Maybe the third time’s a charm. I mean for this post. I started it last night; restarted from scratch earlier this evening; and now as I get ready to close-out another birthday, I’ve started over once again. Why is it so hard? I can’t say.
The “birthday post” was long the one consistent and reliable mainstay of my little corner of the Interwebs, but then in 2014, even that didn’t happen. I posted nothing to this blog between Sept. 21, 2011 and Sept. 21, 2012, yet I managed to still take note of my birthday. I regained a bit of irregular momentum (Can I ™ that oxymoron? I love it!) in 2013, but all of 2014 passed by, and for the first time in this blog’s history, not a post – birthday or otherwise – exists to note that 2014 ever happened.
My fidelity to the “birthday post” is odd, certainly to anyone who knows me well.
At the same time, I’m not completely sure why I keep this blog alive. Really, I have it trapped in a dark hole, with naming rights and just enough server space to keep it from disappearing. For is it even alive when I don’t feed it? When I create so littler or, more recently, nothing at all? When the people who visit primarily come from random Google searches, and a large percentage of those from people with an interest in Vincent Gallo’s blowjob in “The Brown Bunny”?
Curiously (at least to me), this blog continues, in its own way, to mimic certain dynamics in my life. As I wrote in the previous post, the death of my former boss Susan Smith hit me much harder than I thought possible, and I actually found it difficult to determine what I wanted to live next to it.
Then, in early 2014, my wife and I had a baby girl, and before I knew it, my wife had returned to work and I was trying to figure out how to become Mr. Mom while also pursuing my own creative projects and searching for a more permanent day job. Ideas popped up regularly – daily even – but devoting the time to this endeavor consistently slid down the priority totem.
I can only explain my allegiance to these posts with the inherent yin/yang dichotomy I seem to experience with all things. I hate have attention called to myself except when I want to feel like everyone notices I exist, natch! And so, I regularly wouldn’t mention to people that it was my birthday, never wanting to appear like I was trolling for those simplistic HBD wishes, and yet, I would spend a chunk of my day (albeit a small one) combining words in a deliberate fashion solely to call attention to the event.
But this year, I was determined to make a comeback, so here I am. And yet, even with that determination, actually doing so has proved much more challenging than expected.
What does it mean for the future? I don’t know. No promises. Maybe I’ll turn a corner and become prolific once again. Or maybe, as I continue to focus on my other writing practice – the one where I try to create good stories, compellingly told – I won’t have time to simply digitally shout my opinions into the air.
I’d love to model myself – and my creative work – on so many of those with whom I share ownership of this date. Do you hear me Stephen King? Leonard Cohen? Ethan Coen? Can you give me a hint where that genius water is please? I suppose I missed the Sept. 21 orientation.
Happy birthday to me ... or something.