The Diaryer

This is the first day of my blog, unless you count the ones I spent procrastinating. I did a little reconnaissance on the web, and it turns out the web had room for one more blog, so I thought: might as well be this one. There's really only one downside to this venture, and that is the fact that I will have to use the word "blogger" from time to time, which, as has been pointed out previously by others, is an unhandsome word. I scouted about for a replacement, but all I could come up with was "diaryer", which has problems of its own.

Another potential drawback is that this might take some time. But I thought I could reallocate some of the time I devote to staring into space, and stare at an empty screen instead, and it might be just as satisfying. We just had ourselves an unusual white Christmas here, and I had nowhere I needed to go, so I spent some of it gazing at the snow. There were little birdie feetprints in it--that never fails to charm--and there were also a few mystery holes, with steam wafting out, left by the guest dogs we hosted for the last few days. I'm hoping, as I stare at the empty screen, I can produce more feetprints than steaming holes.

I plan to do a little observing, and a little poking around in my memory, which I can count on to be unreliable. It'll be interesting to see what-all is in there, since I suspect any resemblance to reality is likely to be thin. I always find life interesting, but then again--as people tell me when they're feeling charitable--I'm easily amused. Just the other day, a sunbeam came in and illuminated a particularly valiant dust bunny charging out from under my bed, and when I went to fetch it, I noticed: huh. There's enough material here to make an actual bunny. So I spent the next ten minutes trying to prod lint into little ears and tails. The results didn't really meet my artistic standards, but at least I wasn't wasting time. At any rate, if my life isn't interesting, I have no compunction about making stuff up. That's already what I do with my past. I don't know if my memories correspond to actual events, or if I've slabbed them together out of bits of photographs and fancies and stories from the grownups. But as I recall it, my childhood, fictional though it may be, was pretty grand. The present is fogging over as fast as it rolls out. I can get two or three readings out of a mystery novel before I begin to suspect whodunit. I won't remember what you just told me, and I'm not all that sure how to navigate to the end of my own sentences. Sometimes, when I finally beach myself on my own point, I'm as surprised as anyone. What won't I think of next? So inasmuch as I've gotten myself this far without an operating memory, I think the odds are good that I can make up my future too. Maybe that's what I'm doing here.