The thing about starting a new writing space (such as this) is that it makes you think about all of your other writing spaces and what the heck you’re writing about. And why you even have so many writing spaces when you end sentences with the word about.
Back in the year 2000…which oh-by-the-way was 11 years ago, meaning, there are now middle schoolers who were born well after the great Y2K scare, and just think about that for a moment…Okay, as I was saying, in 2000, I was in a pretty severe auto accident when I was hit by a drunk driver. It was bad. I couldn’t walk, I talked like Forrest Gump, I had brain swelling issues, and I had to move in with my parents. Let’s just say I wasn’t really rocking out the year 2000. And as a residual result of this or as a natural result of getting old, well, basically, my memory is shit.
This is why I write.
As I mentioned before, I started Blog con Queso a long time ago to share photos of my infant with my sister. I no longer have this need, and yet, The Queso remains. It’s evolved a few times since 2005, I’ve changed platforms twice, and I’ve lost most of 2006/2007 in a vortex of WordPress, but whatever. I didn’t start something called Blog con Queso for SEO purposes. I started it to record my days.
I feel like I’ve come full circle in this.
In the spirit of Annie Dillard’s often-butchered quote, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives,” I feel like The Queso has truly become a place where I record just that. Little tidbits of our lives. Sometimes more. Or less. Maybe in the Fall, when Harry starts Kindergarten (eeks!), I’ll have more time to write in more detail, but for now, it’s just about the discipline of recording a highlight (or a lowlight) each day so that I can collect and recollect how the days passed.
I think Hitting Refresh will be an extended dance mix of select, tracked days. Where I go into more detail. Because life in Central Texas is a little bit strange. Plus, this space opens up more possibilities for candid expression…because most of my relatives read my personal blog, and they’ll potentially not see the love in my cheery references to a 107-degrees-outdoor wedding where the best man was a huntin’ dog and the teenage bride walked down a white-plastic-sheet-of-an-aisle, on which guests lined their flip flops as weights to prevent the fancy plastic from blowing away over the drought-burned land. (Skipping over why anyone was wearing flip flops to a wedding anyway.) And they’ll know exaaactly who I’m talking about when I say, at this same wedding, my drunk aunt introduced my brother to my mom. True stories.
It’s always entertaining around here.
And I don’t want to forget that.