A Working Number

Way back in my early forties, a friend of mine suggested that I should try blogging. A very good suggestion, as it turns out, since today marks the seven year anniversary of the daily appearance of words I chose to string together in this rather public venue. Not quite a major thoroughfare on the information superhighway, but located near a convenient exit with plenty of parking and plenty of smirking humor, day and night.
The thing is, I don't "try" much. I attribute this to a feeling that runs much deeper than the Yoda aphorism about do or do not. I get up in the morning each and every day with the prospect of having something to say. Sometimes it's an attempt at meaningfulness, other times it's just keeping the cursor moving across the screen. The magic times come when I'm in the midst of pushing the ideas into the mill and suddenly that spark catches fire and suddenly I'm off to the races for another three or four paragraphs. Short attention span theater? When the lines start to stack up far past the moment that the scroll bar appears on the right hand side of the text box, I can feel my welcome wearing out. It's time to put a period on this thing. Pack it in and save the rest for another day. I don't want to burden my readers with too much to think about. These are, after all, my idle thoughts.
But they're not always idle. Sometimes they fidget about and get out of line and push themselves to the front one more time. I could write endlessly about the summers in the mountains, or the toys I left behind. I will continue to discuss the good, the bad and the ugly moments of my life and pop culture. I will shout out when I sense someone or something going astray. It's what I do. Right here. Almost live. Daily. Thanks for sticking around while I work this out.