Reasons Blogging is Difficult

There are whole days I don’t have a relationship with the computer, and I’m pretty happy for our temporary break up.

We see other people. I see the ocean, the redwoods, and a day baking shortbread for friends. I even sneak out to see the phone and hear someone’s voice – their real and actual voice, which is different from their language.

I don’t know who the computer sees when I’m away, but it seems fine without me. Seems happy when I come back and brimming with things to tell me.

For July and August, I didn’t see the computer often and – likewise – didn’t see this blog. That might be because it’s intention has changed:

I moved to California and intended to chart the movement which, at the time, felt like a diaspora. Dramatic, I know. Then I intended to chart “marriage,” which also felt like a scattering: the easy fall-in-love to the difficult stay-in-tune. And then I intended to chart the things I might actually need to make paths for: writing, baking, teaching, and having a “purpose.”

Truth is, I’m not good at charts. I can’t read a map and I prefer the Situationist approach to psychogeography and “feeling” my way to a left hand turn. Those intentions were not possible because they aren’t anything I really care about. I care about some small things: keeping egg whites’ integrity when blending with ganache, reading Proust even though Juliet couldn’t bear him and Albert died before we finished reading him together, watching the tide come in, laying upside down  in the morning because it feels good, writing sentences that are thought out and show a thought being thought out, teaching people to communicate in and across mediums, and laughing full belly laughs even if it sounds ridiculous.

Those kinds of things don’t necessarily make for good blog reading – they are minutia and probably belly gazing. I read design blogs, craft blogs, and process blogs because they are stunning. When I want to read the belly gazing small things, I turn to a book.

That is a lot of what I’m noticing: I turn to a book. I turn into a book. I turn and find a book. I turn the word turn to trust, tuck, and tune and it makes sense that I’m reading.

Last night, Jesse and I talked about the characters I’ve been with for two years and how they are ready to finish telling their own story. Anne has decided she doesn’t want the “e” at the end of her name and she also doesn’t want her hands because Steven might look at them and think they are open and asking for something instead of listening to her head, which is determined about things having a place and an order. Steven, according to Jesse, needs to be able to talk. I imagine he thinks that too. I imagine Steven has wondered when it’s his turn to say what he thinks about cut off hands and the deer hunting. He’s gotten to pull too many potatoes at this point and it’s unrealistic that he doesn’t envy Aaron for getting to go under the world through the mine and seeing what’s past the roots while Steven stays above and pulls at things, prays for rain, and watches Ann drop letters from her name. September and October are finishing months for this story. The intention of the blog, for working it out. For two months of watching what’s never been a chart take a shape that turns into a book.

Or, sometimes, a bottle of wine and a night reading someone else’s stories.

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