Failure to change perspective is, in the end, simply failure. I think.

Recently, someone said to me "You write poetry, right?" I laughed. I said I used to write poetry. Now I write blog posts. This made me feel like some kind of sell out. I couldn't cut it as a poet, and so now I clutter the blogverse with rambling commentary. And obviously, this must be a bad thing. Or a step down.

Then I wondered: is it? Is it really so bad?

We talk about blogs as if they are some new, exciting method of communication. It's our way of connecting with other like minded people, sharing information, getting the words out of our heads and into something that seems somewhat more concrete. The truth is, all of this isn't new. It's just the current mutation of the age old habit of diary keeping, of writing social commentary, of meeting our fellow humans and making a connection with them. Blogs used to be printed in newspapers and magazines, in leaflets papering the local pub. When paper was a commodity, people used it to take the words out of their heads. Now it's the internet.

Admittedly, the wide availability of blogs has led to an overabundance of words thrown out there. Many of them aren't even all that interesting or good. Most will be forgotten over time and slowly rot away in the lost space in some server somewhere. There are a few, though, that will endure. This blog probably isn't one of the enduring ones. But that's ok with me. The idea of endurance is too overwhelming, the weight is too heavy. I'd rather stick with the idea that over time this will all be forgotten; it frees me to write honestly.

Is this any better or any worse than poetry? I'm beginning to think that I don't really know that answer to that question. I do know that I miss the craft I felt while working with poetry and I hope to one day recapture the drive to wrangle with words in such a way. For now, though, I'll take this online diary keeping for what it can offer me and skim the words out of my brain into some structure outside of myself.

Break out the cheesy uniforms, it's a call to arms.

It's only 10:30pm and I've been done in for hours. I managed to partly clean some of the house, produce some dinner, and whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I gave up a shower and laundry. These are the trades required by this existence.

Something profound is lurking in the depths of my brain. I can feel it, trying to sneak up on me. It's weird. And kind of creepy. Also, it could not be profound at all. Problem is, it's stuck in there and not working it's way out here.

Some moments I feel normal. I remember a bit of myself that existed last week, last month, last year. And it all works together to fit right. Most of the time, I feel completely strung out. As if I'm still taking the narcotics and no one told me. I'm so out of sorts I feel like I need to ping my own location. Like when I can't find the cordless phone and I press the button on the base, making it beep obnoxiously until I can locate it. I need a base. With a button. That triggers some kind of locating device.

Probably, I just need more sleep.

Most definitely, I need a cheering section. I'm beginning to feel like I can't do this anymore - any of it. I need to hear a voice outside my head tell me that this, too, shall pass. [Yes, I've seen the new 'OK Go' video/song, no reference needed here.] I need to feel like the darkness will end. And that morning will be bright and wonderful. I'm losing my ability to see and understand all that on my own.

My words are all mixed up - in my head, in my speech, in my writing. This is deeply frustrating to me. I wonder if this is how people feel when they almost understand a foreign language. Actually, the craziest real thing happened the other day, and it was exactly how I feel. I was in church, trying to pay attention. Shane was talking about the parable of the mustard seed. He directed us (or I heard him direct us) to page 697. Which is where I found Mark 4:30, the parable of the mustard seed. But when Shane started reading aloud, he read from page 679 (notice the subtle difference), where you can find Matthew 13:31, the parable of the mustard seed. Only, as one might expect, the language of the verses was slightly different. Confused? I was. For a long time. This is where I am in life. Confused by subtle differences. Or just confused.

And rambling.

If you expect me to know what day it is, you might be disappointed. Or not.

It's been awhile since I've been this kind of crazy. It's a unique experience, this hormonally imbalanced, sleep deprived, stressed out kind of crazy. A special crazy, that comes with special things - like a newborn.

It's been three weeks. Exactly, to the day, that everything changed all over again. Mutated. Shifted. It feels like years, like hours. My sense of time is skewed, my brain is slow, my emotions are either on full or off. Once in awhile, it all seems good. Then some realization hits and I just want to sit there and cry.

Welcome to the hormone roller coaster, sleep deprived horror of my emotional existence. It will get better. In the meantime, I've started stuttering. Not a good sign.

None of this really means much of anything in the long run. Or maybe it does, but I won't really know for awhile. I can't tell how much of this will simply be fixed by time.

As an aside, Happy Birthday Mom. It's been a long time. We miss you.