So here I am blogging.
I used to write. It was a way of easing my soul onto paper where I could take a better look at it. Perhaps later I'll share some of that. For now, however, this is just a blog about the nothing of which we, or at least I, am made - a kind of attempt to eff the ineffable.
I write in two ways. In my day job I try to say what I mean. But when I'm writing for my self (sic), I hope that my words show what cannot be accurately said. Two different things showing and saying. There are things that can be shown but not said, and I suspect there are also things that can be said and not shown. Where the line is, and to what degree it is a sharp line rather than a vague and inchoate separation I do not know. Perhaps, as with many things, there is no real difference between saying and showing that does not amount to a difference in perspective. A difference rather in the observer than in the things observed.
I had hoped to say something tonight. But it feels if instead I shall say nothing. Like a runner who has not raced in years, my thoughts cramp atthe exertion of expression. They balk and refuse to come cleanly into solid being. Hiding, luking, ducking quickly behind more respectable images. Vanished, like Eliot's thrush. Seen only at one remove. For now I shall let them have their game of hide and seek. I am content to glempse them fleetingly. Later, when the sun has set and they are less wary, I shall coax or cajole them into the open. Or perhaps I shall go hiding with them, uncovering their habits in the place where they are wont to dwell. We shall be friends they and I, or perhaps merely less skittish around each other.
