for shame

i am so sorely out of practice when it comes to this, i don't even know why i've tried to start blogging again. its been a little over a half a year since i'd shut down this blog, and i'm not certain that i have anything interesting to say now that i've reopened for buisness; re-reading the bulk of my earlier posts, i'm not sure i had anything interesting to say then either. yet lately i've been feeling a desire to post, that if neglected long enough might have graduated into a need. perhaps something worth the effort of words will fall out in the process. in addition, i can imagine that i've lost any readership i might have had due to my hiatus, but that isn't enough to discourage me now either. i'm compelled to blather.

i quit this thang seven months ago because i couldn't read what i was writing without rolling my eyes. who wants to hear someone take their sad excuse for a life and make it sound even sadder? its embarassing. it is the writing equivalent of a half-hearted suicide attempt; you could practically hear the Cure playing in the next room as it whined "i took all the green ones because you wouldn't love me," between fits of shallow breathing.

ugh. ugly. in fact, this blog is festooned with ugly, and the worst part is its all me, in an unavoidable, non-fictional way. and so bloggy, with its bloggyness. when i shut it down it was out of shame. it didn't feel worthy to be read. i didn't want you to know how pathetic i was anymore. i didn't want to wear it on my sleeve so much, like some sloppy emo panzy. i didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to judge me over what i'd written as harshly as i was judging myself. long story short: i wasn't ready to own the fact that i am the poor sap who's signing his name on those pathetic posts.

sigh.
can't escape it now.
i could hide the posts, tuck them away in a drafts folder, or just plain delete them. but there is something manipulative and shady about that. i shouldn't need to hide. honest writing fosters discovery, and i am just hear to learn. there are parts of this blog, just as there are parts of me, that are tough to look at, or sad, or ridiculous, or just plain wrong. so here is a blog full of my failures; what does running from them do? they don't get better until i recognize them for what they are.

"they say that taupe is soothing..."

minor overhauls going on here at written off...none of them writing related, of course.

perhaps the new, green punctuated earthtone look of this site will be inviting enough for me to return to regularly and with wit. unlikely, i know. i'm lacking in the wit department these days, but let's please not mention it; its a sore subject for me.

updates:
quitting the Olive Garden.
starting at local resturaunt/jazz club/brewery the Van Dyck.
this, i anticipate, will be a mixed blessing. i should really try to look at it as a blessing plain and simple, but i'm past the age of expecting only good things. this is an incredibly sad admission for me to make.

beginning to not merely enjoy but relish the new Sorkin fare; Studio 60 is really beginning to take off, and is a show that has the potential to last at least as long as the West Wing did (of which i only count the first four Sorkin-written seasons), and be just as good. i wasn't all that sure about the series after the first few episodes...it was almost too much an ensemble cast show. but Studio 60 is really digging in now, all its parts -- dialogue and story arc and character development -- equally well fashioned. i was worried that it wouldn't be able to live up to the West Wing's legacy, but i am only just realizing that i have that legacy to reference while i only have about five or six episodes of Studio 60 to compare it to, and that's not exactly fair of me. i don't mean to give the impression that i've been disappointed with the new show -- quite the contrary; indeed, every episode gets better than the last, and it started out with a pretty good bang.

haven't made or been taking any of the time i'm needing to write lately....full time at the Olive Garden is crushing my soul, and i'm feeling pretty well stampeded over, and not very much like myself. i am afraid that without luxurious and impractical amounts of free time i will dry up like a potsherd and my creativity will blow away like your Aunt Tilly's cremated remains over a choppy, unforgiving, 42 degree Lake Ontario, under mostly cloudy skies and a chilly northeasterly wind.

the point, though, is to try anyway, and maybe something at least interesting, if not good, will turn up. if the garbage and the gold even out, that is more than a good day. and i'm not even sure how to separate one from the other yet, so just getting anything is a victory for me.

so i've got to start trying again. i'd stopped there, for awhile. i've got to talk myself back into it. so here i am, talking myself back into it.

the vacation in oblivion is over.