Blog? That's the best they could come up with?

Blog- I really dislike the word.  It doesn't roll off your tongue.  It doesn't dance.  It doesn't inspire.  It doesn't drip, snap, or crackle.  It plops.  It has a hard consonant sound, but lacks the crispness of "go" or "thug" or "crack" or "stick".  It smells a little funny. Looks like Lurky of Rainbow bright fame.  It's sticky, but not sweet.  You'd push it around your plate or feed it to the dog if it were served.  It's a maggot.  It's lazy.  It's rude.  Its the Jabba the Hut of words.  Blog.  Despicable Blog.  But I haven't the energy or the patience to wage war against a word.  I don't know that I take myself seriously enough to wage war on anything.  War is serious business, but not mine.  That's a discussion for later days, I think.  Please, stop me when I start to ramble like that... here we've been chatting familiarly almost long enough where it'd be uncomfortable to introduce (or reintroduce) myself and it'd be uncomfortable for you to ask. 

I'm Spring.  I'm the girl who fell in love with a river.  The East Fork of the Lewis River, to be more precise.  I don't suppose the names of the girl or the river matter, though, monikers having been transcended by the foolish notion of a person falling for a body of water.  I've wanted to start writing, er, blogging for awhile.    I've never kept journal.  Too bad, really.  Physically making your mark, pen on paper, is hugely satisfying.  I was here.  I have a canvas with marks on it to prove it.  Beautiful connection between mind and body.  Hand a direct extension of the brain.  There's also something therapeutic about the non-physical side of writing.  It makes me listen to what I have to say, even if I'm not saying much at all.   It's easy to start ignoring yourself.  It's harder to listen.  And if you're me, remembering is even harder still.  If I write it down, if I read what I wrote, I can remember what I told myself.  If I blog it, I can remember where I wrote it down. 

Why start today?  Here's why: it's almost midnight and my kitchen window is missing.  Really.  A few hours ago, my worse half was impaled by a clock.  My dog is neurotic.  I hurt inside and out.  Every warning light in my car is on.  Low tire pressure.  Low fuel.  Check engine.  Change oil.  I stopped wearing my seat belt so that one is on too.  I lack purpose on some days and direction on most.  I don't have a job, a path, a song, or a dime to my name.  But the sun was shining today.  My beautiful, perfect, kitchen-windowless world was illuminated.  Troubles are hard to see with the sun in your eyes.  My river whispered in my ear that I should take the night off.  Said I deserve it.  I decided to write it down so I wouldn't forget.