I know what you’re thinking…it’s a figure of speech…an arrogant one; let me start again. I was thinking: man it’s been awhile since I’ve written on my blog. I think it’s been about three years. I guess I could go back and look so I could be more precise about the length of time since last I wrote, but that sounds boring. Let’s just agree it’s been longer than a month. I tried to think back and do the math on the exact time, but in the midst of all that the numbers turned into red and blue monkeys and used the symbols of operations as weapons to beat one another, when last I checked the red monkeys were winning. I couldn’t watch for long; I struggle with monkey on monkey violence, regardless their color.
I had an idea to write about Sandy Hook a few weeks back, I resisted that urge and I’m glad that I did. It seems to be a topic mainly commented on by the mentally unstable who would use a tragedy to showcase their delusion. I’m happy to be left out of the fray. Call it a stroke of luck. Instead I thought I’d share my reasons (Read: Excuses) for not writing for some undeterminable length of time.
I started to brew beer at a real working brewery with my friend Andy. I had no idea how much fun I would have with that. But it came at a price, my hours for writing were in direct conflict with the schedule of a brewer…this conflict showcased my inability to change my habits. The solution was simple enough: write at a different time. Trust me, I find no flaw in your logic, and really when you get right down to it, it’s probably the thing I like least about you: your flawless logic. Anyway, that got more confrontational than necessary and I feel partially responsible; I’m sorry. Let’s move on. Andy and I brewed about 100 batches of beer (I’m almost positive that’s an exaggeration) and like I said it was a lot of fun. But there was more than just beer brewing in the brew-house, trouble was also at a rolling boil. (I know.) My friends Andy and Jessica were only part owners of the brewery in which I worked. Their working relationship with their partners had soured over the preceding year and, before long, talks of a buy-out were bandied back and forth between lawyers. Eventually, my friends were bought out and I was dismissed along with them. It was a regime change and there was no room for an assistant brewer connected with the old-school. I wouldn’t have wanted to work there anyhow, but really that sounds petty at this point. I’m sure you’ll forgive me that indulgence. About the same timeish I started another artistic endeavor, that of the podcaster.
Podcasting is nothing if not a stronghold of terminally self-involved despots with insatiable appetites for the siren-sound of their own voice. So naturally, it was a perfect fit for me. I’ve been in love with radio since before I can remember (completely impossible to prove, I know) and podcasting is the democratization of radio, and the audible evidence of democracy’s Achilles heel. The great thing about podcasting is you get to sit down, either by yourself or with some friends, (I chose the friends route) and say whatever is on your mind. The horrible thing about podcasting is that you sit down and say whatever’s on your mind. This becomes a problem if you’ve nothing compelling to say. It became clear to me I had little to say. I wanted to make a show that was poignant, honest, and not afraid to go for the obvious dick joke here and there. By not afraid I mean to say: not encumbered by one’s opinion of my intellect or ethos because I find dick jokes funny. The show I made was definitely not afraid of dick jokes…but it lacked the other components, and that became glaringly obvious to me. What wasn’t so obvious was the reason why, but I felt it prudent to forgo the recording of my thoughts in that format until such a time came that I could make the show that is in my mind. That time is nowhere in sight but I will come back to podcasting one day. It was just too much fun to stay away forever. For those of you who heard that podcast, I apologize, it wasn’t the show I’d imagined it to be. But my imagination, like me, is a shitty communicator. There is a chance that that fact alone should disqualify me from the pursuit of podcasting all together. I try not to think about that too much.
So here we are. Those were the reasons I stopped writing. There is the small detail about why the gap between those things ending and my picking up writing again was so wide. Most of that can be explained by laziness. The rest is a bit tricky. Those of you who know me know that my brain is sometimes, some might say oft-times, controlled by an icy-veined cynic. This cynic is a personality I’ve spent a large portion of my life trying to ignore, but alas, some of his thoughts escape my mouth and for every ten of those there are untold thousands that run around on a loop in the warm gray cul-de-sac that is my brain. This means that whenever inspiration strikes, the process of getting said inspiration in writing is held up in committee as my cynic debates my mind about the validity of said inspiration. On top of that I gave my cynic two fantastic failures (Brewing and Podcasting) with which to filibuster brain on the topic of inspiration. So that took a couple of weeks to push through. Last year I published around fifty-thousand words on this blog all in the interest of discovering my voice. My voice is still an allusive thing after which I diligently chase, and having no evidence that I’m any closer to its discovery and having taken a break from its pursuit, I find myself every bit as afraid to stare at a blank screen as I was when I wrote my first post. So it’s 2013 and I’m taking another shot at it…maybe it’ll be aptly described as futile as Dr. Thompson’s search for the American Dream. I am left with the conviction that, unlike the American Dream and Bigfoot, my voice exists. Also, I think Bigfoot exists. I know that was confusing to you, but it was much more so to Bigfoot.