It's still here. I'm still here. And I have a huge backlog of things to write about, if I ever find the time and feel like slogging away at a keyboard after eight hours of doing the same for a paycheck. There's a reason that people with unconventional job arrangements seem more drawn to blogging: They have time during the day. It's less attractive after the closing bell, when you want dinner, a drink, a run, a tickle and a laugh. Perhaps in a different order.
Things on my to-do list:
Post photos from the past several months to Flickr. That includes the New York trip, Northwest trip, beach days, company picnic, shirtless hunk posing and a few I'm probably forgetting. There's no telling when a computer may die with all my photos on it - all my music is still stuck on a hard drive that I can't access because the desktop PC attached to it is apparently dead. I hold out hope for a superhero that fixes computers for free, without the baggage of being an accidental spy.
Clean anything and everything. The clutter in my space makes me depressed whenever I'm around it, so I try to be elsewhere, which just worsens the constancy of the problem. "Clutter" sounds like "Qatr" the way military people pronounce it.
Plan stuff with people. I know I'll probably enjoy my time with others, though it sounds boring and pointless when I think about it now. Coming up with conversation, drinking lame $5 beer to supposedly enjoy Irish culture, going pumpkin-picking - my favorite lyric remains "Words are very unnecessary; they can only do harm," but it takes a toll on my social life. I'm going on two years now that I told an interested guy I had just met that we should plan a jazz club night. We never did, and I see him occasionally. Jazz in '08?
Volunteer for stuff. I've been at my current church for over a year but haven't volunteered for anything short of hosting the post-service dinner (yes, it's one of those churches). At the moment I'm trying to line up my "community group" (what, was "small" too devoid of meaning?) with a gig helping single moms. But that's not much. I keep thinking to myself, Do I really want a job for the rest of my life helping corporations and lawyers make more money? The alternative, I suppose, is doing a lot of volunteer stuff to diminish my guilt for helping The Man. I was at a concert the other night that a friend helped organize, and one of the performers went on for 20 minutes about his work with the poor all over the world. An African guy in a cow-dung hut told the chick magnet his family had a mango tree, a goat, and clean water, and that was enough, because his family had the love of Christ. I'd rather think about the possibility that Bono has a new contender for World's Most Conscientious Celebrity, than actually help someone else. I'm also getting this feeling from Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller. Why can't I think about another person?
As long as I don't have to make conversation.
