And it begins

I woke up this morning in a panic after a bizarre and longwinded dream/nightmare. About graduation. Can someone please explain to me why ANY part of my brain is already thinking about this?

Oh my.

My brain is a compost heap

From my paper journal:

Summer loving

I know I'm in the supreme minority here, but I've always liked summer least. Both spring and fall are absolutely glorious for the same reason... everything is about transition and change. Every flower, every leaf, every new thing grown or harvested is effortlessly hopeful, endlessly morphing, consistently effervescent. It's absolutely intoxicating. And winter, even with it's bad reputation, is subtle, romantic, restorative, soothing, mysterious. There's no knowing what is happening under the snow, only that something is happening. It's lovely.

But Summer is just there. It's sweaty, stifling, stagnant. It just sits on your skin. There is no mystery, no change, it is just there until it's not anymore.

But I will say, in all fairness, that Brooklyn is helping me change my mind.

Manefesto of a Once and Future Blogger

• I make no promises to be:
• profound
• spiritual
• coherent
  
• brief
• linear
• consistent

• I will make a distinction between open journal and depository for running thoughts, joys, obsessions, rants, and life glimpses. For me, the former displayed publicly is quicksand.

• I will not aspire to brevity.

• I will not be brilliant.

• I will write the kind of things I like to read. This means a mush-up jumble of observations about the art world, endless diving into bottomless New York, and miscilanious bits of reflection and rambling right along side the recipes I'm cooking, the projects I'm agonizing over, and chalk poems on the sidewalk. You have full permission to joyously dialog on what interests you and silently skip over what doesn't.

• I will not labor under the oppression of the eternal They.

• I will not write for the void. I will not write for anyone I know, much as I love them, and I will not write for anyone who has pleadingly asked me to write again, much as I'm grateful. I will write for an imaginary friend, with a face of my own making and a personality of my own choosing, who happens to love to read exactly what I love to write. I think I'll name her Cassandra.

• I will make no apologies.

• I will not edit, shape, prune, sensor, or apologize to any of the usual suspect faces who pop into my head every time I attempt to write something new.

• I will not shield myself.

• I will not simply create another tangible source of guilt.

• I will have fun.
  

Inappropriate descriptors:
Cute. Witty. Single-minded. Intelligent. Consistent. Deep. Authoritative. Impressive. Profound. Knowledgeable. Wise. Impartial.

Appropriate descriptors:
Sincere. Joyful. Sporadic. Genuine. Whimsical. Giddy. Revealing. Haphazard. Scattered. Honest. Unapologetic. Child-like. Fun.