I am struggling with this blog.
I've committed to it.I regularly regret this commitment.
I don't feel I have anything of significance worked out well enough to say. Why should someone take time to read anything that I write?
My writing, I've held, has actual meaning and is significant as it reveals what I believe is true. I never purposefully write falsities, whether for a research paper or a letter or a facebook comment. When I write for other people (and an indiscriminate number of people, as is the nature of online blogs), I feel as though I am bearing a part of my unrefined and unprotected soul.
This soul-bearing is most dangerous because it is really only true in the moment of its writing; I am not a fixed, definable entity. I change. The writing I do now is only a sketch for thoughts and ideas and parts of me. But what I've written here is--as it is permanently available for public access--carved in stone.
The problematic nature of the public is that is is a carving of something that's moving. It's not quite accurate.
What's written here is an eternal display (as if worthy of display) of a mere momentary sketch.
Yet! I will eternally be sketching and my transient conclusions will never be anything but that-changing. Therefore, If I hold to this notion of protection and privacy until some kind of internal conclusion or completion, I will never write anything for others to see...
And would this be such a tragedy? Is it so important that others see and know what I write? Would the absence of my thoughts, my words, my experiences and ideas be any great loss?
All of these experiences I'm having are so complex that any kind of articulated assessment of them seems premature and pretentious. I think nothing novel. Nothing original. Nothing unprecedented. Nothing un-thought as of today.
I am a processor of connections, a linker of worlds. A line drawer. A sketcher, some might say.
But maybe someone will see something useful or beautiful or worthwhile in a sketch or two...
