This time of year is stressful, anticipatory, tearful, angry, happy, and sad for me. I’m sure I could squeeze more adjectives in there; almost anything would fit.
I got visits from my favorite people today. That helped.
One is a mineman. He got me through that 5k last year.
Another is avoiding an inevitable road into politics.
Me, I’m just waiting for the next gust of wind to carry me off.
I feel I have something important to say, but I can’t pull it into the light. I can’t see it, I just know it’s there.
I found a blog a long time ago that I go back and forth between following and unfollowng because I like it a whole lot and I’m turned off by it equally as much. I don’t like attention but I dislike being unnoticed, and I want to be wanted when I’m not around. This blog, as much as I like it, makes me feel small and insignificant. My commenting, hey, I appreciate what you are doing here, I fear would fall on deaf ears, lost in a menagerie of some 16,000 followers.
But everything is about me. You knew that, right?
I like to admire from silent corners. But the problem I have with blogs is that, whereas when reading books I have an intimate connection with the author (a personal show for an audience of one), I feel detached from some blog writers. I don’t always mind the detachment, but when I really like what I’m reading, I want the connection.
I’ve been picking up new books and slowly finishing others, but I think it’s a good time to go back to the one I love the most. I need to go sit with Kurt awhile. I’d visit Joyce, but he makes me emotional even when he doesn’t intend to. I’ve often said that Vonnegut is my best friend and Joyce is my lover, though both have pissed me off before. Mm, no, just Kurt. Joyce makes me cry. My relationships with these authors are codependent ones. Dysfunctional but satisfying.
I can’t get that with blog writers.
When I read Vonnegut, I feel like I’m sitting with him at a bar listening to his drunk stories. I feel him turning the pages for me. When I read Joyce, I feel I’m watching his pen glide across the page. He writes to me, for me, and only for me. But books are different than blog posts. Posts aren’t written for me.
Except when they are. But I know those writers.
I’ve convinced myself to leave here now and go pick up my beloved copy of Mother Night.
Tomorrow is Friday, by the way, and I have friends who are already seeing Friday peek over the horizon.
Zao shang hao, friends.