A Life of Randomness

For somebody trying to encourage others to charge their voice, my own is feeling tired. I'm going to share some of my personal life in this blog, an impulse I normally try to avoid.

I have noticed that no one besides me posts here anyway. This is more like a diary of some of my favorite voices in media-land...as opposed to anything else. I think this is fine. I've also contributed thoughts these same articles aroused in me. They are interspersed, here and there.

In other words, this blog is subdued and quiet, because it's just me here. There's no evidence of anybody popping in and out. Then again, I don't require this in order to feel motivated to blog. For some, I think this would defeat the purpose of blogging at all, because it is considered an act of networking and socialization. However, I consider it a log-book, of sorts.

For the random voyeur venturing into my quarter, just this once I'll give you a few tid bits concerning me. I'm living in San Diego now. I don't feel at liberty to talk about work, though I am dutifully and happily employed.

I was drawn to this city because I was born here, but my memories of this city are few. My parents chose to move a year and a half after I was born. Like many working class people here, they could afford to be here by living in a fifth wheel next to the airport. Anybody who knows anything about San Diego knows it is very expensive to live here, and corrupt. But there is an advantage to being where the money is: employers can afford to pay their workers, and they need them here. There are so many jobs.

My parents didn't want to raise me in the city. They moved me away to what they thought would be a more wholesome life. They bought a farm, near the Olympic Mountains. In hindsight, they were right. I didn't know what we'd left, but I know I grew up very differently than I would have here. I would not have had as much opportunity. I wouldn't have understood certain fundamentals. The city, by contrast, has not been that difficult to figure out.

I am glad that my father got to escape the city. I know that being born and bred in the city, he had long dreamed for more than this. For me, I am glad I've come back. I feel like I've come home. I'm sure it would disappoint them, since they worked so hard to get me out of here. It isn't easy to do. After I was born, they had to work very hard that entire year and a half to save for their permanent departure. It didn't get easier. My parents eventualy divorced, and my father lost his farm. People suffer when they work so hard for something, and lose it. Crushed dreams go down like sour milk. You blame others. You get angry. You can't bear it. His children don't talk to him, including me. The pain that exists between my father and me is like an impenetrable wall.

I would like to know where his son is, though. I have a dual purpose for being here. I know that I have an older brother that he won't talk to. I know he wants to find us. I want to find him. My father won't help me. But...I finally managed to get some personal information that I think might help me. My father taught me that family doesn't turn its back on each other. He may not have been able to live up to this, but I will in his place. Of course, my father tends to consider my thoughts and motives in disingenous terms. He is better read and well spoken, true. But others hearts are elusive to him. I don't think he trusts anyone, honestly, let alone taking their feelings seriously.

But...I want you to imagine something about the degree of difficulty I am having in tracking my lost brother down. "John Smith" is a very, very common name. Though I have more to go on than I did in the past, it isn't enough.

I have imagined that my brother looks like me and my other brother. There is a strong family resemblance due to genetics that is just undeniable. Furthermore, there is a strong personality trait that is difficult to ignore that I know this man must also have. Also, I have to wonder if this man knows he may have inherited certain health issues from my father (which both my brother and me have,) that he would understand better if he became familiar with us. I feel deeply in my heart that if my brother tried to meet us once, he must be willing to try again. He must have the urge to know himself better, and I want to help him. I just wish I knew how to find him.