Suburban Son

Damn near a year since my last stop here.

Not much has changed in this corner of the blogosphere. My secret self hasn’t snuck downstairs after I’ve long gone to bed to wax poetic on life, love and leisure while I twist about in secret sheets upstairs unaware of what keys are being struck below. Wasn’t entirely sure what I’d find once I found my way back here. A carcass stripped of all but old meat? Even the wild dogs of occasional opportunity aren’t left with much to chew on I’m afraid, just the mangy taste of the putrid past. A meal that’s not entirely proud to serve.

Things have changed, but not here, a fossil etched in text just waiting to be rediscovered, perused and cross checked for relevance. Browsing back on what I thought was important at the time is a moving accouterment on the shelf of curiosities that spot the collection plate I call experience. I’ve always been a sloppy self documentarian; kept notes, collection pieces, drawings, paintings, audio, video, snapshots and run on sentences my entire life. Trying to find meaning? Perhaps; or maybe just waiting for a defining moment to shift these aging gears and give meaning to an otherwise pedestrian life.

My world is a different place, I hope yours is to. No, I haven’t found God nor have I stumbled upon a street car of Canadian Pesos, much better than that...

I’m a dad.

His name is Presley, and he is my favorite person.
Four months old and the very reason I crawled from the ooze of development (maybe not entirely of course, but at least I have the odd flipper/tentacle up on the sand – anything might be considered an improvement or at very least in the right direction).