It’s been too damn quiet ’round here.
+ + +
I try to write. Turn over topics like clods of dirt in a field of fertile soil. An important talk with the boss about problems at the workplace, in particular one chatterbox (male) worker who doesn’t shut up for hours when ensconced in his bevy of babes. The meaning of the 5 year that is 2012 in numerology. The beauty of a day lying in wait like a palette to be painted, a day of rest and enjoyable activities unrelated to
work the job. Heck, the importance of bearing ever in mind the difference between job and work as I bend the bars of prison for freedom and purpose, restored.
I could write about washing dishes, pots and pans, flatware and innumerable containers of plastic and stainless steel.
Yet who on earth would listen? Who would read it through? Who would comment? Who would care?
I remember when Vox died. An extended lingering death long obvious to me; others were caught by surprise.
WP is a horse of another color. Many who migrated from Vox have ceased blogging; (no surprise, I saw it coming as well.)
I’ve long considered I’d be among the Blogger 99ers, enduring through the years (like the longtime unemployed), the attrition and changing cast of characters. Heck, I’ve been blogging since 2006. In a sphere where the lifespan of a personal blog apparently averages around three years, well, there ought to be awards for those still standing!
Now I’m really not so sure.
March March March. I keep hearing that word/those words inside and they aren’t orders from my father German and cruel.
The month of March. A change in the season. A turn in the soil, the foliage, the blooms and the light. I so anticipate spring in Colorado, not because it brings my birthday, though that’s nice as well, rather because it’ll be a spring legitimate and true and not lost in the gray cold overcast blanket permeating the four seasons in the Pacific Northwest.
So much I could write. Silent readers deplete me.
The importance of March intuited mystifies, excites, tickles like fingers under the puppy’s furry chin.
The story of Atticus. I’ve not written that either. Silence in readers depresses me.
Last (wo)man standing in the blogosphere: to what end? for what purpose?
Are there brighter times on the horizon? Absolutely, now that I’m in Colorado (and got the fucking hell outta WA). Absolutely.
Does that transfer to the blog?
Will it transfer to the blog? Does it transfer to the blog … does it transfer to the blog … d o e s i t t r a n s f e r t o t h e b l o g words on the wind floating . . . floated by the wind .