A Personal Blog, A Personal Note

“I can only write from the porch of my narrow world.” -x

(Note: some people try to stretch everything said and done to include people not intended to be included in commentary. If someone else is trying to get you to believe that I’m talking about you, please stop and look at the person trying to make the claim. If you think I’m writing about you, there is probably nothing I can say to dissuade you from the idea. )

Part of the reason I started this blog was to get my words out, even if imperfectly, so that no one could easily set their own record in my regard. This isn’t a two minute dash to angrily lash at people. It’s a long-term commitment to share some parts of me. When I’m gone, it will be hard for people to attempt to change the nature of who I was. They will try, but these thousands of hours of both seriousness and farce written here will drown out the attempt. A person doesn’t just sit down one morning and write hundreds of posts without some type of motivation.

(Even if misguided motivation. Everyone reading this has their own hobbies. Whether it is sports, napping, television, long walks, or any other activity, it translates into time being spent in the manner you see fit, even if no observable benefit to you or society will result. Each of “wastes” our lives to some degree.)

For those who know me personally, you can’t just accidentally find this blog and start reading. If by miracle that is how you found me, you should know that continuing to read it is a choice. Like any account of a person’s life, my words suffer from the present moment, meaning that a person’s mood at a specific moment can “color” the tenor and meaning of one’s words. A careless synonym can sometimes set a reader’s mind far away from the intended meaning. In the same way that the bible admonishes masters to not overhear their servants, you should know as you read that written words are powerful things, capable of provoking emotions that weren’t intended.

Revisionists insist on painting their lives with a soft brush. They are so damaged they’ve even given themselves convincing amnesia about their past. I’ve written a lot about the need to remember that my parents were capable of so much good – when they weren’t at the mercy of alcohol or anger. The violence overshadows that potential. But I don’t walk around whimpering about my horrible childhood and I don’t use it to justify anything I’ve done. Whatever stupid or bad things I’ve done are at my own feet. People who know me intimately will tell you that it is almost ‘just’ a horrible story to me. I laugh about it quite often. Not that fake laugh-to-cover-unhealed-wounds laughter, but the authentic, healthy “Can you believe it?” laughing.

Much of my goal each day is to avoid cynicism.