Rainy days and reconstruction

  • Posted on: 3 December 2011
  • By: Michelle


If you've never noticed – all six of you out there whose work doesn't block questionable internet content – sometimes I disappear.

It's not because I don't want to write - my love affair with words goes way back. And It's not because I don't have stories to tell – good grief, I am a three-decade-old, borderline-OCD skeleton racer that someone at some point legally authorized to fly planes – believe me, there are stories. It's not even because I happen to be in some random hotel in former eastern Germany where the entire Russian bobsleigh federation is hogging bandwidth downloading movies and I can't get online to post. Oh wait. No, that really was the reason one time. And also sometimes I'm kinda busy doing things that will pay the rent.

But mostly, If I'm not here, it's because life is currently sucking.

In the past I have written because I regularly find myself in interesting/peculiar places doing interesting/possibly inadvisable things, and figure I should keep my family and friends up to date, in case someone needs to come rescue me.

Now I write because I like to make people laugh. And, apparently, people laugh when I write. Because seriously, what other use could there possibly be for irresponsibly detailed information on the crap I find at garage sales every summer, other than pointless, gratuitous entertainment?

So I write.

But over the past few years, as my entire world has crumbled around me, there hasn't been a whole lot to laugh at. Losing your faith, your worldview, your religious community and your marriage just isn't funny.

So I stop writing.

And eventually I get a phone call checking to see if I've been in a terrible accident with injuries that are preventing me from successfully using a computer keyboard. Or just the subtle "You haven't posted in forever" admonishment from disappointed, teary-eyed acquaintances.

And I remember how much I like to tell my stories and make people laugh.

On Thursday I crashed a Zoomba dance class at a gym in Norway. And next week I am going to take a floating casino ferry to Latvia. I really feel like there might be some material in there somewhere.

Except that somewhere in there I am also writing my name on divorce papers and seeing my psych and trying to piece my life back together. And then things don't feel funny at all.

But it's been such a long road, with so many stories I have missed telling (this summer I did an adult gymnastics meet and drove to Calgary with my bike strapped to the top of my car with tie-dows – both completely inadvisable activities … ) because of so many dark days where I just couldn't find my way back to funny, and today I wondered if maybe I should write through the sucking. Maybe even write about the sucking.

Not just for those six lucky bastards who can get on Facebook at work, so they have something to do during their coffee break. Or for my family to let them know which country I am in this week. Or for my new friend KELLIE! (oh, just wait until you hear about this vegan spazz ... ) so she doesn't think that people in the storyline are actually dying.

Maybe for me.

Or maybe I should just get a damn diary with a little lock and key, and write melancholic poetry. Again.