Pilot

PilotThere’s a first time for everything, so they say…those “they.”  I’ve never blogged before.  Or publicly journaled, opened in such a way, which this is, no?  A guided tour of one’s, my, own psyche?  I don’t know.

This may work.  Big news, pictures of the family, an interesting cloud/flower/pancake that looks like a taper/Silvio Berlusconi/my aunt (any of them.)  I’ll have a bad hang nail.  I’ll choke on hard candy.  I won’t be able to stop watching reruns of “Maude.”  I don’t know.  I don’t know how any of it works.  From this side of the line, at least.

I have friends with blogs.  Enjoyable, insightful blogs full of humor and pathos.  Commentary on the public sector of life, appraisal of one’s own being in the world.  Notes on colors of sheets, on sex, on boots, on whathaveyous and whatnots.

It’s a way to keep me looking, though, a way to see.  And the timing seems right.  I feel wholly new right now; I feel molted.  But I also feel like my old skin is still attached to my feet, scraping along behind on gravel, a nicked shadow.  I always imagined that molting must hurt, the process of, the aftereffect.  I have a new job, I live in a new place, the place is in a new state, I have new bills, I will have a child soon, new.

How does “new” work?  And when will it be that it isn’t anymore?  New.  Or working.

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