Vesak or Wesak celebrates the birth, death and enlightenment of Sakyamuni Buddha. It is a public holiday here. But not for me and my business partners. We’re still running kids’ camp for the benefit of families who have no idea what to do with their overactive (so they think) kids. Owing to the difference in local school and international school schedules, we have 11 consecutive weeks of kids camps to operate. It is Day Three. I am exhausted.
I am also swamped with work. I’m not just saying this so I can shirk off the responsibility of completing a web-project I’m not very proud of. My client (who will read this blog) has been gently harassing me about the completion, the date of which was supposed to have been 15th May. I’ve been deadset busy, and deadset uninspired to do anything creative. I mean, just read my blog. It bores the crap outta me, and I imagine, anyone else that ventures here as well. (Suckers. Those who followed links from here and here).
Funny how a blog novice as I has managed to coerce and cajole other non-bloggers to blog and other bloggers to improve their blogs. I feel as if I’ve got enough blog clout to make sweeping, misinformed (the best type) generalisations about blogging. Such as, have you noticed how font size is directly related to age? If you’re 14-19, your font size is miniscule. If you’re 20-25, slightly more readable than bird dust (a term my brother invented), if you’re 25-35 you stick with what the blogger.com templates give you, and you don’t even bother to tweak any template setting and think that adding a tagboard or blogroll is the bees’ knees.
And if you’re 35-45, you’re NOT SUPPOSED TO BE BLOGGING. Old people don’t blog. I have about a month and a bit before I’m supposed to retire from blogdom. A close friend of mine, who is also hitting the giant big humungous ugly mumfucking three five next month, found out (there are some things you keep a secret from even close friends) that I had a blog from another (younger) friend.
His reaction was as I expected. He looked at me strange and said “YOU HAVE A BLOG? YOU’RE NOT A TEENAGER. IS THERE SOMETHING YOU WANT TO TELL ME?”
Still he’s not curious enough to want to read my blog. Because old people not only don’t blog. They don’t read blogs either.
He knows he won’t glean any earth-shattering outings from my blog. I have no (other) secrets he doesn’t already know about. He knows my blog serves no purpose other than to amuse myself and keep some friends informed as to my whereabouts, whatabouts and howabouts, and which only figures a three minute read per week at best. It also has no apparent theme. It is not (yet) evolving into a journal of any certain ilk. It is pure unadulterated drivel. Though I wish it weren’t. There are other blogs I’ve coerced out of their creators that have evolved into things that even I did not expect. And they do make interesting reading.
Apart from rugby union, which makes uninterrupted appearances on my sideblog, there is also no apparent passion or love or raison d’etre that this blog reveals, unlike many blogs I’ve read which reveal their creators to be unfettered, rabid, sci-fi geeks, for instance. (For some reason, these particular bloggers congregate here instead of at simple simon blog engines like blogger.com).
There is also (I hope) very little angst (because I am not a teenager). There are no lovelorn entries except for an infrequent recollection or two of a love past, which I place in another blog in the hope of building a tome of sorts, but which is also quickly falling flat as an idea.
Yes, this blog is unclassifiable. When asked to ‘describe your blog’ in the various portals offering shameless self blog promotion, I’m usually stumped. Dunno what to write. My blog is blue background with grey words and yellow headings. It’s got stuff. I can’t even describe how the entries are like, like this blogger does. Yes, I might be descibed as cynical and skeptical, but not to the extent of infecting every entry with uniform poison.
There is one purpose of this blog that I wouldn’t have disclosed if not for the fact I’m writing this entry. It is a gauge of my sanity. Or rather, a gauge of my emotional and mental well-being. The more unclassifiable stuff I write, the happier I usually am. I have fewer and fewer demons to fight and write about these days, and I don’t like writing about them much, because they look and sound the same, and it makes for even more boring reading. And as I was telling a fellow blogger, it is about living life, not about thinking about living life.