Stagnant Change

The last months of the year are always busy ones for me – long work days and little sunlight, mind focused on the tasks required to make it to mid-December, nights spent in dreams that feel like more work (in the very literal sense – I often say that I have put in full days at the office in my head at night). I think about twelve years ago, when I successfully completed NaNoWriMo, and find it impossible that I fit 50,000 written words into the month of November.

I enter each new year with intentions, goals, grand delusions of everything I can do to be better, kinder, more productive, happier. I rarely succeed in these intentions, and that leads me to this cycle of self-disappointment and exasperation. I’ve been shut off over the past couple of years and I waiver between wanting to connect and not wanting to risk the disappointment that comes with that connection. I’m sure this has much to do with my dad’s death and my moving home and the sudden loss – the complete end – of a decades old friendship. But I digress.

I wonder if I spend too much time on the internet – but then, I’ve been spending this time for almost twenty years now. 2016 will mark fifteen years of blogging in some way, shape, or form for me. Do I have anything left to say? Is anyone willing to read? We’ve all moved on to social media that doesn’t do the “long form” thing – it’s all 140 character snark or Facebook feeds from hell or Pinterest – god, I just don’t understand Pinterest.

I bought myself a new pair of headphones and a bluetooth speaker this week because I feel that I need to connect with music again. My scrobbles are suffering, in part because I listened to a lot less music this year and in part because last.fm has screwed with their website again and iTunes only plays nice when it feels like it. I feel guilty about buying more stuff even as I recognize that music has always been a great love of mine. It occurred to me as the sun rose this morning, as I read thinkpiece after thinkpiece on the unshocking but still sad death of Scott Weiland, that I used to average ten concerts a hear and that I haven’t been to one in I don’t know how long. In those early morning minutes before I’d even risen from bed, I thought about the time I started a music blog, which quickly devolved into a place where I would live-blog episodes of American Idol. Ah, there’s that self-disappointment again. Intentions and reality, why must you be so separate?

All of this Saturday morning word vomit is spilled with the intent of trying to explain my headspace right now. I’m considering taking the rest of the year off from Twitter and Facebook, from email and blog feeds. I keep envisioning this cocoon, this place to wrap myself in until the new year, but I don’t know what I will emerge as, if anything. Maybe just the same old me, with the same old issues. Needing a change. Fearing change. Needing connection. Fearing connection. Needing to write, but struggling to find the words.

If a writer makes a wishy-washy announcement on a blog that no one sees, does it count?

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