I’m late to the blogging game. Or, perhaps I should look at it as being right on time. Whatever. When I lived abroad ten years ago, I kept journals. (If I decide I care enough I may have to elaborate later about my prayer journals, which are another story entirely.) I filled notebook after notebook after notebook. Melodramatic? Sure. Necessary at the time? Absolutely. Regrettable? Not at all.
I wrote my way through things like home-sickness, bewilderment, hilarity, amazement, sadness. I would keep notes and write emails and, sometimes, compose little essays that are to this day saved on old floppy disks that must be — I assume — irretrievable. What was at once frustrating and affirming about the writing of those pieces is that they were private. No one would see them, unless of course I chose to share them. I rarely did. And so these years later I’ll try things differently. It’s the public vs. private debate, and I’ll have it here now, instead. And anyway, as of this writing, I have no readers. So in a sense, what’s the difference?
One difference is risk, and another is possibility. The risk involved relates to putting out there for public consumption my most idiosyncratic, arguably idiotic and clearly megalomaniacal bemusements, positions, opinions, ideas. Risk is vulnerability. But then the possibility, of course: of finding that community that I know is out there; the possibility of making connections, of aggravating or insulting, of creativity and laughter. Of encountering art. Of having fun doing it all.
So at any rate, I suppose once I get up off the buttoned leather couch, we’ll see how this goes! I’m looking forward to it.