It’s so strange, this world of blogging. One day, you’re a writer. The next, you’re not.
Nothing else in my life, save these obscured online pages, reflects my obsessive love of words and sentences and context. The only other clue in existence is the corkboard full of post-its in my office. Each one holds a single quote, carefully handwritten, piled one on top of the other until they are absolutely meaningless. All of my old posts here have been hidden, waiting for me to go through them, one at a time, to make sure they’re fit for public consumption. All of the ugly edited carefully away, so as not to offend or traumatize the innocent.
Is it possible for the word “innocent” to be ironic?
Here I sit, on this lovely fall-for-New-Mexico morning, with my coffee and my rationed cigarettes (I’m on yet another quit smoking jag, with varying degrees of success to report), and listening to the silence that is four dogs and a spouse sleeping, and a grounded twelve year old doing science homework in his bedroom.
A little over two weeks ago, I had knee surgery to repair a lifetime’s worth of abuse to my right patella. It was a minor surgery that ended up being a major undertaking: one of those modern-day horror stories of specialists and insurance and FMLA. The actual injury (meaning the day my knee finally gave out, after thirtysomething years and dozens, if not hundreds, of minor tweaks and aches and pains) was in early August. It’s healing nicely, thank you, no need to inquire. Physical therapy and my own hard-headedness are bringing me right along, back into the world of the bipedal and mobile.
But it’s become a neat analogy for the rest of me. Thirtysomething cumulative years of life on this planet, one moment after another, until they are all a blur whose only distinguishing characteristic is the common thread of hazel eyes and a penchant for over-analysis. Like the cracks in the cartilage. You can’t tell which one came first, only that they compounded, one on the next, until the whole joint cried “Uncle!”
Does anyone else experience this dysphoria between who they think they are, and the evidence in their life to the contrary?