same old, same old

I'd say I blog the way I do laundry, but you might think we're stepping around piles here for half a month before I get a mind to toss in a load. I could compare my slowness in coming around to this little spot to the way I dawdle and delay and guiltily, sheepishly, never get around to mailing things. But while I'm a better laundress than I am a blogger, I'm a much worse mail correspondent. Much, much worse. So, if you bother to click on over here, wondering if I have anything to say (and I'm sorry for all the wasted click-on-overs, praise be to the google reader), take comfort in knowing at least you're not one of the sad souls to whom I owe a package. Unless you are, indeed, waiting for some promised parcel. In which case, I apologize. Actually, let me just be sorry all around. For everything. I'm feeling a little sorry this evening and I might as well toss some contrition in the direction of any passersby to my public presence on this, the spaceship interweb.

I said goodbye to 2 dear friends the other day. I had known them for such a short time, but we spent most evenings together for the last month or so and I grew accustomed to the routine. Oh, Pullo and Vorenus, how I'll miss you. Yeah, yeah, we finished Rome. It might be a little like nutritional yeast: an acquired taste. It is gruesome and violent and a lot sexier and steamier than, well, network television and I nearly dismissed it after the first episode. But we kept it up and got sucked right in, right back two thousand plus years, and now I want to sprinkle that stuff on everything. It was good. It is over. Sigh. Moving on.

It's easy to be in the moment when you're surrounded by clocks that don't keep time. I have several. This is not an oversight, a belated purge of broken housewares; it is intentional. I like the random-ness of hands pointing to disparate, inconsistent numbers (i feel a little disparate and inconsistent myself, so much of the time). I like the ability to enjoy something -the aesthetic of shape, the recognition of age, the space taken up on a shelf- despite its purposed function having stopped some while ago.

See? No time has passed. The hands haven't moved at all. I might have had secret intentions of blogging here *every day for the whole, short month of February* and then, clearly, failed so completely. But such an endeavor would have accomplished. . . a whole bunch of nothing. I am giving myself the space to write when I feel like it and the time to come here when I remember to and the permission to be as sporadic and vague as is reflexive. I'm so tempted to close up shop, put the useless in a drawer and focus more on that which is productive, but pleasure is important. And this place does please me, even if it's quiet and I can't be so transparent and I have more ideas of things to write about than I ever get around to writing. . .

Because I am a broken record, a bulldog, a dead horse kicker (I didn't have any nicknames when I was a kid but these things I was called frequently, and really: some things never change) I will remind you that Rome truly is worth watching and, then, when you've finished the series (but two short seasons, boo melodramatic hoo) tell me all about it.

tick. . . tick. . . tick, I won't mention it again, I swear.