I've had this blog a couple of years now. I post from time to time. I also have a mySpace blog, where I post from time to time. I've had that some time less than this. Largely, I've used this space as the place where I post updates on me, on my life, that sort of thing. These days, I guess it gets funneled to my facebook profile. None of this is really new. I had a Bolt profile once upon a time. Pyroto Mountain - few of you likely to have been part of that but I was on it for a couple of years. Bulletin boards before that; before the term blog ever came into being.
I largely keep the impetus of the two blogs apart. Here, I post some semblance of Colin. On mySpace, I promote the culture events I take part in. In a couple of years, some 600 people have bothered to look at this blog; several thousand have read the other. I wish my life was more interesting than my lifestyle, but a lot more people take part in a lifestyle, I suppose. Whatever. I cheat all of you by writing the shit that really hurts or joys in a journal. Yes, paper. So it doesn't really matter what you read here because, really, it all is for show. It couldn't be any other way and I quite misunderstand those who fail to hold something out for the people who can touch their hands.
I've been writing most of the day today so I'm a little kvetchy right now. It takes a lot out of me, regardless of the type of material. Leaves me moody and unstable. Not really sure why. I certainly can't say it's a cathartic process, despite the avowals by others that nothing quite else can do.
Ash leaves for Victoria next week. I think that's good for all of us. I can write and not have to worry about the bitch I'm being meanwhile. She gets to hang out in Tofino with her best friend. The dog will stress out and behave remarkably well for a while.
Her dad is sicker than hoped. The lymphoma is in his bone marrow and the form has no cure. It can be managed. He's home with a cold right now and she respects it when he says he doesn't feel like having company. I...have a tough time with that. He shouldn't protect her from the bad things that happen anymore; it's time for him to understand that he needs to share those burdens; that she needs to be a part of his sickness as well as part of his healing process. The one doesn't work without the other.
Sometimes, when mom was in the hospital for long stays, I would climb into her cage and nap beside her. She smelled like formaldehyde. Her skin was tacky and her hair, when she had some, was lank and damp. Those naps were highlight moments for both of us. I wouldn't trade them for anything. We can't all be strong all the time. Even moms and dads.
I suppose there's a lot more I could say right now. I'll hold out a while longer.