I've been thinking a lot about writing and (the pointless) purpose of it. I've spent most of my adult life in front of a computer and, in my new line of work, I have hours, weeks, years ahead of me, all spent looking at a screen. Why would I possibly want to spend one more minute of my life staring at an empty blog post or a page, thinkgin I have to write another word? [I have heard of people writing with this tool called a "pen" on this flimsy material called "paper," but I'm not sure about that...] A person I'm related to once described creative writing as "self-masturbatory," but, if that's the case, what I want to know is, where's the orgasm?

But the truth is that while I'm a big coward when it comes to speaking my truth and weirdness (if you can ever articulate weirdness), I'm really happy to write about it. Especially the weirdness. When I look around, there are few brave souls willing to discuss or express all the #$@ issues, feelings, trauma of the human condition. I think the artist and writers inherent purpose and drive is to take all the caca doodie and put it out there in the form of something palatable (because who wants to eat caca?). And when said creative work out there, the community sort of oxygenates it and, gradually the wounds stop feeling like a cancer and more like a snake bite (I've never been bitten by a snake, but I imagine it hurts....I was going to say bee sting, or a spider sting, but those aren't really a big deal.] No when life bites, it's pretty bad. Pain, loss, hearbreak...it hurts like a mofo, it willl throw you out of commission, but the things is (and maybe this is a problem), it doesn't kill you. A snake could kill you, but how many people have been killed by a snake?

Boy, I don't know where this blog got off track.... The point is....

...Just for today, I'm still writing.