Cat Does Not Have Blogger’s Tongue

Fragments: via Fracture app on iPhone 5s
Fragments: via Fracture app on iPhone 5s

While it does not register even the tiniest twitch on the digital Richter Scale, it’s kind of a big deal on my personal  storyline (circa 2002) when there are few words and pixels here at Fragments for much of May and June.

No the cat does not have my tongue or my keyboard for that matter. There are reasons, and there are excuses, and there is some truth to the fact that said cat has my writer’s mojo wrapped up in a hot June-July blanket of lethargy and ennui as happens this time every year. The hotter it gets, the less I want to be sociable.

I am at my most advanced level of curmudgeonly achievement around the time of the Summer Solstice–the hot-weather form of Seasonal Affective Disorder, as I have confessed before.

Add to that three out of town trips, two sets of out of town company, two automotive car-tastrophies, lots of civic editing and committee-meeting, the building of  the new Poultry Palace (anybody got laying hens for sale?) and far less Fred-time than I once had before the semi-retirement of Spouse.

On the issues front, there is no shortage of concerns, this morning’s being the combined disasters of wildfires in CA, WA and AK that are terrible for that’s happening to people and other living things on the ground, but from the larger view, for the portent for soils, watersheds, CO2 and soot and in Alaska, the impact of such additional heat on permafrost release of methane.

Alaska wildfires have burned over a million acres – and fire season still has a long way to go – The Washington Post

As if all that was not explanation enough for the Perfect Yawn–the opposite of the Perfect Storm to smother the flames of a 13-year-old blog–I have largely lost whatever zeal I used to gain from the blog-visiting community that for years made me feel energized, empowered and somehow obliged to tell my story, our story or to offer one biology-watcher’s perspective of the planet’s story as our “personal ecologies” impact the future.

So I’m in a mell of a hess, dear diary. My premise from June 2002 when this blog became a “permanent” part of my life was that I could come to know what I thought by seeing what it would be that I would say about any given topic of a morning. It didn’t matter WHAT topic, premeditated or spontaneous, as long as it was authentic, in some way edifying, entertaining for readers or fun to write or satisfying to show an image from nearby nature.

So I’m in a quandary. If I don’t write to the blog for any or all of those reasons above, I don’t very well know what I think. Lacking the intent to write, I don’t do the research or dwell in the contemplation of or take the care to get any deeper into a subject than a trivial surface browsing.  And that is not a state of disengagement I should be content with just yet. I am not ready to sit idly and silently rocking on the front porch, scowling at a world about which I have nothing to say.

I just don’t know where to take the conversations I used to have on the blog. Times have changed but Facebook is not my bully pulpit. I suppose I have some catching up to do with the times. Come here, cat: let me tall you a story.

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Fred First holds masters degrees in Vertebrate Zoology and physical therapy, and has been a biology teacher and physical therapist by profession. He moved to southwest Virginia in 1975 and to Floyd County in 1997. He maintains a daily photo-blog, broadcasts essays on the Roanoke NPR station, and contributes regular columns for the Floyd Press and Roanoke's Star Sentinel. His two non-fiction books, Slow Road Home and his recent What We Hold in Our Hands, celebrate the riches that we possess in our families and communities, our natural bounty, social capital and Appalachian cultures old and new. He has served on the Jacksonville Center Board of Directors and is newly active in the Sustain Floyd organization. He lives in northeastern Floyd County on the headwaters of the Roanoke River.

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  1. Beautiful collage, Fred! If your writing urge gets stilled I will be very sad, but every time you moan I say that. So, this time, I will say something different. It may be that with all the old-fashioned face time you now have in your life, it is a new chapter, one with one on one interaction. I know the conversations won’t be about the things you blog about perhaps, but old age is a good time to just focus on plain ole love as our purpose, nothing more nothing less. If the writing urge returns with cool weather and other inevitable changes in circumstances, I would be happy, but if not, I know your life journey will still be a worthy one.