I have a three-ring binder next to my desk that says “blogging to do” on it. It’s full of completely fascinating and/or useless and/or totally half-baked ideas (for example: how is it possible that “CamelCase” and “midcap,” although synonymous in the senses defined on the pages I’ve just linked to, never appear anywhere together? Is this a kind of etymological Ladyhawke?). And I worry that if Johnson was right with that business about blockheads and writing and money, then I’m in danger of slipping into a deep well of threefold blockheaditude here (by which I mean 1) not writing 2) occasional squibs 3) for free). And I worry that a sardonic Web site tag line (see above) has the potential to devolve from self-deprecation to self-fulfilling prophecy. But really, what’s left this space to the silence of the tumbleweeds and the night cries of the robot spiders for the last four weeks (Speaking of spider robots, that not-blogging apology compilation? Here. Via.) are the mundane and and humbling and time-consuming details of looking for a house to buy. (Hence the title, since I’ve been thinking quite a bit recently about the things we do or don’t do because of other things we have to do or not do, and how we are transformed by those decisions; see also, perhaps, Emerson’s intercalated heavenly days.)
(Other recent preoccupations: Is it possible that we might someday actually directly vote for the President? That we might all stop beating the shit out of each other? That we might save the world? Or at least, in the attempt, make it more freaky beautiful?)
But: the upshot: we think we might have found a place. (Fingers crossed.) And so, with any luck, I can safely say: more soon.