For various reasons, I haven't been much of a conversation lately. It doesn't matter if you catch me during the day or in the evening after I've arrived home. The proof is in the blog actually, where output has been particularly sparse. Judging by AdSense statistics, a blog feature that allows me to monitor internet traffic, you've all noticed this too. Average "hits" per day are currently down to about half what they had been when I began paying attention. When I'm firing on any cylinders, I'm at least inclined to rant about some innocuous band, night out on the town, or pop culture personality begging for vigilantism. My "insights" lately have come only in the form of links to other things I find insightful, and this "exercise" has become a poor man's musical DrudgeReport.
I've been working a lot lately; partly because I have a lot of work to do, and partly because it's a welcome distraction from what is easily the most difficult circumstance I've ever encountered. Work alone, or at least in part, is responsible for some of my reclusive behavior. The degree to which my job has an impact on my personality is sometimes staggering. With the vast majority of waking life solely dedicated to the mundane, however, it's no wonder passivity has crept into some of the things that make me tick.
This is something I've never discussed before in this forum. Actually, I rarely even mention this to those closest to me. This being said, perhaps certain elements I'm about to touch upon shouldn't surprise.
In August of 2006 my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I vividly remember the phone conversation during which I was told. I felt numb. It wasn't that I was overcome with grief so much as I just couldn't move. With a little time this became an obstacle she and we would shortly overcome. With more time - during which she has undergone numerous rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, pain, and bad news - what was once visible silver lining has been eclipsed by stage four cancer, and, more often than not, I just don't know what to do with myself. Once confined cervical cancer spread to her lymph nodes, and now to her spine and arm.
When it comes to antics, you couldn't find a family more enthusiastically verbose, whether it's my mother's otherworldly sense of humor and page turning personality, or my father's willingness to explain the intricacies of downloading music long after his captive (and functionally computer illiterate) audience has freed itself in an escape worthy of a Shawshank sequel. We don't really do serious, however. Actually, scratch that. We do "serious" with our mouths shut. Alone. In the dark. Don't get me wrong. We talk. We talk every day. I just can't help but feel I'm sheltered, to a degree, from the brunt of some looming terror.
Continuing in the vein of familial anthropology, my mother is the singular greatest person you've ever met. She is known and loved by everyone in the New York metropolitan area. And that's not hyperbole. But I don't have to tell you that. If god, justice, or karma exist, she'll be dancing and singing on a karaoke machine near you before you can say "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?" Maybe then I'll have something to say.
