Hi, I’m Tom, and I’m a blogaholic. It’s been 16 days since my last blog.
Seriously, though, there is no excuse or reason for my sudden absence. No one is hurt and the dog is quite well behaved in the mornings. There are no fires chasing me from my home, no reconditioned priority list shaken and stirred and flipped upside down. I haven’t been especially busy, at work or at home (though, at home, I should be — that list!). I’m not feeling down or even particularly high.
I guess the best word for me, right now, is “settled.”
That used to be such a dirty word for me. Sometimes, it still is. It seems to mean, to me, that there’s nothing to shoot for or aim for. Like the conditioned characters in Brave New World (which I finally read) I live out my happy day, doing the work that I must, taking my soma everyday in whatever form that takes (hint: beer, sun, book, deck) but I lack a goal. Is that a problem? Do you have one you can lend me?
A few years back, just before starting my blog, I had that same strange inkling. I needed something to get me jumping out of bed in the morning with a fervor. A “can’t wait to!” every day. Well, I jump out of bed now each morning just to … get up. Enjoy a cup of coffee. Laugh at the boys chasing each other in the yard. Read a chapter. And then you know the worn out groove in the overplayed LP from there: walk, shower, work, scoop, grill, dinner, TV, read, sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Where’s the pop?
Football season is just around the corner, that should rev the engine some. But blogging about football is like dancing about architecture, to steal a phrase, except that no one seems to pay attention to the dancing or the architecture but me.
To be perfectly honest, though, I don’t need to blog, or even write, every day. When I started blogging I wrote every day because what if I wanted to be a writer, after all? Well, that ship didn’t just sail, I kicked it from the dock, tossed out my oars, and never even looked over my shoulder when it rolled out with the tide. Writing every day taught me that, besides digging ditches, it is probably the last thing I’d want to have to do every day. I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but when I have to do it and I don’t want to it’s not so much fun as work and I’d rather keep it in the fun stack the rest of my days.
As always, I reserve the right to change my mind about that in the event of a revolution.
For the last 15 days, while I abstained, it felt sometimes like the end. Had I finally had enough of Tom? I don’t mean that in the existential way, mind you, I mean of the smirky narcissistic form of Tom where I go online and jot down a few sentences to form paragraphs in 600-1000 word increments under the banner that portrays my first name twice.
The answer, of course, was no. I haven’t had enough of Tom. Not yet. And I haven’t lost the spring in my step in the morning or the pop that I call life or even the interest in my soma. And I’m not done talking about football, blogging about dogs, dancing about architecture, or bashing on the blithering blockhead boss in Washington.
I’m just in a lull. Or at least I was for 15 days.
Now I’m in a groove.
And that’s a far better word than rut, don’t ya think?