Lost in the Translation

It is amusing to me that I have created a blog. I am not an electronic-medium type. And, who am I to think that anyone would ever want to read anything I have to say? In reality, I think I haven't created this blog for any other soul to read, ever... it is just for me. I don't much care for MySpace, and for reasons beyond the reality of psycho Internet predators who jump on and look for unsuspecting, young, naive victims. It seems to me to be sometimes a bit of a venue for sophomoric meanness and shallow, mindless frivolity. If I were a singer/songwriter trying to "get my stuff out there" or a professor trying to give information to her students or something, maybe. But as a way to communicate or "do relationship"... I don't know, it just isn't my cup of tea.

I have seen many blogs that have some depth and importance to them, however, and I've also seen some that are quite light, but intentionally so, and thereby terribly entertaining. I anticipate that this blog will never be light and entertaining, however, for I am neither. And, if it ever happens to achieve such distinction, it will likely only have depth and importance to me, as I assume I will be the only one ever to read it. Why make it, then?

Well, I suppose that this is a silly little stab in the direction of "modernized communication" for me. I have always kept a journal, but it is a sad little pen-and-ink affair that remains in my (gasp) Daytimer, and has been sorely neglected of late. (Yes, I still have a paper-based, non-electronic calendar where I write down the appointments and meetings that are the skeletons of my days!)

There is something powerful about the handwritten page, for me, as it contains the handwritten word, which is - like it or not - different from the typed word on the typed page. The latter must work hard to overcome a certain emptiness that is just part of its nature. There is no smell to it. There is no tangible feel to it. There is no distinctive penmanship. You don't touch it and breathe it and weep over it, leaving little blotches that will forever mark the poignant pages. And so it is a little cold and detached, in a way that it can't help, but that it must bear nevertheless.

I remember once receiving flowers from my not-yet-husband, delivered from across the miles to the school where I was teaching, and opening the attached card. The very large, sloppy, juvenile handwriting of the florist's assistant jumped out at me, and the essence of my sweetheart--the true author of the message of undying love accompanying the bouquet--was somehow lost in the translation.

Much will be lost in the translation here, I'm sure, but much will be gained in the actual doing of the thing, which is, after all, the point.