Obfuscation has always been one of my strong points. Which is perhaps why I'm such a hard-to-pin down writer. Some people would say "undisciplined." Other people would say poor. But it always feels to me, when I'm making a specific point or argument, driving the direction of the words like a drover bearing down toward dusk, that I'm hastily retreating from something. That I'm avoiding the moon by chasing the sun. That the second I scribble a statement, the permanence of it seems to mock me.
I went to see Dave Eggers give a talk in college, and though his solidly written books aren't always the most prominently displayed on my shelves, to hear him talk was revelatory. He seemed to offer a relatable and loose look at what it is to write. He was asked a question by an audience member about why there are multiple additions to one of his books and why one is 45 pages longer (this particular audience member felt slighted, was unaware until recently). He basically said, "I don't know! Have you ever written something and just felt like that is it? I'm done. Because I never have. I'm always wanting to change things, always wanting to have my writing reflect what I know at any given moment wanting to do more work."
As I attempt to collect the fragments of my life to kintsugi back together, I see my wabi sabi sense has been obscured by a Hokusai wave frozen on the shore for some time. Leaving me feeling locked in the museum of me for one hell of a long night, licking turned out candy wrappers and drinking out of chip bags. But even a museum of the self is connected to some natural history, and in the basement I find a lot written on the walls (it's a library and I'm researching a video tape).
There is a legacy of needs. What to eat, how to live and how to die. But even more there are gray areas. Gray periods. Oh and colors too. But things are not hard and they are not fast. There are bean bag chairs and there is a cheese cart and butterbeer on tap. Which is a way of saying, when you hunker down within yourself, you can find such surprising wealth and comfort (crack open Vladamir's chest and see the butterflies pour out).
What's real to a generation who has seen firsthand that hard work does not necessarily lead to success or good fortune, that the government can in no way be trusted or relied upon to govern its own people, and who are immune to fear of disease and bad health, because if they let it in, they'd spend every waking WebMD-given minute in their hermetically sealed beds.
FAME BEEECHEZ! Disappointing, right? But, like it or not, it's real when so much else in the world has showed itself to be other than advertised. And I'm going to do it, everyone. I'm going to get real (*Pinterest) famous. Ay, there's the rub. Because if you know me, you know that damn near the last thing in the world I would want is to be face/name recognizable by street civilians. Sometimes even thinking of being Instagram or Blog famous cues my stomach to make weird whirring noises of discomfort. But Pinterest, on the other hand, I could be real into that. Here's why. (WARNING: If you don't like Pinterest you may want to close this window, also I don't get you).
A place for product updates, inspiration, behind the scenes stuff, and in general a place for mind meandering.