I’m certain one of the main reasons I blog is I live alone. I wake up with all kinds of stuff percolating in my head. When I sleep, my subconscious replays my life happenings. Work issues, relational struggles, theatrical reviews are all jumbled together in my head. In my vegetative state, my mind connects the dots. I wake with a fresh perspective. It’s like I compose in my sleep. And as dawn breaks and I sip my coffee, I’m ready to communicate these thoughts with someone. So, I blog them.
I have had a houseguest this weekend. Michelle arrived on Friday evening and left Monday morning. As always during her visits, we talked nonstop. Michelle was the first friend I made in Chicago 20+ years ago. She moved her little family to Kentucky about 17 years ago. When she lived here, we would talk several times during the day on the telephone. Back then, it was a pre-Internet, pre-cell, pre-text world. People practiced the great art of phone chatter.
Since her relocation, whenever we’re together, it’s one long litany of dissecting life. We talk about the big looming future and our hopes and dreams. And we spend an equal amount of time debating the little things like why I don’t like surprises, investing in pretty workout clothes, and rehashing “The Mindy Project.”
When we were walking to her bus stop yesterday, I commented that I had been so unproductive this weekend. She was quick to point out that I wrote my “Carrie” review and worked my Wood shift. I meant that I hadn’t been blogging my life musings. It made me feel like a sloth.
I tried to blog yesterday. I couldn’t articulate anything of substance. I was spent. Besides Michelle’s and my marathon yak-fest, we had also conversed our way through a street fair, garden party, and game night. I used up all my words on verbal exchanges.
I woke up this morning to a quiet room and a noisy head. My words are back.