I realized last week that I have been a blogger for a year. With some hesitation, I looked back at how many times I've actually posted over the course of that year and was relieved to find that it came out to an average of about twice a month. Not too bad, for a professional procrastinator who didn't have regular access to the internet for several months of that year while living out of a car, other people's homes or sleeping under the stars. (Sometimes I wish I was still sleeping in the desert. But that is beside the point.) The point is that I went back and read some of my early posts and started thinking about what this endeavor was about in the first place.
I started this blog as a public notebook of my attempt to find direction, and walk out my little journey tangled among the six billion others being mapped across our world. The 'public' part I entered intentionally albeit with some trepidation. I am not a particularly public person, but I am a writer, which makes for some interesting ambivalence in a soul.
Mostly, in looking back at where I started this from, I realized that with all the hullabaloo of moving, of the wedding, of starting graduate school, I lost track of the point of these meandering posts - and of the Drift that inspired them. I have been trying for over three years now to find out what I am running towards, so that I can stop simply running away. Trying to set my path through these mountains. Or find a place in them to build a home. But in the last six months or so, there hasn't been much time for the sort of thoughts I'd wanted to peruse here. I think Maslow might have something to say about why.
Peter and I finally got to our Netflix this weekend. Friday night, we ordered pizza, busted out a bottle of wine and settled back to an utterly delightful Journey To The Center of the Earth (1959 with Pat Boone & James Mason.) We had finally unpacked enough to get to the TV, and even if we haven't cooked yet, Pizza from the little joint on the corner (and Peter's incredible atomic garlic-tahini) was a good start. I am sitting down at a computer without the threat of waking nephews hanging over my writing time. In general, I think it is about time to get back to the point.
Posted by tangle at 5:52 PM