4/20 doesn't make me think of Burlington. It often feels as if I live in a city that, save perhaps Amsterdam, celebrates the date with more laid-back panache than anywhere else I know or have heard of. Yet I think less Vermont in April, more upstate New York in July.

Woodstock '99 gave me my first DMB experience, a whole lot of anecdotes and my first (and thus far, only) stories involving medical tents and IVs. Each night I attempted to sleep in the humidity-drenched discomfort of my tent, I'd listen to the sounds of the campground between, say, 2:30 and 6 a.m. I'd hear the call echo from somewhere between Abbey Lane and Strawberry Fields.

"4:20!!!!!!" The shout was followed by cheers, whistles, cowbells or whatever else someone had handy. And then a collective moment of silence as, from my sleeping bag perspective, everyone lit up.

Every half hour on the hour. Which was funny to be, considering that the actual time doesn't fall on a half hour.

I walked outside this afternoon to enjoy a little bit of the sunshine when I heard the call come from across the street.

I checked the clock and was surprised to see that I actually was hearing the rally cry at the proper time.

Go figure.

In other news. Each night, for about the past week, I've said goodnight to whomever was inside whatever residence at which I was staying. I've climbed between the sheets of whatever bed in which I would sleep. And I've opened my notebook to write about whatever day happened to be coming to a close.

Considering that I intended to post the contents of those notes on this space...and there hasn't been anything posted in a week...well, you figure out the rest of the story.

I'm a writer. It's what I do. I write when I'm happy, I write when I'm sad, I write about writing. I'm one of those "I'm going to write a novel" people. And while I suppose there's material worthy of being blogged, the utter exhaustion that has dominated the past few weeks leaves me absolutely brain-dead when it comes to writing it.

And what would I write that I haven't already written? I feel like a broken record. Same things, same people, same whatever. Same me.

It's not that I'm complaining. I am tired, this is true. Each day feels more rushed and tiring than the one that preceeded it, with the weekends often even busier than the days for which they are intended to provide relief. But I gave up the right to complain - and, in many respects, any reason to complain - the moment I decided to spend two weekends zooming from Burlington to Boston and back again.

I just don't have a hell of a lot to say. And the more I really want to write something, the fewer words I'm coming up with.

So earlier this afternoon, I was online, reading other people's blogs while cursing myself for continuing to neglect my own, when I found myself reading a commentary.

And then, somewhere between the bedsheets and 6 a.m., I realized something: Blogging wasn't helping me write; it was keeping me from it.

Wait. What's this? She went on:

I had come to this realization before, but the moment would pass, and I would find myself percolating with small, quotidian stories that I wanted to share

Amen, sister. I'm still with you...

...Thus the blog I started, thinking no one would read it and secretly hoping they would. The blog was the perfect bluff for a self-conscious writer like me who yearned for the spotlight and then squinted in its glare. When I needed to pretend that people were reading, I could. When I needed to pretend that nobody was reading, I could...

Hello, kindred spirit. I clicked over to her blog, where she had reflected on the space she had occupied for about five years.

...it is a verbose, at time cringe-inducing, record of the last five years. I like this. I am ridiculously nostalgic...and having a public record of my life pleases me, makes me feel a little taller in the world.

She was describing precisely what I had tried to say several times over the years - usually when either my parents were asking me why on earth I'd put my life out there on THE INTERNET for STRANGERS TO CONSUME, or when I was getting into one of the (rare) arguments/debates about the merits of writing out of my mind and onto a screen.

I kept on reading, seeing phrases and thoughts that had recently come to my mind. It wasn't just me! Hallelujah! I'm not a doomed would-have-been writer burnt out or forever incapable of stringing together a witty or heartfelt sentence!

Back to the commentary - titled, I should note - "Why I shut down my blog."

As much as I loved writing online, it's a relief writing offline: taking time to let a story unspool, to massage a sentence over an afternoon's walk, to stew for days - weeks even - on a plot line. What a modern luxury.

And that's when I started to feel better.

Posts might be less frequent for a bit, as I'm going to try getting back into this whole "Love Thy Notebook" mentality. I'm not shutting it down...but don't wonder if I've run away or anything.

I haven't yet, anyway.

But please note the link on the right.

Email.

I love receiving it. I love writing it.

Want to know what's going on? How I'm doing?

Just ask me yourself.