Wednesday, 2 May 2012
It all happened impossibly fast.
In one prolonged moment of reality I talked and walked my way through (at least a moiety* of) Paris. The friend - considered both new (a new face, a new voice) yet tried and true (a familiar spirit with experiences shared through words - episodes that perhaps required only a bit of re-sequencing to make the pieces of my new, yet not-new friend's life fit into place in my mind) contemplated the state of our shared hobby, "I think blogging, it might be dead," she said.
It is not a new sentiment. I've heard bloggers of all degrees of rabidness discuss the longevity of this habit of ours.
But, when Franklin touched on it, a minnow-y little sadness gnawed at my heart. If ever there lived a craftsman with words, she'd live in Franklin. I would miss Franklin if I thought I would never again switch on the internet to find a couple of her paragraphs telling me something new or reminding me of something forgotten. She is a clear and insightful writer, and a firecracker of a woman. I don't want blogging to be dead because I would miss the firecrackers.
The Tuesday after my weekend in Paris, I think of Franklin's words as the taxi circles into the Zurich airport.
"She's quite possibly right, you know." I tell myself. "You've not written consistently in years. Since you've moved to Madrid. Maybe you've lost the spark, but just can't be honest with yourself."
Then I counter myself, "But there's always something to write about. You're just out of practice. Just open your eyes. Right now, as you pull into the Zurich airport, there must be something worth repeating!"
I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the deja vu of the circular entrance from the highway into the departures lane where the taxis drop off their early morning cargo. "That's it! That's the something, the observation you're looking for!" and what I had noticed was the sameness of airports. A sameness that extends as far as the gently-curved double-lanes that lead traffic inwards, counter clockwise, along the curbside where hardly any-departing-one checks their luggage anymore.
I thought I had stumbled upon an interesting, write-able observation (the sameness of airport 'driveways' - quite dull in retrospect).
The day progressed from Switzerland to Spain and then on to Dusseldorf.
Between countries, I had let work distract me. I hadn't written my insightful observation worthy of a blog post.
"Maybe in the hotel when you arrive." I tell myself on the airport shuttle bus which has just pulled away from the arrivals curbside, which, I notice, is curved inversely to its departures brethren.
I take out my phone and check my emails. Nestled between industry spam, a jaw-dropping message:
"Ellie: Good news! I've found your birthmother. She is excited to hear from you. She told me to tell you that you have a half sister and half brother, and they know about you. She will need to sign the consent form and then I can give you each others' contact information, so start thinking how you will want to proceed!"
Impossibly fast. Didn't I just write that letter?
*Word chosen because of its superficial kinship to the la-de-la-de-oooh-la-la gallic tongue.