I suppose you lot deserve a bit of an update. I've not been journaling much of late. Or writing at all. One of the most surprising reactions to my collegiate life was the aftereffect of the necessity of writing. I wrote intensely for the two year period after I graduated, peaking somewhere just past the middle mark. Things have begun to taper off. And as a result, I have several incomplete projects (novels mostly) and a whole mess of poems which are for the most part unremarkable and fragmentary. I'll spare you. The more interesting thing, or rather the point, was the correlation between writing and my own mental & emotional stability/satisfaction. If I couldn't write, depression soon came upon me, or perhaps the cycle is the reverse. I've never considered myself a writer, not really - never said it's what I did or wanted to do. But I always wrote things, and I'd like to think not badly. No, I was an actor once (damnit!). And may be that one day still. But I find myself planning the contents of my suitcase, (I'll be spending two weeks in Ireland and Scotland. The 11th-25th. Ooops! Didn't I mention? If anyone wants a postcard or something, speak now.) and I think I'll be bringing too much paper: a book or two to read; at least one notebook, possibly as many as three; a sketchbook; my camera(s), including the digital slr I've yet to purchase; and yarn, needles, hooks, patterns, etc. Oh and clothes. Far too many things. It seems I cannot learn to travel lightly enough.
But I've not been writing recently. That was the point, yes? October overwhelmed me, and looking back, I should have expected it. It was October, after all. The universe seemed to be conniving to force me into adulthood, heaping tax mistakes and jury duty and other personal crises upon me. Honestly I wanted to throw the blankets over my head and not come out until everything went away, as if hiding could make it all disappear. But I called the tax bureau, showed up at jury duty, arranged my life, etc. And now everything is lying fallow. I can breathe a little easier. I can launder all of my clothes and pack early for Ireland. But I haven't been able to write. Not yet. I'm not participating in NaNo this year. I know I wouldn't finish it and I can't bear another only just begun story living in my head. Last year was the closest I felt to being productive and I still never made it over ten thousand words. So I shan't even attempt.
Of course I'm ecstatic about the general election results and disappointed in some of the state propositions which passed. That's as to be expected and unremarkable, but I suppose it bears mentioning. The most exciting result is the hope which our future president has inspired. So many of us feel redeemed. I've always voted when I could, despite the pessimistic and cynical outlook I've held on the whole political process and the people who clamor to participate. For once, someone who seems eager to listen and work hard and organize us to fix things has made it to the top. For once someone who represents the ideals we look for in a leader. And the man can speak. Thank the universe! Finally a compelling orator, a person who can open his mouth without embarrassing the overwhelming majority of the population. So, hello Camelot. I hear your story ends in tragedy, but you should be a nice existence while you last.
I'll be starting up another blog, once I muck out the layout and design. A friend in Australia has graciously allowed me webspace on his own site. He's attempting to start a collection of bloggers who say interesting things and update more than once in a blue moon. Several of us have agreed, but none I believe have been productive. An auspicious beginning to say the least. I'll post the address once it's up and running if you care to take a gander. I don't know what I'll find to blather about or if I'll have a focus. (It's almost certain to be literary in some way if I do. I only say this because I profess to know myself a little.) I have attempted before and may again to journal every day. It's a habit I think I'd enjoy. To sit down and write before sleeping. Especially as my memory is fickle and I am easily swayed. I'd like to know what I should remember. But that every day writing, which I can't imagine would be interesting to anyone aside from myself and even I may tire of it, may not happen at that blog and most likely won't happen here, but in a smaller corner of my compartmentalized self. We shall see, or I shall. You most likely won't.
Let's review: Writing, Ireland, October tried to steal my soul, the President Elect, Bloggery - I think that covers it. Oh, I suppose I should mention for those of you who don't know, I have a Boy now. He's been around for a few months. And he's still here. The wonders never cease.
