A Decade of Adoresixtyfour

Today marks the 10th anniversary of this blog.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

I mean, I guess it's pretty awesome that I've been writing and/or posting photos here (and at this blog's predecessor site, which had a dedicated URL that, for some insane reason, I paid for instead of using Blogger's free, easier service) for so long. As mind-numbing and eye-blearing as my day job can be, it's good--healthy, even--to have an outlet for my more creative impulses.

This blog has also been a great venue for expressing emotional traumas of varying degrees--from the deaths of close friends like Kaytee and Gretchen, to the passing of beloved pets like Lottie and Ms. Christopher (who left this world three years ago today--anniversary convergence), to the continuing lack of love/dating/sex in my life (trust me--anyone reading this, no matter who you are, has gotten some more recently than I have) and the related woes of Valentine's Day, to the slow-but-certain vanishing of the city I grew up in to the personal reaction to the national tragedy of 9/11--much has been vented here. Also good. Also healthy.

But what has that decade amounted to, really?

Am I in a better mental/physical/spiritual place than I was in October 2001? Not really.

Has this blog attracted thousands or hundreds or, hell, a dozen regular readers? Despite attempts to pimp it out on MySpace, then Twitter and finally Facebook, no, it has not.

There were several individuals who, that decade ago, urged/pushed me to do something with whatever writing/photographic talent I may/may not have, and most of them--most notably JB and Jessie--are still here. Others, though, are no longer friends while still others, as noted above, are no longer even alive.

So where, 10 years down the bumpy, toruous road, does that leave me? I don't know.

Does this blog matter in the great scheme of things? does it even matter that much to me anymore, given that, most days, I only post photos here, usually without comment? Where do I go from here, if anywhere?

On. I go on.

Treading water can be fine exercise, but it doesn't really get you anywhere. Far better to lean forward or lie back, start kicking my legs, and head for shore, even if shore is nowhere in sight and my legs are already tired--likely from the weight of this cumbersome metaphor.

(Oh...and for those wondering why I have the photos of a sunflower at the top of this entry and a sunset at the bottm? No particular reason. I just liked them. Hope you do, too.)

"HE'S NOT GETTING ANY"

So reads the headline, in huge white block letters, on the cover of today's RedEye. In slightly smaller type, though still in white block letters, it says "SHE'S NOT EITHER." And in smaller white type at the bottom of the page: "And chances are, neither are you. New sex stats are out--and Chicago is one frigid city."

I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that so many of my fellow Chicagoans also aren't getting any, though I doubt most of them have spent as much time on the windswept plains of the planet Dune as I have (12 years and counting).

But I don't.

Spring in the Air (and Other Places)

What I love about spring in Chicago:

The dark, gnarled trees of March and April suddenly explode with blossoms of green and pink and white, turning an overcast world into one shaded with color and alive with fragrance.

What I hate about spring in Chicago:

All the fine young women of our fair city, previously cloaked in multiple layers through the long fall and longer winter months, now are adorned in short sleeves and frequent smiles. The train ride to work this a.m. was nearly unbearable, featuring as it did a redhead who looked like Molly Ringwald, a blonde who looked like Hillary Scott and a brunette who looked like a pre-extreme-weight-loss Lara Flynn Boyle.

I liked it far better when I couldn't see what I was missing.