Here in the future, in the year 2019, blogs are pretty thoroughly passe. The good ones have either shuttered altogether or transformed into something else: something tidier and optimized for visibility and revenue. Personal blogs obviously still exist, but they've been subsumed by the same forces that have shunted large swaths of internet-browsing traffic to a handful of the usual-suspect platforms.
I've been in a bit of a creative rut. I've been a bit dissatisfied with my writing practice and felt a bit unfulfilled by my work, most of which I've kept to myself. I sort of just muddled along in that general frame of mind for a while, holding onto my erratic practice of writing in a journal or reading a book or long-form magazine at night as my sole preventive tactic against becoming fully unmoored from any semblance of a personally satisfying creative practice.
Blogs are so thoroughly passe that it didn't even occur to me until the other day that I could use this site — this site that literally is my first and last name dot com — as a creative outlet. I could just write things and post them here, and even share them with other people if I wanted to. In realizing this, I feel I fully and finally embraced the zeitgeist: I stumbled into a repetition of history in an utterly blinkered, unintentional way. I rediscovered a discarded form that's actually never gone away. And with that, there is freedom.
I can just write whatever I want. It can suck; it can be boring; it can be irrelevant or banal; my posts can be all text if I don't feel like finding a clever or pseudo-profound picture to include somewhere in the body of the piece; and it really doesn't matter. My livelihood doesn't depend on anything I put here. It can just be whatever it is. That feels oddly novel, and totally freeing.
(I just posted the following little essay on Facebook, but I thought I'd share it more broadly, too. -- Nate)
Would you like to take a peek into our world? Of course you would.
Most mornings, including this one, I make a smoothie for Kris's and my breakfast. (It's very tasty and highly nutritious, but that's another post altogether.) Preparing the smoothies is a bit of a labor of love, but I can roll through the assembly process pretty easily at this point.
Anyway, every day, despite the well-established mundanity of the endeavor, there comes a critical moment when *shit goes down.* I speak, of course, of the moment when I open the freezer to retrieve the frozen fruit, which is also the moment, my friends, when Willow simply cannot abide the smoothie-making any longer.
Once she sees (or hears) that freezer door open, you would think a Micro Machines Monster Truck rally was being held in my living room, what with all the grumbling and the rooing and the sudden, sharp echoes of high-fidelity NOISE she throws in my face. So what do I do--every day--in response to this? Well, friends, I have long since abandoned any hope of soothing her or otherwise normalizing the admittedly noisy blending process for her, so I do the only thing that seems reasonable for all parties involved: I put her in the guest bathroom, turn on the vent fan, and close the damn door. Yes, you have concluded correctly: I do, in fact, feel obliged to put my grumbly little corgi friend in a sensory deprivation chamber so that we can all make it through the morning with a little less ringing in our ears and cortisol in our brains.
Once the blending is complete, I retrieve her from her chamber, of course. Invariably, I open the door and find her sitting serenely in the middle of the floor like a latter-day corgi sphinx; she gives me a self-satisfied look and trots out to meet the next grumbly little adventure.