The other night I wished Jon a happy birthday via the crass medium of text message, and so late in the evening that I was almost embarrassed to have bothered. Like how receiving a carelessly chosen gift feels much more hollow than receiving no gift at all. He didn't seem to mind, given that the birthday phone call, and maybe friendly phone calls in general have fallen out of fashion. I regret this. Only my mother and mother-in-law call me just to chat.
Jon mentioned he wasn't caught up on my blog, and later realized it was because it's not been updated. He's right! It hasn't (I haven't) but not for lack of writing. I write every day, and though it may be hard to tell given the endless bluster I've packed into this url, I only post things that I think might....matter...outside of my own head. I write because I don't know what I'm feeling until I write (type) it, and because I have a lot of feelings in the span of a day. I mean, like, at least four.
Last week I wrote about missing my spinning class and going for a long run instead because it was cloudless and sunny, and later sneaking a cigarette from my pack of "party smokes" on my walk to the store even though I was most definitely not socializing and how I spotted a guy wearing a shirt from a track meet in 2001 that my brother competed in, which I know because he has the same shirt from which he scissored the sleeves and wears around the house, or my parents' house, I suppose, and how even though we didn't see each other much, I liked that he lived nearby and now he doesn't anymore. And then I found a tree stump and carried it home, and how holy shit tree stumps are heavy. And how I want to dry it out and sand it but how I had better not talk too much about my dumb stump because man do I ever have a ton of abandoned ideas. And how Nick, upon seeing the dirt-covered stump right on the porch where I'd left it, said "cool stump" and required no explanation. And how he somehow seems to get even more sweet and patient as time passes, and how I worry I'm getting more shrill, less tolerant.
So I guess I am posting it in a way, but imagine 500+ more words and a clumsy attempt to make it about my whole winter. I was relieved when I finished what I was trying to say and found it boring, "this is just for me and my dull little head". It doesn't have the suffer the indignity of being indexed by a search engine, mired in internet amber for all time, just because I happened to have gone running, missed my brother, carried a heavy thing, and liked Nick.
I never feel bad about gaps in posting here, because this thing is a hobby. Hobbies exist because the world requires so much of us, waking, bathing, putting the cap back on the toothpaste, changing the oil in the car. And after we've changed the oil and scooped the cat litter and picked up our prescriptions, we make dreamcatchers or Harlem Shake videos because we'll all be dead soon and ha! I did a thing! And no one even made me!
The other week I went to New York and stayed with friends and had one hell of a time. I want to write about it soon. I will.