Walking and Thinking and Questioning

Sometimes I wonder why I even have this blog since I never post. It’s not because I don’t have things to say, it’s just that I never seem to have anything to say when I’m actually sitting in front of the computer at home. I can’t really blog at work, which is when I’d prefer to do it since I’m often bored.

I actually think of lots of stuff to post, but I never remember it. I do a lot of walking (thanks to the commute to Manhattan) and I do a lot of thinking while I’m trekking to and from the train station. Sometimes I think I should have a tape recorder so I could just record my stream-of-consciousness thoughts.

I remember when I tried Ecstasy the one and only time. I was working on E. 40th & Lex and rehearsing for a show on W. 56th & 8th. There was no great way to get to the theatre by public transportation and, since I’m perpetually in debt, I didn’t have the money anyway. So, I walked. For about two weeks after the weekend I did X, walking made me furious. The thoughts in my head just pissed me off and there was no way to shut them down (hence the reason I’ve only taken X once).

It’s interesting, ever since then, I’ve noticed that I often get angry when I’m walking. I expect it’s because my mind is just wandering and things I usually keep tucked down out of sight just float up to the surface.

Of course, I can’t think of any of those things now.

This morning, I tried to make a conscious effort to remember what I was thinking. I attempted to compose an entry and I began to wonder who I’m actually writing for (no offense intended, Pobble!). If I am writing solely for me, then what does it matter when or what I post? If I’m writing for the masses, (snort), I’m sure they’ve found better places to go. I’m generally a guarded person. I’ve had more than one friend complain that I don’t open up. Yogi said she never knew what I was thinking or what I felt or what was really going on inside. I’ve spilled my guts to a few journals (and good Lord, I’m even embarrassed by what I wrote on occasion. And saddened, too. Sometimes I think a psychiatrist would have a field day with some of my journals.) But this isn’t really a journal because anyone can read it and if I can’t tell my best friend some ogly-googly details of my life, how can I tell the world?

If I were a clever writer (see Pobble, Waiter, Barmaid, etc.) then I’d write an entry about how an event in my life made me introspective and what I learned from it, all wrapped up in an entertaining and enthralling package.

But I’m not. And this is all I’ve got.