Am I the last person in the western hemisphere to come to the blogging party? In my defense, I remind you of what they say: You can take the girl outta Vegas, but you can never quite entirely rid Vegas from out of the woman. Or, the party doesn’t really get started until after midnight, does it?
Though I keep a journal, and writing has long been a part of my daily practice, I have been resistant to blogging for two reasons:
First of all, I have been hesitant to join the blahblahblahME tell-all of our culture of wounds, these walking wounded, stumbling about, mutated maybe, but never mute.
Second, there is the sound of the word itself. Listen to it. Blog. It sounds like something the cat might hork up in the morning before I come fully awake. Blog. I try to roll it around on my tongue, but it does not roll. Blog. It just sits there. Waiting. Like something needing to be flushed down the toilet.
People have tried to invite me to the party before, of course. In grad school, my major professor suggested it. Gently. I think our conversation went something like this:
“Umm, maybe you should consider putting some of your essays online.”
“I am NOT BLOGGING!!”
“I know, but…”
And then the conversation turned to something more interesting. I forget what.
But then a conversation with my hair stylist several months ago – back when I still felt I could afford a hair stylist – got me to thinking about giving in. Surrendering. I cannot remember now what we were talking about, but I do remember her exclaiming, “You have to write this down! People need to know this!”
Well, I do write, I told her. I write every day. It is written. And it is through the process of writing, the working in and working out of writing, that I have been able to figure out a few things, maybe. I do not think I know anything that has not already been written by others before me. But maybe I have a way of writing that might reach even one other person, and maybe that is reason enough to –
But I refuse to call this a blog.
So this is my journal. Or bits and pieces of it. Like my journal, I may be writing backward and forward a bit, as writing is memory and memory is written, an Etch-A-Sketch that may be shaken out of chronological order, disordered, in disarray.