My computer broke and I stopped writing this blog.
It took almost a week to fix my machine. Maybe that was because I did it myself, but I had to do it myself because I thought it was too important to leave to a technician.
Maybe it was because my job has morphed into a daily descent to hell and I am still on fire by the time I get home each night.
I wrote one post from a different location, but it was lame. You can see for yourself. It didn’t feel right, and I saw myself behind the curtain, trying to seem clever and important, which I don’t feel any more.
I found myself cringing at the daily news. Could these outrages really be happening? I stopped listening.
I stopped reading my favorite blogs, because I couldn’t concentrate on them. Or maybe I just thought I wouldn’t be able to think of clever enough comments, that would make me seem mysterious and witty and prescient, or something. I watched the number of unread posts climb. After a little more than a week, there are hundreds. I’m hopelessly behind, and I feel bad about it. I’ve made friends, and now I am leaving them.
I feel gray. The anniversary of Hurricane Katrina reminds me that we have lost a city, while Nero fiddled. New Orleans, that magical city, hasn’t recovered, and neither have I. The venality and corruption of the people I work with and the politicians who “lead” us are so close to the surface these days that I expect the pustules to burst any minute. My pathetic political rants are juvenile, boring and useless. We don’t live under a right-wing dicatorship, but the similarities are scary, and I am helpless to persuade.
I’m planning to have fifty or so real-life people over for a Labor Day barbecue and jam session (Email me if you want to come. My email address is on the “About Jones” page. It’s this Sunday – sorry for the short notice.). I’m cleaning up the back yard, planning food, stringing lights in trees, fixing some plumbing, building a bandstand, inviting folks, circling the wagons.
I’m playing guitar again, and this time I don’t ever want to stop. My chops are coming back. My left-hand fingertips have grown hard callouses. This may seem creepy to you, but it is the guitarist’s badge, proof that you really play, armor against wimping out in pain after only an hour or so. When the last song is played, sometime after midnight, it’ll be played by me.
Real life. Real fun. People I can’t fool. No talk of Jonbenet or IED’s manufactured in Iran to exacting specifications.
I’ll write when I can.