Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Come on, be serious, Andy.

I have been putting off a task that I shouldn't be putting off. I have a serious blog inside me, I swear, but I just don't seem to want to let it out. After all, isn't a "serious blog" an oxymoron? It is a contradiction in terms if ever I saw one. Given, I have a tendency to bend a few too many things into some sort of joke. Without laughter there's just... a space that I have little interest exploring. I have trouble craving anything without a smirk. It's not that I can't take anything seriously. I can and I do. Its just... Even now I can feel my own interest waning. Why analyze it at all? The point is, I feel like a toolbox trying to put any deep, dark thoughts into the form of 'blog'.
However...
I have a serious blog inside me, and I know it. It's a great big serious blog with feelings and emotions and blah, blah, blah. I had a life adventure recently and I'm scared I will forget it. It seems to me the only way to make sure I remember it is to talk about it or write about it. The problem is, whenever I start to talk about it, my voice cracks and I no longer want to be wherever I am. I skirt around the issue, diminishing its importance to me and look to move on as quickly as possible. Writing about it is not out of the question. Perhaps a journal entry or something? But there are people I want to know about this. I want to share this and I am not a strong sharer. In fact, in almost every way, I'm a fairly terrible sharer. I just want to lay it down and see what happens, but when I think of someone reading about it, reading about anything serious I may have typed onto an internet page, it makes me cringe. Maybe I'm too old? Maybe I feel like a fourteen year old girl scribbling poetry into my goth-y blog... 




"Oh assblankets!" I exclaimed in frustration. I just want to write a story about my experience taking care of my grandfather in his last days, but I haven't mustered the mustard. It's been over a month and I'm sure there are already details that have slipped through the disturbingly large cracks in my brain, never to be seen or heard from again. That's what I want to avoid. I want to type the details out so that I can look back at something I did that was actually good. I don't do so many good things in my life and I don't want to dismiss it the way I dismiss anything I fear can be later viewed as pretentious. I want to talk about the fears I had while by my grandfather's side. I want to talk about the awkwardly humorous moments, the experience of sitting with a man floating toward death who had accomplished so many things in life, traveled the world, survived a concentration camp, sang in a world renowned choir, been a surgeon in a community that embraced him as a celebrity... 
I haven't spoken much to anyone about my father and he's almost two years gone and now I can feel myself not wanting to share anything about my grandfather. It's as though--
Wait a minute! Is this blog a bit on the serious side all of a sudden? Did I ramble and rumble my way into a serious blog? Is that how the transition is made? Am I a goth-emo kid now? Do I want everyone around me to know how sad I am? I feel dirty. Filthy and dirty. And not in the sexy way.

Times in Important Places