A Blog

I’ve come to the conclusion that blogging fascinates me. I’m not talking about those blogs that are out there with a specific goal—political blogs, tech blogs, talking-head blogs, blogs written for people by staff writers just to say there is a blog—but blogs that are put out there by people who are just taking down the details of their lives. Something feels sneaky about reading it…like maybe you were house-sitting and discovered someone’s journal under a couch cushion. Those are the ones I like, a true look into someone else’s life. Seems like I know immediately if one is contrived, right from the first entry…and not some kind of performance and that just irks me. There are enough places to be “on” without having to do it in this format, too. Maybe that makes me some kind of voyeur, I don’t know. Is this the digital equivalent of peeking in someone’s window?

So I’m going to give it a try and see what happens. Maybe I will do this and quit. Maybe I will find out that this is just the sort of thing I needed and it will become a constant, but only time will tell on that point. I will do my very best to say it how it is, and not how I think anyone would like to hear it.

Picking tonight at Clinton’s violin shop in Taylors. It’s an old-time jam, so the fiddle tunes will be out in full force. I really don’t know how I am taken since I probably reek of bluegrass but no one has been overtly hostlile, so maybe I will take that as a good sign. OT fans and bluegrassers seem to be at odds with each other most of the time, but here in the Piedmont there is very little distinction made. It’s just “picking”. I will take some pictures should circumstances allow. I sometimes feel like the camera might be a little jarring for people who devote so much of their time to something so…low-tech…but it could be that I am just bashful about taking pictures, too. I know it doesn’t bother me, but there are plenty of things that don’t bother me that make others wildly angry (see smoking, politics, religion). The only downside to the jam is the temperature in the shop—the last couple of times I have been it has seemed like roughly a thousand degrees in there, and when you’re doing that sort of physical activity the heat doesn’t help. I foresee drinking a good deal of water tonight. It remains a mystery how the collection of fiddles don’t just fall into half-melted pieces.

More later.