it's over. move to somnia.

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Over the past couple of days, I've been thinking about how long it will take me to find my true blog voice, my automatic register that will reflect my unique and charming personality. The more often I write, the quicker it should come, right? And what will it sound like when it does come? Will it be like my strident movie review of this past Monday? Will it be a quirky-breezy pastiche of thoughts, like last Thursday's reflection on consumer spending and changing inspiration? Will it be more like last Friday's nonsensical time-filler? Or will it be one of those tedious self-reflexive jobbers, overemploying hoity-toity affixes like meta- and -esque?

Maybe I could swipe from someone else's style. I could be Joan Didion and interrupt my recounting of St. Patrick's Day dinner with my father (during which he regaled me with stories of our East-Coast relatives' petty animosities) with something like

Q. What is Irish Alzheimer's?
A. You forget who you hate beyond the fifth generation.

and then continue apace in describing my evening, my discerning eye pointing out the significance of details otherwise taken for granted.

I could emulate another of my favorite authors, Pico Iyer, in treating everything as if I were a stranger in a strange land, with no moorings to speak of apart from a global community of those always on the go. The only catch is I am still living within a hundred miles of my birthplace, where my father still is, and I am not yet employed in a position with the elasticity to leave the Bay Area more often than three or four times a year. No, that's wrong. I just don't have my destinations straight.

I like to do things in threes, but another author escapes me now. Oh, wait! I’ll be Lorrie Moore and dwell on the tiny happinesses and tinier (but more numerous) sadnesses of my life as an ordinary person without great ambition. I will sigh, but privately. Then again, privacy is not the purpose of blogging.

Let’s see, shall we?
peachy as always, Mike at 12:52 PM