This site is more a museum of me, my posts like exhibits behind panes of glass.
After watching Boyhood, I wonder if I’ve been looking at it all wrong. Perhaps there are no versions, but just me.
Sifting through my digital detritus
some rare moments of light
of the weight
I wish to escape
I’ve paralyzed myself as a result, and created a visual space that accommodates just one mode — a single version of me. I’ve left little room for experimentation; I’ve promised a certain experience for my readers. Or maybe this is all in my head, and I overthink things.
Maybe I just need to shut up and write.
I publish something on a blog when I have something to say, when a point can be made. I’m quiet otherwise. But real life happens in between status updates, doesn’t it? The mundane and uneventful, the low points, the days I feel ugly and inadequate — I wait until it all passes, until something crystallizes from the buildup.
I’m much too slow to be part of the day’s internet chatter. More reflective than reactive, I find that once I’ve formulated a response to a Big Idea, everyone else has moved on. It’s already hard to write, period. To write for others is harder.
I’ve been wondering what to do with this blog, and I’m leaning toward creating a static front page, pointing to category collections and posts I’m proud of — and moving away from the blog format completely. Preserving the best moments of me, with my posts acting like exhibits in a museum.
Do we really write to get things out of us? Do we ever shake these things — these things we’re deeply curious about, these things we’ve experienced and have changed us to the core?
On pondering where my writing lives.
I have nearly 50 drafts in my blog’s dashboard — waiting, forgotten, abandoned.