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Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Sunday without Football

i've got to stop this.  i can't keep writing.  

i think i just heard a collective cheer from the peanut gallery, otherwise known as the two people who subject themselves to this blog regularly as a form of self flagellation.  Well, stow it peanuts!  This isn't for you, you just might reap the reward anyway, that's all.

Incidental reward-reapers aside, the reason i must stop writing is the same reason i must stop doing anything that i actually like or enjoy.  It bums me out.

Let me explain, no, there is no time, lemme sum up.  Here's what happens.  By some miracle, i come home on a Sunday afternoon and find that there are no pressing demands on my time.  Meaning: my wife is at work and is not there to force me to acknowledge all of the pressing demands on my time.  So i ignore the laundry, the dishes, the house, the addition, the heater that doesn't work right, the grocery list i need to write out for the rest of the week's dinners, the ironing and the house (yes, i know i said it twice but there is a lot to be included in "the house" and it bears many repetitions.)  i don't ignore the kids, i check on them and find that they got their playstation working again and are happily selling their souls to Sony.  So, i grab the laptop and a glass of water and head out into the addition where, due to the broken heater, it is conveniently cold enough for a fricken who always dresses for the outdoors and i plant myself in my favorite rocking chair and spend the next two or three hours just writing.  If this blog doesn't satisfy all of your masochistic needs for self penance you might head over to the Journals and read the rancid raisins of my labor.  But that's not the point.  

The point is this: i had a great time!  i love to write, i love to create, i love to tell stories.  The world just won't let me.  Now that those two or three halcyon hours are history it has been back to the gristmill.  And my name is Gristom G. Gristle.  And when i realize that and that there is no actual point to my raisins, they will never get planted and grow into vines of their own, the world sort of gets a little grayer.  The edges lose focus and i lose a lot of the will necessary to put the next foot forward.

Call it lack of faith and i'll say, "true."  Call it manic depression and i'll say ,"possibly."  Call it life and i'll slug ye but the sad fact is that i think, the next time i have two or three hours to suppress the pressing demands on my time, i'll just watch tv.

Where's the remote?

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