8:57 PM |
I had a very interesting conversation this morning re blogging. My nice innkeeper’s wife, Patricia, was a journalist covering all sorts of wild and juicy business stories. I was having breakfast in the kitchen when D.A.D.D. and cool platinum chick came in. Neither one of them would make eye contact with me. As I mentioned yesterday, this is the first time I have ever given my address to someone in a situation I am currently blogging about (yes, I know, about which). I have never denied it to anyone who’s asked, but I have purposely withheld it from family and people I know in everyday life. Like everything on the web, what is public is porous. I have agonized about posting some things because they may appear mean-spirited, although that is not my intention at all. I punctuate poorly, mix tenses and otherwise fuck with the written word. In all cases, I know how to do it the way we were taught in school and in business, but I choose not to. This is not a personal statement. It is the way I prefer to write. It is my voice.
I drove for many days considering whether to post about almost-real-used-to-be-college boyfriend. My travels have brought many memories to the surface. While I am driving, I draft my writing in my head. I hate to censor that. It hurts my soul. Writing is very personal.
I am not a journalist. I do not choose what to write, how to slant it, what public perception will be. I just let it out. It is my diary. I am not a fiction writer. I write about my impressions of people, what they tell me, how I see them. I write about things I see that move me, and things that don’t. I write what is in my head but not on my tongue. It is my freedom.
I was asked why I blog if I didn’t want an audience. I don’t write so that I get an audience. In fact, I am surprised when people read me. Yes, Woody creates an audience. He is a way for me to meet people I probably wouldn’t have met otherwise. But Woody isn’t a piece of bait. I love Woody. I love my imaginary boyfriend. I would not leave home without them.
There are lots of people who travel in old cars. I know an awful lot of them. I have been traveling in old cars since I was a baby. Most of them just love the automobile and coincidentally have an audience. Yes, they, and I, get a kick out of it. We love to talk cars, and especially love to talk cars with other people who love them. It is a hobby. It is also a romance.
I also love people. I know an awful lot of people who love people, too. I know an awful lot of people that are just the same as I am. I like to meet people who are not. I love their stories. I just love to listen. You know, most of us aren’t listened to very often.
I don’t skewer people and then tell them they can’t read it. But I do love the freedom of just letting my thoughts go to the ether. Poof. I have a freedom I don’t in other kinds of writing. It isn’t perfect, like the other parts of my life. I also think people who haven’t ever blogged don’t get it. I would highly encourage them to give it a try. Kind of like eating snails for the first time. It seems that people would be out of their minds to eat snails, but when you taste them you understand what it’s all about. Also oysters. I happen to hate both of them, but I get it.
When I was dying, I came to the conclusion that if I didn’t accomplish anything else in my life, I was okay with it. It is hard for me to be back with people who are busy accomplishing. The competitiveness, the hardness, the meanness frightens me. Probably because I see me, what I was for years and years and years. I get back into establishing credentials, trading economic, social and educational position. I can hold my own in those departments. I just don’t want to any more. I am tired.
I just want to run away. I want to be with Harold. I want to be with LaLa. I want to be with the guys making bourbon at Maker’s Mark. I love my Holiday Inn Expresses. And I really love my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. None of these would be possible if I were my old achieving self. Listening is so much more interesting than talking. Note to self: no more cities, you moron. How many times do I have to tell you?
Lost:
- My innocence
Found:
- A reason