To blog or not to blog (is that a question)?

“I resolved to keep my Journal faithfully, never letting a day pass without recording what I had seen and heard: to wit, the peculiarities and nuances of speech of such persons as I might engage in conversation, no matter how trivial or exalted they may be; the impressions made upon my eye by the architecture of houses, churches and public buildings, etc., no matter how mean or exalted they may be; the manners and mannerisms, and the dress and costume of all I may encounter, the rustic and the sophisticated, wherever I find them; always keeping uppermost in my thoughts Bacon’s sound words of advice: ‘Hunt more after choiceness of phrase, and the round and clear composition of the sentence, and the sweet falling of the clauses.’ ”

Charles Dickens, age 19, on embarking on a life as a writer.

On the floor of the British Museum's entrance, a beautiful engraved quote by the poet Tennyson celebrates eternal knowledge...

It has been two years this months since I started this blog. As I write this post, everything around me is reminiscent of  those days. I began with a specific purpose. Then it "morphed" into an excursion of random thoughts and ideas. How long do I keep this up? I do not know.

Since Twitter and Facebook have taken over with their quirky one-liners, have blogs become passé? I do not think so. I do enjoy Facebook, it serves as a convenient interaction and quick communication with friends and family, especially if they are far away.

But, I do enjoy sharing ideas and thoughts. Keeping in touch with loved ones, and especially the journey of Anja and Clive. If anything, a blog is still a good way to journal those experiences.


Advanced warning, to spare you the boredom of reading further, this post is of a personal nature and probably only of interest to friends.


Lean Years…

Ten years ago, I embraced widowhood (or did it embrace me?). Well-meaning friends suggested, move in with us. I was assured that doormen and food deliveries would be as good as assisted living. I contemplated the selling of the island house. I will spare you the details of the retracted offers and the failures to show up at closings. Hurricane Ike made the decision for me. As well you do not need to know of the land I bought “in the middle of nowhere” (Southern Utah).  I was going to live in the wilderness with horses and  friends who opted-out for Florida and half-priced whiskey.  And, last but not least, the unwelcome accrual of aging angst.  In the end I did not turn out to be a penthouse dweller, beachcomber or horse whisperer.

Instead, I live in a house in Los Angeles, kiss my cat every day, do work that I love, sort my memories, enjoy new friends, cherish old ones, and write posts.

Still, I dream myself a film from time to time. I dream of my gentle, loving dog Bijela. Of someone showing up at the door with another sweet tempered windhound. Of needy houses. Graceful horses.

I dream of summer beaches, rippling harbors and dazzling sunsets.

I dream of a mythic Paradise with…

…and, voilà!, fat years.