I’m reading old blog posts. Ones I thought were lost to the ages if I didn’t pony up five dollars to open an account to save them. Suddenly, though, I have access to them. They’re making me remember both the old ways I used to write and the old things I used to write about, which are actually strangely distant to me now and they shouldn’t be. I feel the absence about writing about loneliness with such a keen voracity, ever on a knife’s blade, that you would think that something must have happened to cause that change. Nothing I’m aware of, save the consistency of being here, requiring 500 words and for a long time (and soon again) blogging pretty strictly about what was going on food-wise and weight-wise and sliding into poetic effusion wasn’t on my mind.
There was some rather beautiful and truthful things said. I can kind of re-live the agony that made those ideas possible as I read them back and I can break anew. I don’t really know any better, sorry to say. All my eggs are in the New Year’s basket. I am eating terribly now in hopes that this tabula rasa will stick. But they’ve ruined my sundae with unexpected peanuts and now I feel like sinking into the sheets. I feel like everything’s got an off smell. A putrescence that emanates from something long gone rotten. Me and Hamlet, querulously sniffing about finding the odor amiss.
The year is almost over and I can’t remember a thing that happened. Well, I remember falling head over heels with Mumford & Sons which saved me, truly, from things which might have happened if I did not have their good hearts and beautiful songs to distract me. I remember a blur of projects. I remember stress. I remember a whole year without Mr. Rochester or anyone who could stand in his shadow. I remember gaining weight and losing weight and then, just gaining weight without sense or reason. I remember going to Red Rocks and hiking about there. I remember we went to Minnesota. I remember I went to Atlanta and met my friend. I remember thinking I should start smoking, several times. I remember thinking – deciding – that I should get a tattoo. I remember driving back and forth to work. I remember the accident that suddenly made me question everything all over again. I remember reading, though not enough. I remember my friends and watching shows with them and laughing until I thought I was going to die. I remember deciding I wanted to learn the guitar. I remember how I fucked up my own birthday. I remember Mr. Polite, though he is faint.
Mostly I remember being here, talking to you, this amenable version of myself. I don’t know if it helps me, but I know that I can’t stop now.
My sister seems to think that 2012 will be a good year. A memorable year? A changing year? I don’t know. Looking back I doubt that I know how to be anything other than how I am, a creature separate from itself.