Thursday, May 2, 2013

Dear Mr. Deadline


 noun \-ˌlīn\
1: a line drawn within or around a prison that a prisoner passes at the risk of being shot
Dear Mr. Deadline,

I am lost without you.  The way that you drift in and out of my life is simply not acceptable, at least not if you expect anything from me.  And, frankly, if you're not going to be around, it isn't fair for you to expect anything from me.  Nor are you likely to get anything.

See, I am probably your biggest fan, your biggest follower. Anytime you drop in, you have me at "date due." I'd rather get a calendar with you on it than one of those free ones from a Chinese restaurant, and those have geishas on them, or whatever the Chinese equivalent of a geisha is.  Maybe they are just representative Chinese women.  Anyway.

If you were a cult, I would drink the Kool-Aid.

You are my guiding light, my raison d'etre, the way I work, how I get things done, what keeps me out of trouble, the line in the sand, and, really, the only way that I can manage multiple obligations.

At the times I have been your perfect acolyte, at those times, you have inspired me to internalize your message, so much so that I would begin creating icons of you myself.  My worship was so fervent that I didn't need you right there so long as I knew that you were there to give me guidance and succor.  Even if you don't reveal yourself to me every day, I still need to know that you are there.

But the world is dark.  And sometimes it feels like you are not there at all, or that you used to be there, that you used to care, but that now you have gone somewhere else.  

Mr. Deadline, you used to be a part of this blog.  You were insistent, but not Draconian in your measures, for you allowed me to establish in my mind that 18 or so blogposts a month from us was sufficient and that as long as we fit those somewhere into the 4 weeks, give or take, of each month, you would not take us to task.

You used to perch high above me like a hungry condor. You were not friendly, but you kept your distance, only shifting the positions of your talons from time to time to remind me that you were up there.  You waited, but in your waiting, you made me never keep you waiting very long.

But now you are gone, flown who knows where, and I am like the indifferent child who has forgotten his catechism.  Without the nourishment you once provided my soul,  the near-daily devotions I would offer in return, I drift across the barren lands of television and computer games and other mindless distractions.

And I am afraid, condor.  I fear that you will come back, but not to oversee production of this blog, instead to feast on its rotting carcass.

1 comment:

rodle said...

So the whole time that you were saying the league is dead, you were really talking about your blog?