The Withered Hand

We're going to see how this goes. The prospect of writing multiple complete sentences on a regular basis is unsettling. But I will give it a go and I will do my best not to rely too much on blatant lying, self loathing, and the making of unsubstantiated comments to get me through the majority of my entries.

This is a first post. Maybe of just a few. I thought I would creep out here quietly at first, avoiding fallen branches, see what the weather's like. I am, in part, confronting a phobia and can't help but wonder if "blogophobic" has yet been entered into some recent edition Dictionary whose most recent entries involve the up and coming lingo of this, the electronic information age. I always felt terribly self-conscious keep journals. My language came off as forced and contrived, as if read aloud: I couldn't help but hear it cinematically and imagine the beginning of a saccharine and sweetly nostalgic movie where an old yet enduring voice reads from an adolescent diary that has flower petals pressed between its pages. It made me feel gross. And this does too, a bit. Nervy, in fact, for expecting people to listen. For assuming my vapid rambling deserves space, even free electronic space.

But I'm interested in spaces. And how we occupy them. So in this moment of self-affirmation, with my chin smelling handsomely of an after-shave balm and my little lamp ablaze, I am going to claim this space, and occupy it, and be okay with it.