I'm not sure how this blog got so far off base, but somehow it did. I started off trying to create a diary-style journal of my life, thoughts and spiritual journey, and somehow I let it morph into a cut-and-paste collection of amusing press clippings, matched with appropriate or ironic pictures.
"Appropriate or ironic" was the catch-all phrase I learned in a course on cinema criticism. Any association, cutaway or edit in a film that wasn't "appropriate" could be called "ironic" to the approval of the professor. If it wasn't "appropriate," it wasn't "inappropriate" or "wrong" or just plain "dumb;" the prof insisted that it was "ironic." I've gotten a lot of mileage from that lesson since then.
But as I was saying, this blog has hardly become the tell-all confessional I had thought. Turns out I'm too shy or too reticent to talk openly about everything that's going on. It's not like my life hasn't been interesting since I started this blog: I've bought a house, celebrated my 50th birthday, met and let go of one girlfriend, and reunited, in a sense, with another since I posted the first entry into the blog. And today, I leave for the beginning of a 10-day trip to Saint Simons Island, Georgia and Budapest, Hungary.
And none of this got recorded in the damn blog.
So, as I was saying, this blog ain't what it set out to be. Sort of has a mind of its own. So let me try to find an autobiographical voice here, and relay at least today's events to get this thing back on track.
Last evening, after dropping the former-ex-but-now-somewhat-current girlfriend off at the airport (she's flying to Milan on business while I'm at Saint Simons, and we'll meet up in Budapest), I went for a hilly, four-mile run and then packed for the trip. I went to the office this morning to take care of a few odds and ends, and soon I have to run back to my condo to allow a realtor to show it to a potential buyer (even though I haven't yet sold the condo, I've already closed on a house, and have had a few sleepless nights worried about the financial effects of paying two mortgages if I can't unload the condo). After the showing, I have to move the former-ex. etc.'s two cats, which I've been pet-sitting since Sunday, back to her apartment in Midtown, and then drive the four to five hours from Atlanta to Saint Simons. Saturday, I drive back from Saint Simons to the Atlanta Airport and catch a flight to Budapest by way of Paris.
But the thing I'm thinking about most is the cats. For some reason, one's terrified of me (I love animals, so cruelty on my part isn't the reason). Anyway, he cowers under the bed all day and only slinks out to eat, so I'm going to have to first flush him out from under the bed, then chase him all over the condo until I can catch him, restrain him, fit him into the kitty carrying case, and drive him over to Midtown. It's a lot harder than it sounds and, worse, it makes me the "bad guy" in his feline eyes cause now I'm the hunter and he's the prey, which does nothing about the whole scared-of-me issue.
So there, I've said it. That's my day. Let's see if I can write about Saint Simons and Budapest over the next several days.