With a twinge of regret for the past week unblogged and the memories a wispy tangle, I write, though without much sense of purpose or aim.
Mondaytuesdaywednesdaythurdayfriday, that's how it seems to go. The combination of low energy and a rather constant low-grade anxiety attack seems to aggravate my seasonal tendency to begin a psychological descent at this time of the solar year. Thus, I haven't written in the midst of this busy week of grading and winter preparation.
We've been to the local pumpkin-patch this week, I've been on a daddy-daughter date put on by our LDS ward, I've been in the foothills and the mountaintops looking for grouse and snowshoes, had the principal dujour while the real thing was out at meetings for a couple of days this week, we've cleaned the house and re-created chaos numerous times, and I've bought a pickup for a thousand bones that I'm having serious second thoughts about. It sounds busy, but I only remember a color-washed whiteout blur.
There are those who don't have this sort of self-wrought challenge, those who are well and fine with the weekly march of events that parade in and out of their days and ways, but perhaps I'm wiring it wrong.
I've been noticing again that my web log isn't much of a journal, more of the proverbial mask that I put on to entertain my dear friends and family (oh, how I dislike that word, mask.) Not that this account isn't a true one, but that it only recounts the pleasant and the paradeable, leaving a terrible body count of my less-than-photogenic thoughts, perceptions and everyday struggles left off the pretty page and scattered in the back of my crowded heart.
What can I do about that? I can keep a journal aside from this, one more inclusive to keep track of the necessary spaces and holes in this blog, I could beg from the cosmos a greater helping of creativity so that I can return to my true love, poetry, and therein encode both my too-basal and elevated experiences, or I could just write the whole thing down here in the blog.
Neh. I don't think the latter will be the solution.
It's an interesting idea, though far too public in scope for my liking. Besides, I want you to be happy when you come here, don't I? If I rant and mourn all the time, operant conditioning dictates that you'll grow rather weary of the reward and not come back to this humble website nearly as often as you do.
So I'll try to balance this out, a wee microcosm of my own oddball psyche, and show you a more honest portrait of my life and times, especially as the winter comes on and SADD or whateverthehell it is increases its tug on my inner space. It's much easier to control words than it is to control cortical impulses, serotonin levels and questionable perceptions, after all.