Where it begins, cont.

May 4, 2009 at 2:02 pm (catching up, pieces of me, whimsically silly)

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

-The Mad Hatter (as written by Lewis Carroll)


I imagine that I ought to take a moment to give definition to this blog. Just a hint of something to lend some vague shadow of meaning to this chaotic jumble of words. Perhaps we ought to begin with the name of the thing itself.


Once upon a time, long long ago, and far far away, there was this Norse dude named Odin. Odin was a pretty slick character. You know he was made of awesome ‘cuz he had a pair of pet ravens – and who doesn’t want a pet raven?! Plus the Vikings thought he was pretty hot stuff, and everybody knows that Vikings are as badass as it gets. Anyway, said featherbrains were called Huginn, who was associated with thought, and Muninn, whose job was memory. They rolled out at the crack of dawn every morning and spied on everything in the world until dusk, when they brought their master the lowdown. Apparently Mr. Odin was an incredible animal trainer. . .I can’t even get dogs to listen to me.


When broken down into bits, the handle on this blog is nothing more than Thought, Memory, and Me. As a title, it isn’t nearly as prepossessing or enigmatic as one could hope for. Phooey on dispelling mysteries!


And as for the why factor. . .

I first must admit that I have proven to be a complete failure when it comes to journals. Numerous defeats over a 20-odd year period have convinced me to scrap the idea altogether. But when my Puff was nothing more than a wiggle in my tum, I resolved to keep a running record of her intrinsic charms. She’s nearabout two, and I find myself with nothing written on the subject save a few haphazard scribbles jotted into miscellaneous lost-and-found notebooks, and a couple of calendars covered over with arbitrary events. This is a disaster, to say the least, and this blog is my attempt to remedy the situation. I’m no Muninn. My memory has never been what it used to be, and so I must begin collecting the chronicles somewhere, lest they dispel with the passage of time. And so, this.


I can not know if I will be any more successful at diary-keeping in blog format than I have been utilizing the old pen-and-ink method, but one can’t know until one tries, and so I shall. It is not my intention to present a well-written masterpiece, by any means. All hail the comma splice, bad grammar, and abundant ellipses. . .


Incidentally, I’m not a fan of the word ‘blog.’ It reminds me of boogies, monsters that live under beds, and the mild depression that comes after a week of rainy days. As far as words go, this one simply isn’t fascinating. There is no sparkle, no pizazz. I get bored just saying it. There? You see? I fell asleep just now. In the future, rather than referring to this page as a blog, I shall call it: A fantastical conglomeration of brain-pan ruminations. *nods* Yes. I should think that will do very nicely.



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