So I've been reflecting a bit on my reasons for engaging in this hellfired pursuit we call "blogging." The last post I made was written, like a lot of my posts over the years (and personal paper journal entries too), in a fit of confusion and uncertainty and unhappiness. Expunging angst through sheer exposure is one of the benefits I get from the whole thing, a kind of cleansing exhibitionism.

And indeed, after putting it out there and deciding to take care of myself and rest easy for an evening, my attitudinal gyroscope corrected; by Sunday I was feeling quite alright. Mission accomplished.

My original reasons for starting this up were to let people keep up with me, to help provide an easy way to keep those stretchy/elastic social ties over the years, and to nudge myself lead a more honest and open existence. My intended audience is my friends and family and comrades, who (I think) appreciate the perspective I articulate, or at least get a kick out of my stories, even though I'm sure at times they're shaking their heads thinking, "oh no, honey. Noooo..."

Over the years, the exhibitionism angle has come and gone; activism has waxed and wained; and I've come to really deeply appreciate the outlet and daily practice of simply writing. It's a muscle, and it gets better with exercise. That's a constant value, and one I didn't really think of when I started.

So I'm happy to cast my words into the ether, and sometimes the ether answers back. It's flattering really, that I can string sentences together good enough to provoke a response, and more often than not I find nuance and insight from the contributions of others.

I try as much as possible not to couch my prose, to spin myself. I'm not perfect at it, but I aim for the gonzo, for that Ginsburg maxim of "the only good writing is the writing that scares me." It gets harder the closer to the heart I get. Way back in the day when I first set up a page about love I had my worries:

I'm a bit paranoid that girls I'm trying to have relationships with will see this and realize what a fuck I've been/can be/am being and avoid me. But that probably ties in with that whole "truthful living" stuff that got me into this mess in the first place. The truth always feels better, and comfortability with one's self is ultimately attractive.

This concern has never gone away. It's only gotten to be more of a hang-up as I've learned that, yeah, from time to time people I may be interested in -- not just women, but prospective employers, business partners, clients, etc -- will find this huge pile of prose. And egads! What will they think? I'm more than well aware what a turnoff my mental guts can be. But the truth is the truth, and I fall at the bottom of the percentile for "willingness to engage in tactful pleasantries to make other people feel good." It's just who I am; gonna come out sooner or later. Better to be Out Front, I've found.

I think as a culture we have a problem with putting up too many false face and walls and facades. It's natural to hide your shame, but it's inhuman to try and pretend that it doesn't exist, that we don't all make terrible mistakes or think unattractive, immoral, illegal, admonishable thoughts. I don't know. There probably are pure and godly and angelic souls out there who walk on a higher plane, but I think they're few and far between, and I think it's better to be a Full Human, and live with your Shadows, and own all that, than to pretend it doesn't exist.