I realized today that I am the age my father was when I was born. Tomorrow is 30 years since my father died. Today is the first day of my year-long blog. Trump is blabbering away on TV about something; he started off with a meager loan of $1mil from his father. We are bound by time and measurement.
I'd like my blog to become something of a diary but in order for this to happen I will need to write with a certain degree of truth and that is not always practical in a public setting. When I was growing up people would keep secret diaries that were locked away in a box or under the bed. My sister kept one that I would break into every now and then and read about her elaborate plots to kill me. My sister suffered from no lack of imagination but her private thoughts were just that. Some diaries have been published (remember Adrian Mole and Spud?) and some blogs have become diaries. My friend Jodi kept diaries and also thousands of photographs that were in albums, labelled and cataloged and cross-referenced to their negatives. They were a diary too.
In a way I want you to become familiar with the people in my life, like characters in a novel or a movie. Yet at the same time there is no reason for you to know my private thoughts and stretches of imagination. And should I be ranting about the client that annoys me or the colleague that my colleagues hate or the friend that lies or the neighbour who doesn't pick up his dogs shit? (disclaimer: only some of these examples are real). I don't want to only write the good flowery stuff because Facebook does a pretty decent job of making my life appear to be way more glamorous than it is (my life is pretty good; I just don't post about annoying clients, colleagues that hate colleagues or non-picking-up-dog-shit-neighbours).
Consider this the ramblings of someone attempting to set the scene. Luckily I only have a few followers so slim chance of losing interest; hang around though. I'm sure I'll come up with something interesting.
42.1
