I suck at the whole blogging enterprise. This much is obvious. I haven't posted since February. SINCE FEBRUARY! And who noticed. Not all that many. I could count them on one hand; and that would me my imaginary hand with no fingers on it (lost to an imaginay combine harvester - oh, God, what a mess; imaginary blood everywhere and bits of imaginary bone stuck in the imaginary gears of the harvester (which is, of couse, itself imaginary), causing said harvester to burst into brightly-hued imaginary flames: I was just lucky to get out of there with my sense of whimsey intact).
I can write that because absoluttely nobody visits this little corner of the web. They just breeze through in their electron-guzzling PCs and their sporty little iThings without so much as slowing down to yell obscenities at this particular rest-stop on the way to somewhere more interesting.
Should that worry me? Aren't I writing this for my self? For my own satisfaction?
Who can tell anymore. Lately I've felt untethered from a lt of important things in my life; work, writing, cooking, friends. Some of this I don't have a whole lot of control over. Other bits I do have a little influence on, but I've been too busy wrestling with the angel that I've forgotten to demand the blessing, forgotten what it was I was going to ask for.
Maybe getting back to writing is how I ask for the blessing. Maybe it's a way to let go of the angel. Maybe everything else can look after itself for a while.
17 hours ago
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