Hello World

Although I'm often probably far to introspective about launching into a fit of writing, I've been doing a lot less thinking lately and a lot more reaching. That is, I find myself in the car, in the garage, in a meeting at work reaching for a scrap of paper to write down something pithy that has popped into my head that must get committed to paper. Over the past few months, all that reaching has become a large, random assortment of backs of receipts, shop towels and post-its that has reached critical mass. So, I've decided to stop reaching. That is, I've stopped reaching for excuses to not put all these thoughts down into something a bit more structured.

Perhaps it's just my nature to wait, to believe that I've got a handle on things before writing my thoughts down. While some see writing as a way to work through issues, I tend to see writing as a way to digest issues--to give them order. Not so different you might think and you might be right and as this grows (or does not), one might question if there is any difference at all with the stream on consciousness babble that might get spewed. But I digress (and I do that a LOT).

Perhaps it's that we're now to a point in my wife's battle with cancer (more on that to come) that I, for the first time, feel like this really is something I can grasp, that we can beat it and that will be behind us. When I think of parallels in my life that might reinforce this, I think of my mentality in any triathlon that I participate in (not race--lots more on that to come) that stretches the bounds of my fitness or preparedness (today this would be something as short as a sprint race...). In these situations, it's not the morning of the event that I know I'm ready, its not in the swim (that's just sheer survival) and not on the bike--it's somewhere out in the back half of the run segment where I finally let go and think, I've got this. There are still miles to go and struggles to come but there's an aid station or a hill that I pass that makes me take stock in the fact that I'll make it.

Today I find myself there in this battle we've been fighting and I guess I'm taking stock.


But why a blog? Why publish? There's where we get into the need for professional analysis of smartassjones. I suppose that despite the physical unease I get when people read my writing in front of me, I like it being read. I suppose it's somewhat existential. If it's worth writing down, it's worth being read, but I certainly don't want to know when it's being read. Seriously, it makes me physically uneasy. So there really is no good answer. Guess it's right up the alley a person who's at once painfully shy but goes by the moniker of smartassjones. I'm not sure I'll ever publicize the existence of this and thus it may never be read, but it's out there, it exists and that makes it worth a bit more than a journal file on my computer.

"You know, every diary is dishonest
an autobiography with no facts,
yeah, you can relax, it's the end,
and no one will read it"
--Last of the Gold, Caviar

So, hello world.