A Collection of City Thoughts

Sunday, July 18, 2010

This blog is not a journal.

Ce blog n'est pas un journal.

Perhaps it's because I've just spent two hours reading a stranger's personal blog, guiltily consuming every last intimate piece of this woman's not-so-secret life, that I feel obliged to preface this post with the following statement: This blog is not a journal.

Let this be clear. I write fiction and I write truth. And sometimes I let one bleed into the other. But never have I intended this blog to be a journal. I am too neurotic for that. I enjoy my secrets too much.

My actual journal is black and butchered and sits on my bookshelf disguised as paperback fiction. Sometimes I'll carry her around on transit or at the park. But more often than not, she lives in the safety of my apartment where I cannot misplace her. I am notorious for this.

What I am interested to know is what motivates this woman, and women like her, to share their life so candidly. I secretly admire her and at the same time don't understand her at all. I am left wondering - is anything sacred?

I've always preferred the abstract over the concrete; the grey matter between things; the mystery behind people. Often the people that compel me the most are the ones I know nothing about or the ones I knew well and whose faces I can barely remember.

This blog is not a journal so I choose not to delve into the details of my road trip to which, I will confess, were the best three weeks of my life. Instead I'll post some of my favorite photographs and say only that this trip changed my life.

This blog is not a journal. I have too many of those black beasts lamenting on too many things I've now realized were beyond my capacity to change. People I've loved and lost. Choices I've made or didn't make, etc, etc, etc.

Traveling is a humbling journey. Out there on the road, under the stars, in the desert, you realize it's the mysteries that unite us. Not the specifics.

still city sleep