A Homily for the Blogger

Act 1

I have found that I enjoy the process of my mind wandering aimlessly on the page  searching earnestly for some semblance of structure and form. An yet I find something so odd, so contrived about exposing this process to the public.  The ink dries, the hand freezes , and the creativity slows like honey dripping from a tea spoon. But by far the most appauling of occurrences is the aversion of my attention.  The audience becomes them, instead of him.  I am forced to assume responsibility for the words that precipitate the pen.  The pen which once granted me freedom, now demands significance, precision,  eloquence.  If the demands are meant I received praise.  But such a prize comes at a heavy cost.

Writing can be sacred, an act shared between the father and his children.  The I am, makes for  quite an audience.  His silence, though suffocating can be refreshing-a reminder that the floor is open. The air is clear and the spot light shines on me.  On this stage I am being listened to and heard, not interpreted.  What an audience you are.

Teach me to listen as you do, to disappear in the crowd.  To exit the stage right, and allow for the final act.