One of the reasons I stopped writing for two months was because I found myself struggling with a profound ambivalence about the concept of, well, blogging in the first place. I mean, come on. Who really cares? It’s so stupid. And juvenile. “Listen to me! Listen to me!” No one of any real merit would ever stoop to such an activity. Even if they had a laptop. You think Thomas Jefferson would’ve blogged? Mother Theresa? Jesus? (“Click here for my artisanal wine recipe…”) No. It’s only schlubs like me who waste our–and others’– time with such trivial pursuits. And it doesn’t reflect well on us. After all, to think that others care about the quotidian details of my day to day life is the height of (unjustified) narcissism. A stay-at-home mom and homemaker shares her “triumphs and tribulations?” Blech. Bring me the vomit bucket. (Or, in my case, the Revereware saucepan– that’s what my mother had me puke in as a child. Then, the next night, there it would be on the table, filled with rice pilaf. Bon appetite!)
The thing that brought me back to blogging, however, in spite of all those doubts, was the slim hope that some day, far in the future, historians might find useful all of the permanently recorded minutiae–including those regarding 21st century Los Angeles domestic life–to be found on the internet. Or, if not useful, then at least mildly interesting. You know, in a footnotey kind of way. I mean, it’ll have to be, to someone. A doctoral student. A production designer working on a “period piece.” A re-creationist. Someone will be a tiny bit thankful that I’ve posted pictures of my antediluvian dishwasher, delineated the contents of my kitchen counter, and written paeans to the overly creative treats (dark chocolate and salt) Trader Joes was selling in the year 2012.
There’s a great collection called “The Art of the Personal Essay.” The pieces in it hark from ancient times all the way up to fairly recently. Some of them take as their subject just the kind of day to day trifles I mention above. Maybe their authors felt stupid recording them. Maybe they went on self-imposed moratoriums: “No more papyrus. Why write about things no one cares about?” But then they went back to it. And, given the distance of three, four, five hundred years, they’re starting to sound pretty good. At least Philip Lopate thinks so.
Anyway, that’s what I’m banking on. For all of you reading now, thank you. I don’t know why you do it, but it certainly is gratifying to be honored with your occasional attention.
For those of you several centuries down the line? How’s the weather? Just kidding. Probably a touchy subject. All joking aside, thanks for reading. Remind me to tell you what I’m wearing today. Down to the grey stained “momigan” and Target granny briefs. It’s of great historical interest. Or could be.
To at least one of you.
I read because you make me smile. Please don’t stop.
I won’t. At least not until the next philosophical crisis. (;
Your writing provides a consistently good laugh and I was so bummed when you weren’t posting. I’ve made a good friend read you too and mid November she was like, “Where the hell is thumbstumbler?” You were missed!
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