Wednesday, February 4, 2015

A blog of one's own.

Part of the exercise of this blog is to outwardly verbalize my thoughts in hopes that expelling them will quiet my mind.

It's only been about 24 hours but I've already ran through various almost-posts that were carried away by distraction.

So much of me is internalized. I wonder about the role that plays in my isolation.

What makes my thoughts, or my ideas worthy of "publication" and of being shared?

Part of my hesitation in beginning this project is how I don't necessarily feel there's anything original or special about me, my thoughts, or my vantage point on the world. 

I recently finished reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I credit her (blame her?) for my interest in starting a blog. Her main character blogs about race, racism and culture in such an interesting way, there is absolute value and importance to that work. She engages discussion and speaks to a true experience from an informed, critical and engaged place. I highly recommend the book.

I suppose I worry what I'm doing is futile. Worse yet, that talking about depression and other facets of my life is self-indulgent and cliché. It might be these things. But it could also be more than these things. 

I'm going to give myself a few months as an experimental grace period. 

Part of dealing with myself also means knowing that who I'm dealing with is extremely self-critical. 

When you have occasionally complex trains of thought, or these moments of left-field consideration, and it's all in your own mind and so intangible it's just so quickly blinked away. Collecting it seems prudent. Maybe even wise. 

Yesterday, I listened to most of the William Burroughs themed episode of This American Life.

This got me thinking on the importance of expression and of representation. Specifically the representation of the "freaks" and "queers" of a culture, and how in declaring ourselves we often free others. I am attracted to stories that represent pain because I know it. I understand it. It speaks to me. Surely it'll speak to others.

The Burroughs episode of TAL also got me thinking about how male writers have written about their experiences, their thoughts and whims for centuries, and how difficult it is for me, as a "girl" to really take that space and feel there's value in what I have to say. 

Do you think any of the beat generation really gave a shit? No. Also, they were all depressed as shit. So we have that in common. 

All of this to wiggle around justifying my blog. Justifying my voice. 

It's a muscle that needs to be exercised, worthiness.

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