Initial Post (or "The Placeholder While I Figure Out Blogger Formatting")
"I didn't think..."
There were a lot of things I didn't think roughly 42 days ago, as I looked ahead to the weekend, on a mid-March day. I didn't think I'd spend the next 42 days teleworking. I didn't think I'd be watching an unprecedented series of events unfolding in my state, in my country, and in my world. I didn't think I'd suddenly have to relearn 3rd and 5th-grade math to help my wife teach the children, or that I would start feeling an urge to write again. I didn't think I'd be frowning at the formatting on this blog wondering how I could indent paragraphs while clutching desperately to my two spaces after every period, hoping only that my Oxford commas would balance out my alignment on the writers' moral compass as I continue with this endeavor.
I didn't think my April would be like this. But it is. And it was a desire to have an outlet that led me to a discussion with my wife last night whereupon I concluded the answer was to start writing again. I'd dabbled with painting, inconclusively, a couple of weeks ago. But, despite my best appreciation of artwork (a topic for a later series of entries), I am no artist. My work of a week had been some floral painting on wood, as though I fancied myself some middle-aged, suburban Verrochio. Upon conclusion, I was unhappy with it. As a lover of art, and as a critique of the unartistic (one can never reconcile Jackson Pollock to my standards), I felt that this was a talent best left to those with an actual inclination.
I enjoy writing, and I enjoy the images conjured up by the written word; it is as though an author, not unlike an ancient shaman in the time of cave paintings, can conjure up images from the smoke of the campfire (figuratively for the modern author in all but the rarest cases). The written word has a beauty to it that is often overlooked, especially in our age of technology and efficiency. The written word can be exact, or vague, carrying with it the precision of a scalpel or the broad grandeur of a Hudson River School painting.
My interest in writing has been a lifelong matter, although my military years rather dulled it in favor of the cardboard verbiage favored by the officer ranks. Early in my officer years, after my first paper was written for an instructor at Fort Knox, I was simultaneously mocked for my embellishment and strongly recommended to pursue the prosaic. This served to temper the interest I had in painting with words, instead reducing my writing from a canvas on an easel to a scribbled design on a bar napkin. Years later, in graduate school, I found that I not only enjoyed writing again, but I enjoyed writing non-fiction. After several papers, as the boring morphed into droll, and world events gave me more to consider, I decided I would have to write again.
So what do I write? I think it will be quite varied, a testbed for later projects.
Why not stick to Facebook arguments? Because I am tired of explaining myself to those who do not value knowledge.
Will there be politics? Assuredly.
Will there be art and birds and travel musings? Indeed.
What about philosophy? I will do my best.
I tried blogging years ago. It just didn't work. I wasn't reflective enough.
Now? Now, however, I think it can work.
We shall see.
There were a lot of things I didn't think roughly 42 days ago, as I looked ahead to the weekend, on a mid-March day. I didn't think I'd spend the next 42 days teleworking. I didn't think I'd be watching an unprecedented series of events unfolding in my state, in my country, and in my world. I didn't think I'd suddenly have to relearn 3rd and 5th-grade math to help my wife teach the children, or that I would start feeling an urge to write again. I didn't think I'd be frowning at the formatting on this blog wondering how I could indent paragraphs while clutching desperately to my two spaces after every period, hoping only that my Oxford commas would balance out my alignment on the writers' moral compass as I continue with this endeavor.
I didn't think my April would be like this. But it is. And it was a desire to have an outlet that led me to a discussion with my wife last night whereupon I concluded the answer was to start writing again. I'd dabbled with painting, inconclusively, a couple of weeks ago. But, despite my best appreciation of artwork (a topic for a later series of entries), I am no artist. My work of a week had been some floral painting on wood, as though I fancied myself some middle-aged, suburban Verrochio. Upon conclusion, I was unhappy with it. As a lover of art, and as a critique of the unartistic (one can never reconcile Jackson Pollock to my standards), I felt that this was a talent best left to those with an actual inclination.
I enjoy writing, and I enjoy the images conjured up by the written word; it is as though an author, not unlike an ancient shaman in the time of cave paintings, can conjure up images from the smoke of the campfire (figuratively for the modern author in all but the rarest cases). The written word has a beauty to it that is often overlooked, especially in our age of technology and efficiency. The written word can be exact, or vague, carrying with it the precision of a scalpel or the broad grandeur of a Hudson River School painting.
My interest in writing has been a lifelong matter, although my military years rather dulled it in favor of the cardboard verbiage favored by the officer ranks. Early in my officer years, after my first paper was written for an instructor at Fort Knox, I was simultaneously mocked for my embellishment and strongly recommended to pursue the prosaic. This served to temper the interest I had in painting with words, instead reducing my writing from a canvas on an easel to a scribbled design on a bar napkin. Years later, in graduate school, I found that I not only enjoyed writing again, but I enjoyed writing non-fiction. After several papers, as the boring morphed into droll, and world events gave me more to consider, I decided I would have to write again.
So what do I write? I think it will be quite varied, a testbed for later projects.
Why not stick to Facebook arguments? Because I am tired of explaining myself to those who do not value knowledge.
Will there be politics? Assuredly.
Will there be art and birds and travel musings? Indeed.
What about philosophy? I will do my best.
I tried blogging years ago. It just didn't work. I wasn't reflective enough.
Now? Now, however, I think it can work.
We shall see.
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