And in the great tradition of near 40 somethings everywhere, and to the surprise of no one who has suffered the celebrated mid-life crisis, I have taken up golf.  I wanted to put quotes around that but I think from a correct english stand point it is not necessary. The quotes would remind the reader, me, about twice a year, that I have only taken up golf if that term means I stand on a hot course and curse and yell as I swing my clubs around like I am trying to swat flies off the ground.  My game is non existence. I tell myself that this is some kind of mirror of life; life is hard, golf is hard. But really isn't life hard enough?  Do I not get pleasure out of older hobbies?  Biking, running, weight lifting in the winter months?  I think I do.  There is often a sense of pleasure once a work out is over.  On long runs there is that mind interrupted feeling when you pause to realize you haven't been thinking the last half mile or so.  That is the mission accomplished feeling I always search for, often through booze. 
But golf seems to just bring annoyance, pain, aggravation. A truly weird game.  And yet, once every 10 times I get this perfectly laid, crisp, wonderful shot that reverberates throughout my body and into my head and makes me smile just slightly.  This isn't the thing I look back on like the old running blogs of my early Baton Rouge years.  No, this is just a grind.  A stupid, costly, meaningless grind. Somehow I have tricked myself that it is necessary. I have created little mini goals, none of which I have made.  Though maybe I have?  Maybe the goals were just to learn the game?  Haven't I made it that far.  That should be enough for year one, right?
 

Two posts last year. Let's see if we can beat that.  Though I think the term "blog," is pretty much shelved at this point.  I can still look at these old entries every 5 years or so and catch a glimpse into my past.  I will save the stories of my son and wife; travels to visit family, and the desolate feeling of walking streams littered with beer cans for my personal diary entries.  Kept in small black notebooks, ranging in size and thickness; having both work related notes, thoughts on the day, and shitty, shitty little poems.
I grow more inward lately. Fake spats with nobody in particular. I don't actually have anyone to bounce ideas off right now.  I don't ever actually bounce ideas though. Even when I am with someone i usually listen then talk (not listening).

My runs lately take be besides the Harpeth River. Once while it was flooded I saw a blue heron doing its delicate one leg balance, anxiously watching the infinite out of its tiny bird eye. I was reminded again of my runs in Baton Rouge. How I knew someday I would look back at those first few years as the best times of my life.  Not that anything was happening but that I felt an awakening.  I can't describe it with words; though I am a twice a year blogger, my ability to form sentences has never been strong.