Strangely Enough

No one really blogs anymore.... unless, apparently, you're a chef wanting to post recipes or a celebrity disclosing latest escapades.

I too find myself ignoring the blogging world and gravitating more toward the use of an actual pen and paper and journals. One disadvantage? I forget to date my writing, something blogging would never let happen (changing the date, yes; ignoring? No, not unless one takes the extra steps to address html or settings or options... more work than its worth).

Advantages? Stop me when I've bored you: rewarding to take a blank page and fill it, even with shotgun writing or nonsense phrases, completely transforming the personality of the page; the feeling of accomplishment which doesn't require someone else's like or comment; self-expression with personalization while improving writing skills; gratification through the action of erasing and crossing out (versus hitting a backspace or delete key, a self-described psychological cleansing which is oddly therapeutic); creating an emotional outlet, knowing you're revealing a little bit of your soul. Ok, I'm stretching.

And yet, strangely enough, here I am. Today. Blogging. Typing out my thoughts in instead of creatively writing in a journal (leather bound, vinyl, or cardboard). Using that delete key, erasing by highlighting. Refining random thoughts while attempting to connect each to another, making a whole instead of a part. Key-stroking instead of picking up a favorite fountain pen to write feverishly in a journal or hastily jot down a thought on a 3x5 index card before it evaporates or lands in someone else's head.

Admittedly, I gain some sense of satisfaction seeing the uniformity of letters which generate words while creating paragraphs, and I ask myself: Is typing synonymous with writing when attempting to creep past the less intellectual limits of shotgun writing? Is attempting to write deep, prolific thoughts (even if deep, prolific thoughts are defined by the author) really blogging?

Based upon the evolution of blogging, one would venture to answer no.


It's one of those days ...

I like to sit and think. Or take a pencil (Ticonderoga 2.5) and paper and write unformatted, disjointed thoughts and words finding twists and turns and meanings out of nothing (which really might be something upon further scrutiny). I like to take words and structure phrases which, when structured correctly (because brilliantly is regularly out of reach and correctly is all I can hope for at this juncture) cause in-depth thought processes to fill every crevasse of the brain cavity as they fill up every space and line on sheet after sheet of notebook paper - college-ruled - because there has to be room for add-ins.

This is a day to think: dark clouds keep rooms shaded, bird songs creep through screened windows allowing the mood to balance, the Bose spins smooth jazz via saxaphone (though it would be so much richer through the spins of a turntable) and thoughts ramble from the brain and out to the fingers. Thoughts. Not many connections and practically zero direction. Till the rains come. And melancholy melts into itself and brilliance feels oh so close .... elusive, but close. 

It's one of those days when I wish I could go back and periodically choose different life paths though I do not regret where or who I am. When thoughts nearly close the doors on creativity because they come so fast, so full that writing or typing can't happen fast enough. And I wish again I had learned to set goals instead of being reactionary to circumstances and situations. Interesting connection.

Is there still time to learn? How to set goals, that is. Perhaps. Unfortunately, time has become the enemy of fulfillment realized, and life pages (on which to turn and write) have become too few.

It's one of those days .... And maybe I'll find words again when the rain stops.


Wasting or Spending Time

"I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it." ~William Shakespeare

"You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by." ~James M. Barrie

"Lost time is never found again." ~Benjamin Franklin

"Waste your money and you're only out of money, but waste your time and you've lost a part of your life." ~Michael LeBoeuf

"Day, n. A period of twenty-four house, mostly misspent." ~Ambrose Bierce