8 September 2003 07:25 MDT | Posted by M. Molly
It's nearly 7:00 am (mountain time) and outside the neighborhood is beginning to wake up. Every two or three minutes the soft swoosh of a car driving by joins the birdsong, distant dog barks, and garbage truck noises already filtering through my open window. Curled up in my bed like a giant lima bean, Zeke is snoring and twitching. When he dreams, his eyelids open to reveal the red lining of his third lid, and even though I know full well that all dogs have this third eyelid, still I can't help but think about how much he looks like a demon. Every time. The worst is when he starts crying in his sleep -- he has nightmares, and his keening is distinctly un-doggish -- and I want to comfort him, to put my arms around him and reassure him that everything's going to be fine, to wake him and remind him that he's safe now, he's home, but his bright red third eyelids are swinging back and forth and I have to close my own eyes before I can hug him.
He's kicking now in his sleep, scrambling for purchase against my blue comforter, and I wonder what he's chasing in his sleep. Last year, we'd go out to Rock Creek nearly every day, where he could chase hundreds of Canada geese and ducks and dig for rabbits. These days he chases giant cockroaches through the gravel in our backyard, and I can't help but feel a little guilty for dragging him from dog heaven to the desert.
I have to admit that the whole phenomenon of blogging irritates me. For one thing, there's the word itself: blog. Could you come up with a more unattractive word if you specifically set out to do so? It calls to mind sluggish words like plod and slog, and that b-l-o combination is just awful. Bloat. Bloated.
Phonetics aside, most things with this much hype bother me, and since blogging's been the cool thing to do for the last few months, it automatically strikes me as lame. Maybe since I'm such a big journaler I should love the fact that everyone in the world suddenly wants not only to keep a journal, but to publish it for everyone in the universe to read it.
Sometime during senior year, Cynthia was reading my journal over my shoulder, and started flipping out because I was writing about something hopelessly pedestrian, like how much I hated to come home to a sink full of dirty dishes, or how much I dreaded the thought of going to linguistics the next morning. Cynthia had always imagined my journals to be full of nothing but crystalline poetry and stunning revelations, and my everyday whininess and gray prose disappointed her. Maybe other people's journals are better imagined than read, hmm?
I've come to that conclusion about my own journals hundreds of times, and yet here I am posting a journal entry on the web.... and justifying it thus: Because I'm so far away from nearly everyone in my family, and because they all seem to miss me (though the biggest difference between me here and me in Iowa is psychological -- in an immediate sense I was no closer in Iowa than I am here -- no more or less than a phone call away -- though yes, everyone, I realize that I can't just jump in the truck and be in Madison or the TC by nightfall anymore...) AND everyone's been cranky when I haven't returned their calls immediately.... so I figure, several-times-a-week updates will bridge the psychological distance between Albuquerque and Oregon/Fitchburg. Got that folks? This is for you. My journals are still mine, and I will continue to fill them with my most banal thoughts.