Todd Terwilliger

T.S. Elliot, or somebody who looked a lot like him if you looked at him in a certain way, told me once that April was the cruelest month. Given the temperature the other day in New York City was ninety degrees in the shade, that the city had bypassed Spring all together for a sweltering August, I was, in that moment, almost faint and weak from thirst, inclined to agree. “By god,” I thought, “soon it’ll all be a- a-” “A wasteland”, ersatz Elliot answered, “exactly my point. Breeding lilacs and all that.” I don’t know anything about that lilacs bit, I’m a writer not a gardener. What I did know is that I was already behind in my Script Frenzy daily, weekly, and hourly quotas.

I’m sitting here, drinking a cup of Gold Kili instant Chocolate Latte which, frankly, tastes in the neighborhood of chocolate but nothing near a latte, and I’m wondering about this impromptu seven month hiatus I’ve found myself on. There must be a reason, right? Some deep movement in my emotional, sub-conscious tectonic core? No… At least, I don’t think so. That’s the short answer. I have longer answers, of course.

I’ve come to a decision. I do not like the term, “blogger”. I don’t know what, exactly, a “weblog” is but I don’t like it. Okay, I know what a weblog is as a practical matter but what is it, really? I’m not logging webs or webbing logs. I’m not keeping a log of the web nor keeping a web of a log. I’ve seen logs, loafs, bars, and loads, and my interest in them is, at best, tangential. The only webs I’m interested in are the spun-out lairs of the spiders in my bathroom and what interest I had in those I have already expressed. No, whatever currency the term “weblog” had with me is spent. I must define myself elsewhere.