I hope you know what you're doing . . .

I remember, when I was a kid, I was talking to a couple other kids and I mentioned that I did a good vampire impersonation. They expressed their disbelief of my claim, so I did it for them. I don’t remember the exact line I used, but something to the effect of, “I want to suck your blood.” Focus was on the tone and enunciation, I saw no need to get overly creative with the words chosen. After my short performance, both of these boys leaped at the chance to belittle me, as only boys under the age of 10 can do. They informed me that my impersonation was not the quality one should have in their vampire voice, if one is going to mention having one. I thought it was pretty good. So one of the two boys said to me that the other boy did a good vampire. Without hesitation, this other boy starts, “Hello, would you mind if I sucked your blood?” in a slightly-deeper-than-his-actual-voice tone. There was barely a trace of an attempt at a Transylvanian accent. Both boys smiled in the satisfaction that they had just shown me what a vampire is supposed to sound like. Since it was two against one, the votes were in and I had lost this impromptu competition, but it was so obvious that the guy had never even done a vampire impression before. He’d never even thought to try before the moment that his friend put him on the spot! At least he gets props for split-section reaction time.

I bump up against the issue of having a blog. There’s something about putting my thoughts up on the internet in hopes that someone will take the time to read it that strikes an ill chord in me. If someone does read it, it’s good. Many people who keep blogs don’t care all that much if it gets read, and just having it there is its purpose. Or maybe one has an absolute certain audience, like family or old friends that keep up to date on one’s affairs through the writings. But my experiences in the past make me think that this would not be the case for me.

When I was around 8 or 9, I was spending time with my grandparents in Missouri. They had a cat that had somehow managed to get knocked up by some wild tomcat and it had 9 or 10 kittens. When the kittens were around a month or older, my brothers and I named them all. They were named after various characteristics each of them had, some physical and some behavioral. We had determined which were the boys and which were the girls (yes, we checked), and they all had appropriate names. The only name I remember was Panda. Panda was named, as you may think, for his coat’s patterns and colors. He was the mean one, and the one that any other nearby kitten would protect. We learned this because we made it a quest to capture all of them, as they lived in an old hollow tree, which they accessed via a hole in one of the large roots. We set up these flower cages my grandma had (designed to keep rabbits out of her flowers in her garden), labeled each one with a name of a kitten, set them up in a row, and worked diligently at filling each cage. We never did fill them all, as at the end of each day our grandma made us let them go. Why did we do this? We had (or at least I had) intentions of setting up signs on the side of the road so that passing motorists would see that we have captured all these kittens, and they would stop, get out of their cars, and admire our work, and admire the kittens. I mean, what wasn’t there to admire? They were kittens! And they had good names! But no one ever stopped. The most anyone did, if they did anything at all, was smile and wave as we tried to flag them down with our sign. I remember getting frustrated with those people. What I had to show them was important to me! Why wouldn’t they stop?

It wasn’t until ten or more years later that I remembered all of that and realized why. They didn’t care. And there was no shame on their end for not caring. If any had stopped, they wouldn’t be admiring these kittens-on-display. They would be, at best, charmed by these little boys who are so proud of their display, and would probably say something lame like, “Well aren’t you boys quite the wildlife trappers!” and then likely be on their way. It would all miss the point. The point being something of which Gavin, Nathan, and I weren’t really sure, but we knew it wasn’t to be seen as cute kids.

I kicked around the idea of starting this blog for a couple of days, and nearly didn’t because it felt like I’d be putting kittens in cages again. I’ve done it before, and I found myself getting frustrated when I realized that no “motorists” were stopping to read. There is the whole theological and moral side of it, about narcissism and whatnot. But we can save that deeper discussion for later. What has happened is that I’ve felt something inside of me for a while now telling me that I need to create. I need to write songs, I need to work on my story, and the thought of doing these things feels like waking up to soft sunlight in my room on a warm summer day with nothing to do but what I choose.

So here I go.