Three months

Three months of no posts. BFD. My life is not sufficiently exciting, nor are my thoughts sufficiently provoking to either create clamor, or to have their absence noticed.

I lately read a definition of a blog as an on-line diary. When I was in about 2nd grade, my sister was reading The Diary Of Anne Frank. I was told that I was too young to understand it. I was not allowed to read it. Instead of creating in me a desire to read it, I was obsessed with the idea or writing my own diary. BFD. Recording my day-to-day existence as a seven-year-old was incredibly boring. I didn't think about things or ideas. Let's face it, a seven-year-old doesn't THINK about what they are doing or why. (Unless the happen to be extremely bright and self-aware.) My biggest event of the week was going to the Blue-Bird meetings. Even there, what we did or said or thought wasn't enough to trigger anything memorable.

When I was a freshman in High school, my best friend started keeping a "record" (she wrote in the record books that you buy inexpensively at the stationers) I found reading her thoughts fascinating. But I had little desire to record my own. Perhaps even then I sensed that my own thoughts were so mundane that they were not worth recording.

Blogs, letters and diaries that become books, that people talk about, that people read, that actually affect people are written by people who are bright, who are self-aware and who understand how to make the mundane interesting.

I am not one of those people.

My writing is mundane, what I relate is banal. My friends read it out of loyalty, Once in a blue moon, I say something intelligent. Most of the time, it is drivel. If it weren't for spell-check, most of the time, it would be un-readable. (especially when I write after 3 margaritas)

I used to write to my mother once a week about what I had been doing. She died in September. I miss writing my weekly activities. Perhaps now, if I were to blog them I would not keep the severe censors on my thoughts that I did when writing to mother. Who knows? I might write something worth reading.