This blog feels somewhat archaic to me lately, like a yellowed photo album, or a trunk of old clothes, in impossibly small sizes with tiny waists, found in the back of a great-aunt's attic, with the lace on the dresses worn and crinkled with age.
I think about updating it - removing old content, giving it a fresh look and focus - a virtual scrub and paint - but I am too lazy and too busy to bother. Besides it has a beauty as it is, with its old photos from years ago in my life, from an era that has now slowly passed by for me, the time of my children being actual children instead of the young adults they are becoming, the time of my thirties when I thought I knew who I was, but I was still on the path to becoming the person I am now. Walking the path and learning many lessons, some hard, some needed, some glorious - all of those days and experiences shaping me into the person that fits into this life.
It's impossible to simply throw this away. No one throws away those garments, those photo albums. Even when you don't recognize anyone within their pages, even when you squint and flip without recollection past those grainy black-and-white poses of young, smiling couples in front of the round body of a shiny car, even then, you recognize the hope and presence in their faces, and even unknown to you, you respect that the photo documents a live as it is being lived.
So... maybe I will come here from time to time. Pick up a fountain pen and spill some ink across these creased pages. If readers come to flip through this souvenir, to marvel at this outdated mode of expression, then I will as well. Just to put something on positive value and weight out into the Universe.
From last month:
The translucent water crests into a curl of foam, the loft and heft of the wave lifted upward into the summer sky.