This blog started as fluke, like everything else. One random summer afternoon I walked out of my Russian 101 class. Exhausted from trying to understand animate constructions in the dative case I figured with no prior experience I would build a website from scratch. I needed a diversion and HTML was just as good and confusing as Cyrillic. Some lousy code, 5 bucks and 8 months later you’re reading this. What began as a seemingly pointless effort however was really, more or less, a thought waiting for fruition. It was a haunted question waiting for its chance to come out from under the dark, a song in my head stuck on repeat.
As the Mewithoutyou lyric might suggest, around the time I graduated high school I threw around the question of whether or not I believed in God anymore. I wondered if love still mattered to me. If passion ever existed. I read books asking if poetry was all I cracked it up to be. I thought of worms and corruption and I thought of life and wasn’t quite sure about any of it. Did I want to take a hammer to the granite cliffs of mystery, or stand in awe of them? Was corruption the deep-blue speckle of beauty–were the nibbled and frayed fringes of the world the intricate garments of a torn up prayer shawl or was the whole thing mangled to begin with?
So an excuse not to do Russian homework was really more an opportunity to explore my thinking. I’ve certainly gotten distracted along the way. This blog has drifted from fashion, to music, to photography, to poetry, to design, to absolutely nothing at all.
But here I am still wanting to continue. A frayed and nimble survivor of a fallen world. I get along. I am aging and eaten. I am not washed and beautiful and in control of a glimmering world in which everything fits but instead am wandering about a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for. The gnawed trees breathing their delicate air. The bloodied and scarred people sprinting and beating and shining overwhelmingly in spite of their imperfections.
Who knows what the internet is really good for. I don’t care. Whatever it is though, I guess this can bring me back to writing. Back to curiosity. Looking for the green throb as it flashes for a second across the dark horizon. Looking for the gale force of the spirit and the canary that sings on the skull. Looking for the tree with the lights in it, the light that does not go out, that shines on an old world, now feebly, now bright. Grace wholly gratuitous.
I read a book that said the blind who gain their sight late in life see the world as a thick and dense dazzle of color-patches. The experience is said to be excruciating and tormentingly difficult.
I want things to be so bright I question the dark marks.