I’m afraid to write good stuff for the blog. Afriad. I'm a big chicken. That’s me.
It’s interesting to look at my stats and see that my most frequent site visitors seems to be the small handful of people who are waiting for an excuse to flip out at and about me. This is frightening. I admit it, okay? I am afraid of you guys. I don’t want to be poor for the rest of my life. (That was the most vehement threat made toward me in the last year. That I’d be sued for something I’d written, not in the hopes of actually winning any sort of case, but simply to tangle me in something the threatener knew I couldn’t, or rather, wouldn’t weather.)
You will be poor for the rest of your life. That was the threat.
It’s not being “poor” that scares me so much as the idea of a conflict that would be so long-lasting, so draining, and so utterly not worth it. I hate to fight. Conflict of any kind makes me sick to my stomach. I also hate not writing. Or rather, not writing the things I feel it's important for me to write. These are the things that keep me awake at night. In order to sleep, I write them anyway, then I burn the evidence. This is what I’ve been reduced to, and it’s unsatisfying and depressing, but also better than nothing, I suppose.
My grandfather died a few weeks ago, and of course, I dared not write about that. I wanted to, of course. I had a million things to say. In particular, I wanted to write about the contents of his desk. I didn’t plan on it, but having been the one to clean out the small, and seemingly worthless bits and bobs from his drawers, I noted something in particular. The man was exactly like me. I knew this already. He and I even talked about it on occasion, though not lately. Still, seeing the contents of his desk brought a sort of clarity about our similarities that hadn’t existed before.
I kept it all.
This is a nothing piece. It’s not all sycophantic treacle, so it may well be as unpalatable as the one that was burned, but neither does it deal with what’s really important. It doesn’t really examine what it means to be a person who organizes and obsessed over minutiae, who is always ready, who guards against life and the unexpected with staples and pencils and tape. It doesn’t delve into the not-so-perfect aspects of a personality that make a person a person. Culturally speaking, the dead must be revered, I've learned this. So even though I would be talking about myself in addition to another person, I know such a piece would not allowed. Not unless I want to be poor for the rest of my life. And as a result, what I’ve written here is largely useless.
And this is a sad thing, both for me and for you.