care for, my dread of not remembering is at hand. It's right there in my frontal lobe. Staring at me. Maybe that's why I take so damned many pictures and videos. I watched my grandpa fade into darkness. I was pretty young so I didn't have a full grasp of it then, but I have memories. Those memories make more sense now. And they're scary. What's worse is hearing my own father talk about his fear of following in his father's footsteps. It's real. Too real.

So there's the start.. now, the stop. What happens? What distracts me? What disappoints me? A lot, I think. I took a look back at the starts and the stops, and I think I may have figured it out. Claustrophobia. I put perimeters on my blog. They had to be about "something" and I felt too confined to diverge from that something. At one point it was a bout crafting with my son. Then it was about throwing parties. Then there were way too many attempts to make it about a weight loss/fitness journey. Well what the frack, man. How boring is that? No wonder I didn't gain followers. Hell, I couldn't even follow it, and I was the douche bag writing it. I mean seriously, how many elfin times can you read "I ran 2 miles today" and worse, how many times can I write "I ran 2 miles today". Yeah... yawn...

So here we are... again... compelled to sit in front of this screen and type shit.


So how can I make this different? What is gonna keep me going? One thing I'm sure of, screw perimeters. This whole thing can be about nothing and still accomplish what I hope to accomplish, which honestly isn't much. So what do I hope to accomplish? Well isn't that a burdensome inquiry? I don't know. I have no idea what I want from this or what I hope comes from it or even if I hope anything comes from it. And you know what? I'm ok with that. Right now, anyway. I'm cool with just sitting here typing. If you read, hey that's cool. If not? No worries, I'll still like ya. So I'm gonna type. I'm gonna just let go and put my head and heart on the screen and let them fly where they want, if they fly at all. No pressure. No boundaries. No expectations. I don't have to be the next big thing. I don't have to be anything but me. For the first time in my life, I'm ok with that. 45 years to learn that crap. I am ok as I am - even under all this imperfection. The ironic thing is how often I seek imperfection in the things I surround myself with. I find beauty and joy in the flaws of objects, yet I desperately try to hide my own. Under baseball hats. Inside big sweatshirts. Scrunched beneath foundation garments and buried in lame attempts at humor. I am flawed. I am imperfect. And I need to decide that's ok too. I need to embrace the quirks that make me who I am. I am an odd bird. Ok. I am not type A. I am not the most organized or a good cook. I am silly. I am irreverent. I am a loyal friend who forgets birthdays and is terrible at sending thank you cards. I am not delicate, but I have a soft heart. I love way too hard and try to protect too much, but I encourage dangerous activity and think every bird should spread it's wings. I'm overly affectionate with my family, but get all weird about other people touching me. I cuss like a sailor in person, but I can't type the "f" word. I'm nuts. Ok. So what.

So yeah... I'm gonna type shit. I don't know when or what or how often or any of that. And that's ok. That's. Ok. It's all ok. Life is ok. Oklahoma is OK. See? I'm freakin nuts.... (head in hand shaking in dismay)

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