A couple of days ago, I turned 26, a birthday without any real associated milestone, other than a slow and inevitable pass over the hump towards real adulthood. Normally, my birthday includes a healthy dose of red wine and wallowing, definitely a generally unjustified bout of melancholy and dread for time passing. This year, rebuking wasteful energy and negativity, I was imbued with cheer and a French chardonnay, surprisingly pleasant; I decided to relish in the triumphs of my past year, accomplishments personal and professional, and plan for new adventures for the coming months. Traveling to two new continents, visiting Paris for the first time, forging a constantly changing and growing relationship with my first niece, and continuing to strengthen my bonds with dear friends, both old and new, have been incredible successes as I reflect. Failing to properly organize my photographs, and my thoughts, on my various travels the past year has been a source of personal disappointment, all the more motivation to garner some fervor, and steal a few hours from another pastime. Not spending quality time with a sheet of blank paper, a blue pen, a black pen, a pencil, a quill and a spill of ink, anything to scrawl, scribble, jot, was another bit of shame, and one which I hope to resolve.
Quite a number of weeks ago, a friend of mine from university sent me a brief message, one sentence, four words: "Tell me you're writing." Truthfully, I have awkwardly avoided all response, since, the answer is, barely. Occasionally, some ramblings here, the start of something that could maybe eventually a poem there, on a cocktail napkin. Nothing formal, particular structured, or, worst of all, regular. Steady. Actual participation in a craft I so revere, and frequently, pretend to indulge in. Certainly, this is not a revelation, spurred by too much crab dip, or a stiff martini, during a birthday dinner. This is not new. Still, the opportune time of reflection and establishing new goals for my life and continued evolution lends to a renewed commitment to endeavor forward, set new goals, simply and namely, to write. Because I hate to think that, permanently, my response to this friend, whom I admire, is a peremptory and pathetic shrug. Or silence.
When I started this particular project almost two years ago, it sprung from a place of desperation and shock and confusion: I had, falsely, as it was later revealed, been let go from my job, along with the rest of my colleagues, seemingly abandoned and left to flounder for something new in a strange suburban town, which I did not even care for. Since then, it was developed into a space where I feel more comfortable sharing anything and nothing; posting various photographs of earrings or grand meals, almost never cooked by me, making arcane allusions to biological mechanisms or favorite poems, or sifting through complex emotions with my words, often rather inelegantly. Essentially, a spot for me to blow off some creative steam, to just write unfettered, unconcerned of the jibberish, or frankly, of an audience, beyond myself. While I have no intentions of ending this little jaunt among the digital world, I do hope to persevere with other, more daunting projects, which carry importance, a sort of substantive pursuit without which I feel sluggish and dull, timid though I may be.
(image taken from BibliOdyssey)