Holy Shit, I Just Realized My Life Is Boring
... and that's why I haven't been writing.
What do the great artists of our time have in common? In many cases it's turmoil in life through addiction, mental illness, abuse, anger, angst, heartbreak, dispair, depression ... anything but the ordinary life of a working class family man. What the fuck have I had to write about over the last few years? Nothing.
I started this blog in 2008 when I was in the midst of turmoil. My eldset son was stricken with mental illness at law school, his life unravelled and I responded. His mother did not, I bore the wieght of his fall and still do to this day. My girlfrield Cheryl is more a mother to James than his birth mother will ever be. She's paid her dues. She's been a rock even when I'm not.
In that same period I was dealing with financial problems. I deciced to buy my wife out of our home in 2006 to expedite a divorce I desperatelty needed. In 2008-2009 that decision came back to haunt me. I lost that home to foreclosure after a long fight to keep it, a fight I should not have fought. In 2016 I'm still paying the price for that bad decision. I blame no one but me ... the working class stiff.
I hated my job, still do, but seven years ago I had the bad job, the ill son and the bad mortgage all piling up on me ... so I expressed myself in this blog. This was my therapy.
I wrote about my troubles and I wrote to escape my woes. I was doing a lot of of late night philosphy aided by drink and herb. I wrote about whatever came to mind, the happy and sad. I recall a period when even the books I read were about writing. I even wrote about writing. Writing was an excercise, an escape, like hiking a mountain alone. In those moments of hiking in solitude it doesn't matter that your experince is one of self. Writing is often like hiking alone. No one will share your experience.
Times have changed. I'm not saying life is perfect and I'm not saying I no longer drink or smoke, but it seems life is kind of normal I'm doing less vice ... or not ... or ar least it's not fueling a creative writing streak in me in the wee hours as it once did.
I miss writing even when I don't have the urge to write and once again I'm promosing myself I will exercise the musles of writing by forcing myself to write weekly in this blog just as the fat me forces himself to get on a bike to excersize muscles to maintain health. Writing is a mental health routine.
Everything I've written tonight or in the past week is forced, unnatural and not the top of my game. I'm in spring training after a long winter. I hope I can get back in shape and write a few solid blog posts in 2016. I was once pretty good at this blog thing, or so I thought. It's all in my head, no one really knows because no one reads this shit.
Maybe I should bitch slap someone at work or rob a bank to add excitement to my life and give me some material to work with.
Or not. It's not like Primatology matters.