Thursday, March 02, 2006

Happy Birthday, Erin!

Erin Danielle Lawler turns 25 today. My niece is actually down in Florida with her mom (my sister) and grandmother (my mom). Erin graduated from Ramapo State College of New Jersey, with a bachelor's degree in graphic design.

She blogs (of course she does - she's 25) but she asks that family members not read her blog. I find that strange and funny, but then I remember that I don't even tell my family that I blog. Well, except for my wife. In fact, she's the only person who's invited and therefore able to read the thing. (Hi, Dawn). So I kinda understand Erin's viewpoint as well.

So then that makes me wonder why I'm writing this and to whom. And the why is because it's more like a diary, and I decided that it would be fun to try to keep a diary for a year. So that's why each entry is dated, although astute readers will notice that the date of the entry and the date it's actually posted rarely match. And to whom is that I imagine that I'm writing for a readership, although I know that I'm not. (Again, hi, Dawn).

Maybe I think I'll let somebody else read it someday? Maybe I should invite someone now? Maybe Gordon?

But then I wonder about burdening someone with the task of reading my blog. Like I don't especially like reading my brother's blog, because it's a vile rant o' hate, but I sometimes check in with it. But he's sometimes disappointed in me for not reading it. And so I'd hate to ask Gordon, Did you read such and such entry, and find out that I'm just not that interesting and no, he hasn't seen it.

And then there's the fact that I know my neice has a blog and I don't read it. Not because she's asked me not to read it, but because I don't really think to read it. I mean, I actively avoid my brother's blog, but I just don't think that much about Erin's blog. I remember it every so often and then dip in and read a bit, and then I'm off again. It was only today that I noticed the banner that asked family members and co-workers not to read it. And then that makes me feel guilty, like I'm not interested enough in my niece's life.

But then again I'm really not that interested in her life. I mean, I'm interested, but not like these really private thoughts, every day, interested. And mostly her blog is, generally, to me, somewhat incomprehensibe. There are a lot of lyrics to songs I don't know from bands I don't know. And stylistically she's often dense and elliptical, deliberately so, no doubt, but I just don't understand it a lot of the time. In general, it's not for me, not for my understanding.

Oh, I don't know. It's a complicated and weird subject, actually. She doesn't want me to read it, but I do, but then I don't, and then I feel guilty, when I shouldn't. Crazy, huh?


UPDATE: Now that I've transferred this year's posts to Blogger, some of the above no longer really applies. Anyone can read it, and the date stamping is different here. But there's like millions of blogs here, so no one does read it. I don't think. Or I don't know.
3/28/2006 4:20 p.m.

1 Comments:

At 4/01/2006 6:40 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I read this blog, Ed. This is all new to me. Is this a blog, or a posting on a blog? Anyway, I find it very interesting that you are posting these thoughts. It's a nice way to keep in touch with you and see what you're up to. It kinda makes me wonder if I should start a blog of my own. For instance, I'd like to keep track of my dreams. I think that might make for an interesting blog. Even though I have been out of my parents' house for 17 years, whenever I dream of "home," it's never the home I own now or my various apartments. It's always my parents' house. Strange.

I like to read biographies (when I'm not busy making CDs or working on other projects) and some of my favorite authors are David McCullough, Doris Kearns Goodwin and Peter Guralnick. I saw McCullough and Goodwin speak one night in Richmond several years back. McCullough said, "If you want future historians to love you, keep a diary." So much is lost nowadays, with the adoption of e-mail. I have a box that contains 50 years of letters that my mother wrote to her sister. That type of thing will never happen again. But rest assured, Ed, that some future historian will love you.

 

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