Notice first that I used the word “farewell”, not “goodbye”. Probably because years of watching classic films has beaten into me the idea that farewell is a temporary goodbye, while goodbye is a permanent you-will-never-hear-from-me-again word (take a minute to re-read that sentence and enjoy all of the sense it doesn’t make).
This post is a farewell for many, many reasons. The most pressing and definite is my biannual pilgrimage to the Holy Shit Land this week. I love going back to the city that gave you me (as well as Fred Rogers, Andy Warhol, and the Steeler Nation – you’re especially welcome for that last one), but the trips inevitably bring a level of stress that can only be alleviated by a cocktail of Valium and vodka, heavy on the Valium (as always, my lovelies, do as Ruby says, not as Ruby says she does).
I hadn’t planned on taking my laptop back for the trip, and I still don’t, and I have no idea how anyone can write a post from a phone (I have enough trouble pecking out the keys when they are real and big enough to fit my fingertips, give me a touch screen and “keys” no bigger than the nail on my pinky and everything falls spectacularly to pieces). I can’t even do comment responses, just ask the very few people who have gotten them from me via my Fancy Fone (and they know who they are, because I have had to apologize for the screwed-up-ness of my response in a subsequent, usually equally screwed-up comment).
I also gypped myself out of a much-needed blogging break I had intended to take a few weeks ago, so that’s another reason I am shutting up for a while.
Most importantly, though, my writing is suffering. Here, and offline. I don’t frequently mention any offline projects, and that’s in part because in the time I have been blogging, I haven’t really had any. There are multifarious reasons for that, but one which I actually feel I can control is the fact that I have become very distilled through writing in many places. Not good distilled, like way they use French wheat to make the alcohol in Grey Goose, but bad distilled, like taking the alcoholic version of me and adding bloody mary mix, orange juice, tonic water, or even cranberry juice.
(Not all at once, that’s a Hurricane gone all kinds of wrong. And if you don’t know what a Hurricane is, it’s the name for a drink you make when you are young and stupid and take a little from each bottle in your parents’ liquor cabinet and mix it, or what we called it when I was younger, anyway. I don’t know what kids today call it. In theory it lessens the chance that you will get caught, slightly; in reality it increases the chance that you will get violently ill, exponentially. Don’t do that kind of shit, kiddies.)
In theory, the Badly Distilled Ruby is a good thing. It is much more palatable than Ruby straight, comes in colors and tastes to suit many people, and can perk up your party when it hits an unfortunate lag. In reality, the Badly Distilled Ruby is a lesser version of me, and even if no one else notices, I do and I have come to loathe it.
I think I may actually be making plans to abandon all of you. At least temporarily. I’m not sure. I am confusing myself with all of my alcohol references. For the seeming drunkery in my mind, I would like to give a huge thanks to Jen from Sips of Jen and Tonic, and Sara from Laments and Lullabies (of course these two lovely ladies are actually from lots of places, but I’m lazy and their blogs are good starting places for you, if you need some), as they helped me to get going on a binge-themed day. . . I mean post. Also deserving of an honorable mention is the clothing I am no longer wearing that reeks of Heineken. All I will say on that one is that it wasn’t my fault. I was attacked. I don’t even drink beer.
So. Where was I? Oh yeah. This is it, in as few words as I can manage.
I need to sit inside of myself and age and swirl and maybe even turn slightly (because unlike wine, words can be worth a lot when they’ve gone “off”), until I can’t stand it any longer and it either comes bursting forth in a rush or. . . Hmm. I think that’s really the only option my mind will accept, no ors, ifs, buts, qualifiers, modifiers, or alternate solutions of any kind are allowed on this one.
I have no idea how long this will take. I’ll still read your words, after I’ve dried out some (give me a week to two months, or whatever period of time I eventually arrive at). I won’t be making any comments, as comments do fall under the heading of Writing. But I guess I can make use of the Like button on posts without compromising my position. So, there’s that.
I still love all of you so much, you just need to love me enough to trust that part of my experiment includes prohibiting myself from all writing that is not of a very strict, functional nature. I have some material prepared to post in the foreseeable future for Canvas, and as (almost) always, I won’t be abandoning anything related to that, because that project is a commitment on a different level. Odds are I will answer emails - firstname.lastname@example.org - just not in what is considered a “timely manner”; but ask anyone who has ever contacted me via email, I never have.
Oh, and if you really miss me terribly (because I know better than anyone how very missable I am), my facebook page is not a fan page for my blog, it’s my personal, really me, my life, stuff I never would make into a blog post anyway page. Click on this link, Ruby Tuesday, make me your friend. Just write a message, too, so I know who the hell you are. You can also find me on Goodreads (since you have my email), which may not be as exciting for lots of you, but I plan on ingesting a lot of the printed word while I’m gone, and I keep that shit pretty accurate and up-to-date.
Alright, and now I’m getting nice and melancholy and I know if I don’t do it now, I won’t do it.
Push the button, Frank.
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