I've been thinking a bunch about stories. It's interesting once you take the plunge into blogging how your perceptions change. The same way they do when you plod into the woods toting a tensely strung bow and a quiver of razor-tipped arrows. Your senses are heightened; you stop and observe more; relying on your reptilian limbic system to tease out the meaningful details along the way.
Only blogging I'm not sure if i've even decided what sort of critter i'm after. I have a bundle of stories. Are any worth telling? What sort of blog will this become? It seems like such a mecentric endeavor, but brains are so fragile, and mine's proven less reliable than the average bear's. I'm acutely aware that in a blink it could all be gone forever.
Our favorite images, cherished memories and all we look to and rely on to relate appropriately with our environment, are swirling vulnerably, ballerinas and Van Goghs encased in a mere ceramic-thick skull of a basket; a breakable little shell. And not only that, the whole electrical panel could short itself out any time and fry the whole lot of it. So i've decided, worth it or not, i'm gonna start writing. At all y'all's expense i suppose. (All 3 of you.)
And which stories? Hm. Even within our friendships and personal lives we define ourselves by the stories we tell each other; the stories we tell define us. So besides boring the hell out of you, i hesitate to become any one of the struggles or ludicrous anecdotes tucked into the recesses of my cabeza. But at the same time, it also seems stories that are locked away and left to fester become part of our DNA, wreaking havoc throughout our bodies and wearing on our hearts.
Hopefully there's at least some decent entertainment value in the adventures of a young person with a brain that spontaneously malfunctions. And hopefully i can convey some from growing up in Hawaii, being an identical twin, river guiding, care-taking a ranch in the wilderness, chasing off evil stepmothers, gardening and being a highly-evolved monkey here in Idaho; so i'm not just some histrionic, attention-seeking seizure girl. (Well, maybe i want your attention, but firetruck your sympathy.)
I'll apologize in advance for everything i post that belongs on the proverbial editing room floor. (Then again, if i scare everyone off, there's a lot less pressure slangin shit out there under the radar.) And who knows i'll prolly see a squirrel and forget all about this blog compulsion, or experience a moment of lucidity and realize none of it, after all, is really worth repeating.
There are so many brilliant stories already out there, and i have no intention on outdoing a one of them, but i'm pretty stoked on the unique opportunity these interwebs have provided in this day and age, to add to the beautiful fabric of this realm, if only in my wabi-sabi, special sort of way.