All Tanked Up & Nowhere to Go

I can't remember the last time I sat here at my desk with a glass of wine, in the mood to blog. I've been going to bed earlier lately, and if I am at a computer at night, it's usually my laptop because I can surf both the web and the TV channels at the same time. Lazy sod...

But here I am with a glass or three of wine, listening to Radio Stephansdom through my headphones, enjoying Schubert's Mass in F-Major. God, I love being up late at night when everyone's asleep and the world is quiet! Tumbleweeds is closed so the après-Jack Daniels crowd has already driven past on their way home. Tumbleweeds is a huge Country-Western roadhouse-styled bar here in Stillwater (read "Urban Cowboy"), only a mile or so down the road, famous for their annual Testicle Festival. I've never attended. Can't say I'm sorry.

Nettl rented La Vie en Rose, starring Marion Cotillard as Edith Piaf. I really like biopics regardless of how good or bad they are, so my estimation of this film may not agree with that of other people who have seen it. I liked it, but it was too choppy. Cotillard's performance was flawless, however. I swear she was channeling Piaf. I think I'm going to watch it again; this may be one of those films that will improve now that I know the story and won't have to work so hard to keep up with the subtitles (the dialog often passes very quickly and my French isn't what it used to be).

I find myself once again in the uncomfortable position of not being able to tell you about something important that's going on in my life (like when our documentary was in its seminal stages, and when I was on location filming The Ocular Effect). It's my lawyer, you see. It involves a will and trying to keep my balance while waiting for the outcome. No matter what that will be, I want to be prepared and not lose my center. Good news? Great. Bad news? Oh well. This is almost impossible for me because I have no inner balance! We Libras (the Scales) are not balanced people, we're always searching for balance. A lot of people get that mixed up. Anyway, in the words of George Carlin:

"Could be meat, could be cake. Could be meatcake."

Whatever the fates have in store, I don't want to fall off my bike, as it were, and bung myself up.

Which brings me to something I was thinking about today. I was thinking about us bloggers. What the hell are we thinking? We sit in our private space and literally expose our thoughts, feelings, and experiences to people all over the world. And some of this stuff will still be around long after we're sitting in that big Internet Cafe In The Sky. Who knows? These entries could show up hundreds of years from now. Well, I was thinking about why some of us live our lives in the public forum so candidly, and I came to the conclusion that we're trying to connect. I know that's true for me, anyway.

Connecting with other people in hope of attaining a SETI-like connection with a kindred spirit or two is why I spill my guts here. This is on a sub-conscious level, of course. Consciously, all I think I'm doing is wasting time writing about ME, ME, ME! Then I wondered, would Henry Miller have blogged? Or Anaïs Nin, Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, or Shakespeare? Hell, yeah! What blogs those would have been! Some writers I can't imagine blogging, though: Hemingway, Dylan Thomas (damn!) and George Sand. What about F. Scott Fitzgerald? Would he have kept a blog? What do you think? James Boswell, definitely, as well as Pepys. Oops. He has a blog.

Do you know how wonderful it is to hear the Beautiful Blue Danube Waltz when it's being transmitted live from Vienna?

I have to tell you that I'm disgustingly out-of-shape. Wednesday's cleaning of #2 daughter's bedroom did me in. I spent all day Thursday feeling like I'd been on horseback; I was literally saddle sore. (I used to ride, so I know first-hand the misery that is saddle soreness.) I'm too young to be that old! Unfortunately, since being hit so hard with Hashimoto's Disease the past few years, my physical exercise has become non-existent. Well, I do trot up and down the stairs, but it's obviously been no help.

The shit-thing about getting older is that you get tired. Seems to me life has it all bassackwards. We don't need energy when we're young, we're YOUNG, for crying out loud. We need that energy when we hit middle-age and are sliding into the abyss that waits yawning, open for us. Kids need less energy so that they don't wear us old farts out, and old farts need more energy so that we can keep up. Sounds simple to me...

Well, I think that's it for tonight. I probably won't tell you a Saturday Story in the morning. But then again, who knows?