Giving it a rest

I haven't really gone anywhere. Some have asked. My absence went noticed. My silence did. I was missed. That's nice. There is a dance that is done. A tandem thing. The burden of meeting someone's expectation coupled with the reward of having met it. You must have it both ways. It does not exist otherwise. I'm speaking in some sort of broken verse. Small, unexplained pain in my sternum. It's late. I drank a bottle of Pellegrino and worried that -- it being made of glass -- my shaking hands might bobble it and cause it to crash to the floor and shatter into a million inconvenient pieces.

I haven't gone anywhere. I came home from San Diego on Sunday evening. Later than I had planned and with some work to do. I stayed up working until after seven a.m. I had a proposal to complete. And a portfolio to try and spruce up. At least a little. To make it less of the hodgepodge it was when I first threw it together. That throwing together happened in September of 2001. Right when this blog was being born. I created it on a promise, after my first interview at the company which eventually brought me to Los Angeles in the first place. And I have added to it occasionally, but I have never really given it the makeover it requires. That is still true today. I made some quick fixes. But the sloppiness shows. At least to me. I can see the directory structure, and I hate that it isn't what it would have been if I had created the whole thing today.

I did some shopping today, and I haven't even bothered to unwrap or try on any of the things I bought. And I came home hours and hours ago and only went out again for a bit. Where is my mind? Can I say that without hearing it in Frank Black's voice against Kim Deal's bass line? No. I don't think I can.

I also refitted the archive page that contains all of my blog posts save for this one. In doing so, I learned that I have written 654 pages and 323,954 words since beginning this three years ago. And that's just in this journal. That doesn't count my emails and other journals and scraps of paper I scribble on and then tuck under my watchband when I don't have any pockets. I do that. That's how much I don't want to forget when something seems worth remembering. I like that I take it seriously. Even if I shouldn't.

I have been asked a few times recently if I have -- or why I haven't -- written a book yet. The character count alone tells me I have no real excuse for not having done so. The only real hindrance is my overarching conviction that there could be nearly no merit in a book that was only ever about me. But the irony is not lost on me. That I chastise myself for not doing enough when I seem to be doing a great deal at every moment. I just haven't learned to count that way.

Tomorrow is already today. And I have some plans for it.