11.17.2011 Why Aren't You Writing? First Post

11.17.2011

First Post: At Bumbershoot, a few years back, a palm reader stood in the shade of a building, an enormous woman dressed ridiculously in a black-and-white striped short-sleeved shirt, holding a rhinestone-studded leash which ended at a tiny Chihuahua, stretched out as far as the tether would allow. Her handwritten sign, black marker on a scrap of cardboard, proclaimed her occupation and price. As I approached, the dog pulled even harder at its line, and a skinny man intercepted me to collect the fee, silently holding out his hand, evidently her (self-appointed?) agent.

I recall almost none of the details she read from the furrows in my hand, and related to me, except that they seemed on target. The only question she asked has followed me all these years. Somehow, she knew my secret desire, my guilty pleasure, that outlet I denied myself because I imagined it unworthy of the precious time invested. Rhetorical in nature, that query has encroached on my conscience since that fateful moment. I have been unable to ignore it, erase or delete it, and until now, incapable of finding an outlet. 

Hence, the name of this blog. 

My father was an engineer, kept a journal he called Wage Slave which outlined the unremarkable events of an unremarkable life. Since his passing some years ago, I have occasionally perused the pages of his journey across this planet. New dimensions of his personality emerge from those pages, painstakingly chiseled out of a portable manual typewriter - a luxury he allowed himself, I think - and another, more complex man takes shape before my child's eyes. Four over-sized volumes fill a handled file tote.

With reading and writing, perhaps I can liberate us both from that wordless tomb.