Could be I am the only person in the world. Could be I am the only person in the world writing to myself. Could be what I have to say is not what anyone wants to read/share/hear/think on. Is it about a truth, or about preference? And do I really care?
It's not that I need or want a following;that would impose a responsibility to...respond and i admit to skimpiness where other blogs are concerned. I actually still talk on the phone. Texting, emailing, and blogging are a bit dry for me. I want an inflective voice. I want laughter. Snickering. Chuffs and glottal stops. I want sighs, interruptions, whispered secrets. Epithets. I want more than the sound of my own voice. I want connection. I want to know by a response that I was heard. I have concluded that this medium is really for talking to oneself. That works for me. I work out lots of stuff here, like dancing with no clothes on, not aproblem because no one is watching. rumination, venting, chin wags, bitching, rants, a dash of memoir, i'mcobtent.
I respond to only a few blogs, one blogger blogs several times a day! I can hardly remember to get about this task, maybe twice a month,and no matter how I insist I will do better, I adjust not motivated. I could write about contest failure. I could write here what I send that fails. I could provide info on so much that I have discovered, if only I thought there was a reader. Nah. Even if I had a reader, I'd not do that. What would be the point?
Who cares about my chicken noodle soup dinner, my long term attempt to pass the damned kidney stone...with meager but definite progress...the sharp little edge that hangs it up released after much agony, so the thing that must surely be bigger than my head is much closer to the lumen it needs to slip through. I am blessed with tiny, full body lumens, discovered long ago at a nasty surgery. So while hope springs eternal, perseverance is waning, though a good tot of scotch brings singular relief. Not a good excuse to go around blotto, though, is it?
Could write about a marriage older than Methuselah, but even I would not read it. Or a out the rigors of holding down a job at the age of 73, understanding that so many of us are still plugged in to production even if we are weary however stimulated or challenged. It is keeping us young. Says so in the very fine print, that with which we have no longer the vision to read, hence how we are suckered.
To those of you who swear you read, breathe loudly so I believe you!