My favorite song lyric is from “Box Full of Letters” by Wilco: “I just can’t find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read”.

This sums up my feeling about writing.  I want to write, in fact I do in drips and splatters.  I just can’t ever finish anything that I start, or polish anything into the shine I think it should have.

I feel like that about blogging too.  Conflicted.  I WANT to blog but I don’t know if I really have anything interesting to say.  I start more posts than I ever publish.

I’m listening to The Baseball Project as I write and thinking about this weekend’s round of College World Series regionals.  I love baseball.  I love college baseball.  I wish I knew enough about baseball to write about it but I’m more of a causal fan.  Oh, I know my stats and positions.  I know most of the major league players and some of the better minor league.  But that’s just part of knowing the game, enjoying how it’s played.

I love music the same way.  That excitement of fining a new band before most anyone else you know.  The quite snobbery of KNOWING that I probably listen to better music than you do…whoever you are.  The great friends I have met through music at stale little bars and in people’s front yards.  I’d like to write about that too.  I just don’t actually know enough about music to do so.  I know what I like and I could probably tell you why I like it, sort of.

Writing about my Parkinson’s disease is even more difficult.  It’s personal.   It affects my emotions as well as my body.  Sometimes I feel like I have no control of anything anymore.  My entire right side of my body is in constant revolt, I cry sometimes for little or no reason because I’m low on dopamine, my house is a mess, my tires need to be rotated, my cane in starting to really hurt my hand because I rest so much of my weight on it when I walk, and it ticks me off that I can’t paint my bedroom.  I feel like any time I post about PD I either sound whinny or ultra upbeat like a cheer-leader.  Neither really relates to how I feel.  Honestly, I am getting to the point where I don’t remember how it felt to walk without a limp.  Oddly, that’s a comfort.

I wish I was a writer.   I guess that comes from being a reader.  Instead I’ll settle for the occasional blog post.

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