I think I first fell in love with words on the sick notes my mom wrote when I was little. Before I knew the shapes as sounds and meaning, I could only look at them as loops and lines tracing the force of her badass maternal power. Her hand, graceful and queenly, swept across a page and I was released from school. What magic.
I stayed home sick from work today. And no other day but today could be as perfect to finally start this fucking blog. I mean, that’s what I’ve told myself, and look! After years of mentally drafting and abandoning for dead what were probably perfectly fine introductions, I’m here, writing, and that’s a mighty upward shift in my stream of being.
“But everyone has a blog. Fuck blogs. Fuck the vanity. Just another flapping tongue in the babel. Oh, you travel? Oh, you cook? You meditate? You’re in New York and struggling to make something of yourself like anyone actually gives a shit?” I hiss as I sit, and read your blogs, and – ugh, you got me – actually do give a shit.
The moon is full tonight, and I’m doing away with that petty variety of insecurity-poorly-disguised-as-misanthropy, like probably full out in the form of some witchy ritualistic burning ceremony (lil aside: this is the first lunar cycle I’ve actually tracked and paid close attention to; whoever you are, it could only benefit you to try it sometime).
Indeed, as it turns out, I, in fact, give so many shits. I give a shit about everything. Everything. There isn’t a single being or object in space or space itself that I don’t care about. There are only things which I don’t know, or have forgotten, and things that aren’t things but just concepts, weird manifestations of power and ego and the perversions thereof. And I still care about those, because they’re apart of the great and glorious whole.
It’s a funny thing that until, like, just now, it’s been difficult to tell myself that these shits, my thoughts and words, are worth sharing, let alone to summon the will to share them. Over time, without my noticing, the peaceful solitude I’ve enjoyed for so long has grown into an ugly sort of reclusiveness. To be fair, we’ve only just buried winter. And winter is notorious for its casting of dullness and lassitude. But I’ve felt this strange distance and separation from others for what seems like ages. Perhaps my entire life. A vast, all-sweeping view of the connections between all things and points in time, but me, myself, removed. Despite the ringing clarity and sense of wholeness wrought by direct engagement with the world, I often sit in my nest, and watch from afar.
Something new has been churning lately. The spring, the moon, both, everything – whatever. The desire to communicate and to reach out, to listen, to learn, to speak, has come to a crescendo. This blog, I hope, will be an exercise in consciousness, empowerment, and openness. In maintaining awareness of myself, my voice and its worth, and the world I inhabit; and in sharing this experience of being/thinking/feeling with all who might find themselves here, reading. And I want to know your experiences, all of them, because each of them are legitimate and are worth knowing. Reaching the 40th hour in your corporate work week; shamanic ayahuasca ceremonies in the Peruvian jungle; watching motes of dust float in the sunlight; being a man, being a woman, and all in between; being born, reaching death, and all in between. None is more or less lush than the rest.
This is my first blog post. I was going to apologize if it was an odd start, too serious, too self-important, too whatever, but fuck that. This is my first blog post.