And then, there are other days
I'm trying to get in the good habit of blogging several times a week, and the more I do so the more I find that events in my day or days filter out into manageable truths or ridicules that I end up blogging. It's interesting, because it causes me to be more holistically observant of how moments come and pass, it causes me to have to think again in linear forms to get an abstraction into a manifestation, and it greases up the wheels of the intuitive self-editor and his hopeful attainment of a balance of distance and intimacy. Events gel into "I'm going to use that" or "I'm going to absorb that" or "I'm going to let that pass". And somewhere, a filter kicks in high-processing mode that sifts sensory and non-sensory stimulants into one of so many little terra cotta pots.
The exercise is working for me... But it's very different than it used to be.
I've been writing an online journal since 1997, back in the days when they were unique and strange beasts. Back then, nobody knew what it was I was doing, I had many readers, and the biggest question was always, "How can you be this personal and open to an audience of potentially anyone?" Now they say, "Oh, a blog. Yes, I have one. Actually, I have three". If you are a writer of any kind and you are connected to the internet in any way, you probably have a blog. And if you don't now, within the next few years, you will.
The issue of being candid is a thing of the past. Everyone's blog is out there, indexed by search engines, read by friends and strangers, and being personal is not just a by-product, it's a required element of the established form. With all this increased traffic and focus on the format, with all the people I read and who read me, it's had the opposite effect on what I am willing to share. There are things that happen to me, things I learn about people, things that I may be affected by for months, that I know I can't write about. I'm read by my friends, by my co-workers, by my family, by ex lovers and future lovers, and even though I say the things to all those people that I should say and want to say, there are still some things, some secrets, some pains, that you just can't speak. Back in 1997, I would have written them in a journal, in a cathartic manner. Today, any of those secret things I write about would eventually be read by somebody I don't want to read it, or they are things that just go into more detail than somebody I know might want public, or they are extended expressions of something, a rehashing perhaps even, that I know would make life harder and more painful for somebody.
So weeks do pass and days do pass and I talk to friends about the secrets and I choose to blog or journal only those things that are either overarching, central to my own being, or can be hinted at or inferred. And while, as a writer, that turns out to be greatly beneficial through its way of forcing thought upon the medium, or at least balanced restraint of a kind, it's also something I do miss. Still, I wouldn't have it any other way because it does cause me to segment, and segmentation is an excellent way of learning focus. Focus is what I need.
Today then, was a day filled again with things that you won't be told in writing. Still, I'll give you a piece, and it's another closing paragraph about coffee.
I made myself coffee today in a french press I purchased recently. And I got to thinking about divorce. What they don't tell you when you go into it is that it isn't the splitting up of dishes and possessions, or cars and houses, or animals and plants that should be signed into legal agreement. I think it the other things that matter and the other things you should be aware of and agree to. Mister Harbinger, you will no longer, by way of this legal proclamation, be able to make coffee in your kitchen and you, Miss Palimpsest, you will no longer be able to eat buttered popcorn. Or you, Mr. Carbuncle, you will no longer be able to walk down that street and you Miss Fannypack will have to sell that CD. Because emotions and anger are tied to moments that come and pass, which when you shake out the tree, settle in very unusual and mundane places. The same can be said for death.
Today, I made myself coffee and I'll make it again. My dad used to drink coffee every morning, sipping it like he was eating soup and his eyes would be several inches over the rim. I have coffee stains on my mattress and these mugs really have to go.
But this cup, the cup I made, this is mine. Turns out, that's why I made it.
