as the decemberists run through my head

"I guess I actually have had more time to blog than I’m making it seem, but keeping some things to myself has become more special. I’ve been drawing and collaging as always, and while none of it is very revealing, it feels too personal to show others. And I keep notebooks, and the world around me is just as interesting to me as it’s ever been, but the prospect of sharing it isn’t as exciting as it used to be. Like, not everything that anyone could find at all entertaining/interesting/funny has to be tweeted, you know? And I kind of resent that mentality in this here SOCIAL MEDIA WORLD we now live in. KIDS THESE DAYS, etc."

Tavi Gavinson wrote that and I was like, yeah, that! Yeah, the world still fascinates me and I still feel compelled to write and sketch and put things into words, but not necessarily publicly. Sometimes I want to do that, but less and less often. I like letter writing, if I'm going to share words these days, and I like typing in blank computer documents and I like making lists on my skin and I like rambling in notebooks or with a permanent marker in a public place. Sometimes I even switch the video camera on and talk into it or behind it. Pastels, occasionally paint, lots of ink, spilled ink even.

At the same time, occasionally I get such an urge to fling a thing or things out into cyberspace, and I guess this blog seems like the place to do it, except for the days I choose tumblr. Sometimes I miss the habit of blogging, but mostly I don't, obviously, I guess, because I do it so little.

Ummm, I feel there should be a banner waving to end this post, like, I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE ("oh but darling I am going places!") or maybe I'm just trying to say for those of you who still come here I love the interaction of blogging/bloggers and that is what I miss, but also, you know, I am still blogging. I'm not jumping ship yet. Even if it's, like, once a month is all, or a sudden influx of once a week, whatever, I still like this thing. And I do a lot of blog reading, still, because people are amazing and the words and thoughts and openness and expression to be found online is an amazing thing to me.

I don't think I've ever blogged about blogging before (hallo!) and I've certainly never begun (and never will) a post saying "SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE MY LAST POST LOL" because that's annoying, and I'm not apologizing here I am simply rambling and putting words into the ether because that can be, now and then, a really nice thing to do—

I really like being extraordinarily happy for other people.

I really like that feeling.

Last of '11

bubbles, at first. coming from nowhere, but all over the sky and falling on the sand on me on my book.

craters, stretching onward.

a lone girl, happy in puddles, patting and shaping and splashing. she had something of a sea maiden about her.

and then the sun began to slip;
this world turns so quickly.

the phooosh sound things make when they come and go

The National is playing and they are making me sleepy, and there is the somehow-fitting cigarette smoke odor coming from God-knows-where, and the tree is in pieces around the livingroom because it's too heavy to put away on my own, even though I managed to get it out and put it up on my own. There's a little peach-grey left in the sky, but the trees are black silhouettes. An empty beer bottle stands next to this laptop on one side; a birthday package and card on the other.

There are people and places I have been, and people and places I want to see about, and then there is the current me in a t-shirt I've had half a dozen years and a skirt almost as long and the words on my arms have become to-do lists instead of poetry but the ink is still a comfort. I sit here in another temporary home with a fresh haircut, the new me, All homes are temporary (Reminder), the requisite helicopter flies over, I am getting rid of so much, I need to get rid of more, this time the sorting is in both brain and apartment, the things to keep, reminding myself what is important to keep, why it is important to keep, things are things, thoughts are thoughts, I could live out of my car if it comes to that.

Is the only thing keeping me from running away all these years lack of resources? I do wonder. But - perhaps -
she made me unafraid of failure.

Well, I owe those letters. The trick is in letting them think it's their idea and decision when really it's you all along. Directing, acting; lines blur. Persuasiveness minus pushiness. Major, minor. But I am fooling myself: it is still up to them. But/however/(Reminder): you have not striven for a secure life, rin.