A good friend was kind enough to give me some pointers on what supplies I needed to start sketching. I haven't used a real pencil in decades so it was a little odd for me to nip into the nearby art supply store and pick out pencils. I also got an eraser, a sharpener and a pencil case to hold everything. Brings back memories of when I was a small child going to school. At the start of every school year, my Mom and I would go shopping for school supplies. I'd get glorious boxes of pencils, colour pencils, jotters, rulers...the whole lot. The best parts were the pencil cases which many hidden compartments and the erasers which were scented like cream biscuits. It was a glorious time to be a kid. *sigh*
Warning: this is a whiny post. I'm fully aware that I'm whining. If you don't care for that, stop here please.
I hated Art when I was in school. My strengths lay in language and science subjects which was fine because I grew up in a "streamed" education system - depending on the results from government-administered standardized tests, you were put into a particular stream of education focusing on specific areas. Where you were put also determined your social status in school: Science stream was where the best reside and Arts stream was where they put the useless and dumb. It didn't help that I was utterly hopeless in Art...at least that was what I was repeatedly told then. Looking back at that time of my life, I would have to say that the teachers committed a grave sin treating their students that way. I'm not sure what kind of pressures they were under or by whom, but it was obvious that they wanted to concentrate on just the best students in their area. Art teachers were also the lowest on the staff totem pole. Perhaps they felt no one cared what they did, so they ran their classes like their personal fiefdoms and tried to derive some joy out of coaching the best artists. For myself, it became clear early on that I couldn't draw a straight line to save my life. I can remember spending pretty much my entire primary and secondary education years languishing in a corner during Art because those of us "not good enough" were left unsupervised for the period as long as we didn't make too much noise. The teachers didn't care. I learnt nothing.
Even through the neglect, I remember being particularly proud of a watercolour I did when I was about 14 years or so for a midterm exam. The teacher told us the questions beforehand so we could prepare for them, I chose the one titled "Nightmare" and we had free rein to paint whatever we wanted. I hated spiders, so I decided to do that instead. Seriously, I *hated* spiders; they still bring a free stab of fear in me whenever I see one, even now. Regardless, I spent hours poring over books and watching the spiders in the house despite my fear and distaste of them. The exam came and I did my best. I was really quite proud of it, even managing to get the mandibles and the hairy body done just right while keeping (I thought) a nightmarish atmosphere with glowing red eyes dead center, menacing the viewer.
I got a failing grade. As it turns out, the "best" students all got As and the rest of us got Fs. There wasn't intermediate grades in between - you got an A or a F. It was a midterm exam; the grades weren't counted as official so the teacher could get away with whatever they wanted. To this day, I don't know if my teacher even looked at my painting before she failed me. I never did get my painting back. I wish I did.
After that, I didn't bother drawing for decades until my sister was having our kids (long complicated story, won't go into it now). We were all tired and harried then but I still drew little dragon sketches of her and the little ones to keep her spirits up through the pregnancy (she loves dragons). I tried giving them some facial expression too - I remember drawing one with my sis (her dragon form) in the centre with her two baby dragons to either side, one sleeping and the other with a sleepy but mischievous look on his face. I thought they were cute. My sis didn't seem to notice them at all, so I stopped drawing after a while. I remember being deeply hurt then; actually, as I'm typing this, I'm finding that my eyes are tearing up badly so I guess it still hurts now.
I know I'm not a good artist. I also know that not all art is appreciated. But when you have an audience of one and you put a lot of love and effort and care into it but it still gets ignored, one cannot help but feel very small and worthless.
Despite all that, I'm trying again. Given my past history with Art, I'm half expecting it to end in tears again. The more cynical side of me informs me that I am an idiot of the greatest degree for opening myself up for more hurt and disappointment. So why am I bothering? Well, because I'm going through a lot right now and as such, I have a lot of emotions pent up. As I mentioned to my friend, the journalling (and blogging) helps but there are some emotions that the written word simply fails to express properly. So I'm turning to sketching. I have no idea where this is going to lead, if any place at all. I do hope that this time, it'll take me somewhere I've never been before. That would be grand.
But I'm keeping my box of Kleenex handy, just in case history repeats itself.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Regret
I volunteer as a moderator/counsellor on an online support group. The kind people there helped me when I was lost and hurting almost a year ago. I'm still somewhat lost and sometimes it hurts, but not as much as before. So I pay it forward by helping when I can.
I have a rare Condition which I'm not going to go into here. Call it paranoia or call it commonsense - I'm not going to blog anything quite that personally identifiable. Recovery is possible but very long and painful. Oh, and horribly horribly expensive because large parts of the treatment isn't covered by provincial medicare (not surprising when they don't even cover some basic things like dentist visits or eyeglass costs). It's also something that's very hard to diagnose, which means that there are potentially more people out there with this Condition than the official stats show. I didn't know I had it until well into my 30s. Certainly there is a steady stream of new people coming into the support group.
There is this one person who's been on the group for almost as long as I have; let's call her Ella. Ella's a cheerful soul. She always has a bright smile and a willing ear for anyone who needed help. Today, it was her turn, very suicidally so. We had a long chat where she unburdened herself on me. Basically, treatment for the Condition takes a long time. There are many many hoops to jump through before even a diagnosis is given. I went through 3 specialists before I found my current primary care provider. Of the 3 prior to him, one didn't care because he was retiring, the other was running so ragged he gave me the wrong diagnosis after just a casual examination (which was borderline criminal, IMHO) and the last saw me as a cash cow - she wouldn't render a diagnosis until I told her I was quitting and even then, she said she wouldn't prescribe treatment until "more tests had been done". So yes, it's not as simple as "go to the doctor, get meds". Anyway, back to Ella.
She knew she had this medical problem since she was a kid. She didn't do anything about it because she was, well, a kid. Her parents didn't care and when it cropped up, they just told her to ignore it. As I said, the Condition is *rare*. People aren't very well educated about it even now, let alone 3-4 decades ago. So, she let her Condition progress until it was blatently obvious except now she's a grownup and can't work because she's got other medical issues. Being on disability doesn't pay much. Despite all that, this brave soul slogged on and managed to get treatment nonetheless. This is not trivial, folks - treatment is *expensive*. One of my former doctors (now fired from my case for prescribing me placebos) was pushing a $1,000 shot 4 times a year as part of the medication regime. Ella's got everything lined up: as I mentioned, there are many hoops to jump through and she's got them all set up ready to go. That's an amazing feat. I'm not sure I could have done anywhere near as well as she has if I were in her position.
Ella's main problem today was regret. Regardless of the fact that she's got everything ready to go, she's looking back at her life and seeing all the misery and pain which could have been avoided had she had the courage to take action 20 years earlier. I too, play the "What if..." game far more often than is healthy for me. Here's the thing: regret is good. Regret helps us learn from what we've done wrong. Regret stops us from doing it again (assuming we learnt anything). Regret is also a way that we cope and heal from doing bad things. Equally important is forgiveness. It took me years to learn to forgive myself and let past mistakes go so the wounds heal. Regret is healthy...except when it puts you in a position of so much anguish that it paralyzes you because you can't let go. Which is what happened to Ella today.
I chatted with her on the phone for nearly 2 hours. We talked, we cried and eventually she felt better. It doesn't take much to help. She was feeling all alone facing the Condition; I merely showed her that she wasn't and that the Condition is survivable. She hasn't learnt to forgive herself yet - she's not ready for that yet but I hope she will soon. For now, all she needed to do was wait a few months for the treatments to kick in and then the sun will shine in her life once more as her depression lifts. I think she believed me, enough to back away from her suicidal plans anyway. When I said my goodbyes, I had one thought in my mind: there but for the grace of god go I.
I have a rare Condition which I'm not going to go into here. Call it paranoia or call it commonsense - I'm not going to blog anything quite that personally identifiable. Recovery is possible but very long and painful. Oh, and horribly horribly expensive because large parts of the treatment isn't covered by provincial medicare (not surprising when they don't even cover some basic things like dentist visits or eyeglass costs). It's also something that's very hard to diagnose, which means that there are potentially more people out there with this Condition than the official stats show. I didn't know I had it until well into my 30s. Certainly there is a steady stream of new people coming into the support group.
There is this one person who's been on the group for almost as long as I have; let's call her Ella. Ella's a cheerful soul. She always has a bright smile and a willing ear for anyone who needed help. Today, it was her turn, very suicidally so. We had a long chat where she unburdened herself on me. Basically, treatment for the Condition takes a long time. There are many many hoops to jump through before even a diagnosis is given. I went through 3 specialists before I found my current primary care provider. Of the 3 prior to him, one didn't care because he was retiring, the other was running so ragged he gave me the wrong diagnosis after just a casual examination (which was borderline criminal, IMHO) and the last saw me as a cash cow - she wouldn't render a diagnosis until I told her I was quitting and even then, she said she wouldn't prescribe treatment until "more tests had been done". So yes, it's not as simple as "go to the doctor, get meds". Anyway, back to Ella.
She knew she had this medical problem since she was a kid. She didn't do anything about it because she was, well, a kid. Her parents didn't care and when it cropped up, they just told her to ignore it. As I said, the Condition is *rare*. People aren't very well educated about it even now, let alone 3-4 decades ago. So, she let her Condition progress until it was blatently obvious except now she's a grownup and can't work because she's got other medical issues. Being on disability doesn't pay much. Despite all that, this brave soul slogged on and managed to get treatment nonetheless. This is not trivial, folks - treatment is *expensive*. One of my former doctors (now fired from my case for prescribing me placebos) was pushing a $1,000 shot 4 times a year as part of the medication regime. Ella's got everything lined up: as I mentioned, there are many hoops to jump through and she's got them all set up ready to go. That's an amazing feat. I'm not sure I could have done anywhere near as well as she has if I were in her position.
Ella's main problem today was regret. Regardless of the fact that she's got everything ready to go, she's looking back at her life and seeing all the misery and pain which could have been avoided had she had the courage to take action 20 years earlier. I too, play the "What if..." game far more often than is healthy for me. Here's the thing: regret is good. Regret helps us learn from what we've done wrong. Regret stops us from doing it again (assuming we learnt anything). Regret is also a way that we cope and heal from doing bad things. Equally important is forgiveness. It took me years to learn to forgive myself and let past mistakes go so the wounds heal. Regret is healthy...except when it puts you in a position of so much anguish that it paralyzes you because you can't let go. Which is what happened to Ella today.
I chatted with her on the phone for nearly 2 hours. We talked, we cried and eventually she felt better. It doesn't take much to help. She was feeling all alone facing the Condition; I merely showed her that she wasn't and that the Condition is survivable. She hasn't learnt to forgive herself yet - she's not ready for that yet but I hope she will soon. For now, all she needed to do was wait a few months for the treatments to kick in and then the sun will shine in her life once more as her depression lifts. I think she believed me, enough to back away from her suicidal plans anyway. When I said my goodbyes, I had one thought in my mind: there but for the grace of god go I.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Ironic loneliness
Happy Chinese New Year. I wish you a happy and prosperous Year of the Boar.
As my sons and I celebrated this year with some friends, I realized that despite having the people around me, I was feeling quite lonely. Immigrants like me live through a totally different kind of loneliness during the holidays. If you're a local, you can rest assured that your roots are firmly planted here; you have parents, siblings, relatives and friends to help you if you got into trouble. Immigrants don't have that. We depend on friends and if we're fortunate, we eventually marry into family. As I painfully rediscovered recently, marriage is not always forever so even that is no assurance of stability.
But that loneliness, that fear that you will be all alone, desolate, with no-one to help you is always at the back of our minds. It's not rational. I guess it's the emotional cost of being separated from your roots.
All immigrants made the decision to leave wherever we originally came from. The less charitable will question why we came here and tell us to go back, usually not politely. But oftentimes, migrating somewhere else isn't an option. I didn't come here looking for a better life - my parents sent me here ages ago, very young, all alone and barely able to take care of myself because they *knew* there was no hope for a better future where they were. I understand that they originally wanted to send me where my brother was in a neighbouring country but there were some major complications that prevented that. So they sent me to the next best place, halfway around the world.
Now, as I look into the gently snoring forms of my children, I know exactly how my parents felt. While I may always be feeling that loneliness, the main thing is that my children won't because I will be here for them. They are locals, with roots like parents, siblings, relatives and friends. And *that* is the "better future" that we immigrants sacrifice for.
As my sons and I celebrated this year with some friends, I realized that despite having the people around me, I was feeling quite lonely. Immigrants like me live through a totally different kind of loneliness during the holidays. If you're a local, you can rest assured that your roots are firmly planted here; you have parents, siblings, relatives and friends to help you if you got into trouble. Immigrants don't have that. We depend on friends and if we're fortunate, we eventually marry into family. As I painfully rediscovered recently, marriage is not always forever so even that is no assurance of stability.
But that loneliness, that fear that you will be all alone, desolate, with no-one to help you is always at the back of our minds. It's not rational. I guess it's the emotional cost of being separated from your roots.
All immigrants made the decision to leave wherever we originally came from. The less charitable will question why we came here and tell us to go back, usually not politely. But oftentimes, migrating somewhere else isn't an option. I didn't come here looking for a better life - my parents sent me here ages ago, very young, all alone and barely able to take care of myself because they *knew* there was no hope for a better future where they were. I understand that they originally wanted to send me where my brother was in a neighbouring country but there were some major complications that prevented that. So they sent me to the next best place, halfway around the world.
Now, as I look into the gently snoring forms of my children, I know exactly how my parents felt. While I may always be feeling that loneliness, the main thing is that my children won't because I will be here for them. They are locals, with roots like parents, siblings, relatives and friends. And *that* is the "better future" that we immigrants sacrifice for.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Epiphany: Connectivity
NOTE: when I started this entry, it was Valentine's Day but it took longer than expected to finish and I'm too tired to change things around. Please assume "today" is "Feb. 14th".
I had to drive to another city today to see a medical specialist. I explicitly requested to be referred to him because the only other specialist in my city failed to manage my case properly - he was prescribing what essentially amounted to placebos, which meant that either he's a bad doctor or he's not taking me seriously.
It's winter here and the road conditions weren't great. Driving home tonight was a challenge. There were some spots with zero visibility due to drifting and blowing snow. It's also a long drive - it took me about 5 hours to get home, including a dinner break. So, I had a lot of time to think during these trips (I make quite a few over the course of a year). Plus, the whole self-discovery process was made far easier during the scary bits when large semi-trucks cut me off on the icy roads causing my life to flash before me. At any rate, I had an Epiphany tonight.
Those of you who know me in Real Life will know that I've been dealing with a major issue in my life over the past two years. I call it the Condition. My course of treatment is set (which was what this trip was about) and while I am happy and glad I'm on this path, niggling doubts surface every now and again. Cutting a long story short, I realized tonight that my approach to the issue doesn't "complete"/"fix"/"cure"/whatever me - it *connects* me. Bear with me for a bit here, it's kind of hard to explain because it's so personal and there's probably not a common frame of reference. You see, I've been moving through life rather robotically, more often than not doing the right thing. In fact, I know for certain that I was doing the right things - I have all the elements a "good" life is supposed to have: a good career, a stable marriage, kids, money, etc. But I never really lived. I was bound to four undeserving masters: Duty, Honour, Logic and Efficiency.
Somewhere very early on, on some insignificant place on the way to Success, I lost my humanity. Perhaps I never had it.
Today, during the drive to the city, the Sun was just coming up and the sky was divided into halves, one the dark steel-grey blue of twilight and the other the rosy blush of a new dawn. The snow was being blown in undulating waves across the dark roads. It was surreal and beautiful, so much so I had to restrain myself from pulling over and writing a haiku to capture the moment. I've driven that route many times before and I have never ever really *looked*. It's always been rush-rush-rush. It's a bit of a major shock to me to find that beauty is all around. Yes, I'm a slow learner. :)
Later during the day, I stopped by a large mall for lunch and a little shopping. I took a break and had a coffee at this faux-European part of the mall, something I used to do a lot when I was living in that city but haven't done in years. A couple of elderly gentlemen were playing chess at the next table and classical music was being piped in through the hidden Tannoys. I had a coffee in one hand, my trusty fountain pen in the other and my diary open on the table. What's so special about this? Well, today, I actually *enjoyed* the moment. I sat there, sipping my coffee, scribbling in my diary, glanced over at the ongoing chess game...and I didn't hurry. I just...Lived. Relaxed. Content. Happy.
All my life I've been rushing hither and yon, trying to fill a role I was never suited for. Not even when the kids came did I open my eyes to the sad, sad reality I had slavishly condemned myself to. I had the good stuff - money, house, all the trappings that Things Were Well. But I never enjoyed it. Even sadder, I've missed parts of my children's development when I had to go for business trips. I remember crying inside when I came home from a long business trip lasting nearly a month and found that one of my twins had grown half an inch over his brother during my absence.
Well. no more. Since the treatments began, it's been as if my eyes have been opened for the first time. It's provided me with the clues that my previous attitude to life wasn't the right one. For the first time, I feel Connected. I feel I have a stake in my life as well as those I love. I see beauty. I see love. I see the fragility and brevity of our existence. It brings tears to my eyes, humility to my soul and regret to my mind.
But for the first time ever, I can *feel*.
I'm going to go have a long cry sometime soon. Then I'll feel human again, possibly for the first time.
I had to drive to another city today to see a medical specialist. I explicitly requested to be referred to him because the only other specialist in my city failed to manage my case properly - he was prescribing what essentially amounted to placebos, which meant that either he's a bad doctor or he's not taking me seriously.
It's winter here and the road conditions weren't great. Driving home tonight was a challenge. There were some spots with zero visibility due to drifting and blowing snow. It's also a long drive - it took me about 5 hours to get home, including a dinner break. So, I had a lot of time to think during these trips (I make quite a few over the course of a year). Plus, the whole self-discovery process was made far easier during the scary bits when large semi-trucks cut me off on the icy roads causing my life to flash before me. At any rate, I had an Epiphany tonight.
Those of you who know me in Real Life will know that I've been dealing with a major issue in my life over the past two years. I call it the Condition. My course of treatment is set (which was what this trip was about) and while I am happy and glad I'm on this path, niggling doubts surface every now and again. Cutting a long story short, I realized tonight that my approach to the issue doesn't "complete"/"fix"/"cure"/whatever me - it *connects* me. Bear with me for a bit here, it's kind of hard to explain because it's so personal and there's probably not a common frame of reference. You see, I've been moving through life rather robotically, more often than not doing the right thing. In fact, I know for certain that I was doing the right things - I have all the elements a "good" life is supposed to have: a good career, a stable marriage, kids, money, etc. But I never really lived. I was bound to four undeserving masters: Duty, Honour, Logic and Efficiency.
Somewhere very early on, on some insignificant place on the way to Success, I lost my humanity. Perhaps I never had it.
Today, during the drive to the city, the Sun was just coming up and the sky was divided into halves, one the dark steel-grey blue of twilight and the other the rosy blush of a new dawn. The snow was being blown in undulating waves across the dark roads. It was surreal and beautiful, so much so I had to restrain myself from pulling over and writing a haiku to capture the moment. I've driven that route many times before and I have never ever really *looked*. It's always been rush-rush-rush. It's a bit of a major shock to me to find that beauty is all around. Yes, I'm a slow learner. :)
Later during the day, I stopped by a large mall for lunch and a little shopping. I took a break and had a coffee at this faux-European part of the mall, something I used to do a lot when I was living in that city but haven't done in years. A couple of elderly gentlemen were playing chess at the next table and classical music was being piped in through the hidden Tannoys. I had a coffee in one hand, my trusty fountain pen in the other and my diary open on the table. What's so special about this? Well, today, I actually *enjoyed* the moment. I sat there, sipping my coffee, scribbling in my diary, glanced over at the ongoing chess game...and I didn't hurry. I just...Lived. Relaxed. Content. Happy.
All my life I've been rushing hither and yon, trying to fill a role I was never suited for. Not even when the kids came did I open my eyes to the sad, sad reality I had slavishly condemned myself to. I had the good stuff - money, house, all the trappings that Things Were Well. But I never enjoyed it. Even sadder, I've missed parts of my children's development when I had to go for business trips. I remember crying inside when I came home from a long business trip lasting nearly a month and found that one of my twins had grown half an inch over his brother during my absence.
Well. no more. Since the treatments began, it's been as if my eyes have been opened for the first time. It's provided me with the clues that my previous attitude to life wasn't the right one. For the first time, I feel Connected. I feel I have a stake in my life as well as those I love. I see beauty. I see love. I see the fragility and brevity of our existence. It brings tears to my eyes, humility to my soul and regret to my mind.
But for the first time ever, I can *feel*.
I'm going to go have a long cry sometime soon. Then I'll feel human again, possibly for the first time.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Daily Grind
I am expecting this to be a polarizing post. Half of you will understand and relate. The other half won't get it at all. But you will...
A good friend of mine once remarked that he didn't want to ever be like his dad, who apparently led a very boring life. We were both young at the time and I agreed wholeheartedly with him then.
That was over 10 years ago. Now I'm in my mid-thirties and I've discovered something quite terrifying. Being boring? It's not really a choice. It's our destiny for most of us. Back when we were younger, we had more time and energy to do what we wanted. We were also unburdened by familial responsibility. These days, I have young children to care for, bills to pay, chores to do and a mounting sense of desperation that there isn't going to be enough to go around someday. So, after working at the office for the entire span of daylight hours here in frozen Canada, I'm tired. I go home and all I want to do is melt into bed, a sentiment my sister shares, I'm sure.
Looking through 21 year-old eyes, I lead an exceptionally boring life. I have no real social life to speak of during weekdays. I'm running around doing errands most weekends. My one indulgence recently? I registered for a precision knife techniques class so I could do meal preparations faster without chipping my nails. Good grief, I've gotten *old*.
Nevertheless, I intend to make the most out of this time no matter how boring it is. Why? In 10 more years in the future, I'm going to have even less energy than I do now so I should probably make the best of it while it lasts. Well, assuming that I don't sell the kids and spend it all in an orgy of shopping and dining in Europe, that is. Hmm...
A good friend of mine once remarked that he didn't want to ever be like his dad, who apparently led a very boring life. We were both young at the time and I agreed wholeheartedly with him then.
That was over 10 years ago. Now I'm in my mid-thirties and I've discovered something quite terrifying. Being boring? It's not really a choice. It's our destiny for most of us. Back when we were younger, we had more time and energy to do what we wanted. We were also unburdened by familial responsibility. These days, I have young children to care for, bills to pay, chores to do and a mounting sense of desperation that there isn't going to be enough to go around someday. So, after working at the office for the entire span of daylight hours here in frozen Canada, I'm tired. I go home and all I want to do is melt into bed, a sentiment my sister shares, I'm sure.
Looking through 21 year-old eyes, I lead an exceptionally boring life. I have no real social life to speak of during weekdays. I'm running around doing errands most weekends. My one indulgence recently? I registered for a precision knife techniques class so I could do meal preparations faster without chipping my nails. Good grief, I've gotten *old*.
Nevertheless, I intend to make the most out of this time no matter how boring it is. Why? In 10 more years in the future, I'm going to have even less energy than I do now so I should probably make the best of it while it lasts. Well, assuming that I don't sell the kids and spend it all in an orgy of shopping and dining in Europe, that is. Hmm...
Monday, February 12, 2007
Going public
Well, I've finally stepped off the edge of Real Life onto the World Wide Web. Whee! Is it just me, or is it a bit crowded in here?
I've been journaling for a little while now in a Moleskine journal. It was a bit awkward at times but then I found it truly relaxing to be able to pin emotions down on paper. The good ones I keep. The bad ones, they get cast out from me in inky spidery handwriting. This has three consequences:
1. After nearly a lifetime of typing on keyboards, I have truly learnt how horribly illegible my handwriting is.
2. I can chart my faults and rants over time. Well, that's the theory. I haven't actually dared to look back on my entries for that purpose.
3. It's much much MUCH cheaper than therapy.
I've often felt that blogs are a form of narcissitic exhibitionism. I'm not sure I'm entirely inaccurate in that. So why have I succumbed to the temptation of having one? In short, family and friends. One thing that I've found, having bounced from one end of the world to the other is that time and distance will pull close relationships apart. One or the other will do the trick, and usually it's both. Blogging is also a form of communication, a way of keeping tabs of close ones through distance and time.
So here we are. If you know who I am, I bid you welcome and I hope that this will give some inkling of what we're up to in our lives. If you don't know who I am, welcome too and don't be shy about dropping me a comment or two. Polite ones, please. Thank you.
I've been journaling for a little while now in a Moleskine journal. It was a bit awkward at times but then I found it truly relaxing to be able to pin emotions down on paper. The good ones I keep. The bad ones, they get cast out from me in inky spidery handwriting. This has three consequences:
1. After nearly a lifetime of typing on keyboards, I have truly learnt how horribly illegible my handwriting is.
2. I can chart my faults and rants over time. Well, that's the theory. I haven't actually dared to look back on my entries for that purpose.
3. It's much much MUCH cheaper than therapy.
I've often felt that blogs are a form of narcissitic exhibitionism. I'm not sure I'm entirely inaccurate in that. So why have I succumbed to the temptation of having one? In short, family and friends. One thing that I've found, having bounced from one end of the world to the other is that time and distance will pull close relationships apart. One or the other will do the trick, and usually it's both. Blogging is also a form of communication, a way of keeping tabs of close ones through distance and time.
So here we are. If you know who I am, I bid you welcome and I hope that this will give some inkling of what we're up to in our lives. If you don't know who I am, welcome too and don't be shy about dropping me a comment or two. Polite ones, please. Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)