My last post was executed about half as well as I’d have liked, but it brought me joy– reminded me of the type of thing I would have done when I first started blogging. Not-so-secret links, not-so-secret doors, everywhere.

One of the prompts I wrote earlier this month inspired Matticus to give it a shot too : https://thematticuskingdom.wordpress.com/2022/01/26/a-poem-is-not-a-bed and that also reminded me of the days of blogging where I could not make myself stay away for long. Something always was becoming something else, somewhere else.

When I started writing here, I was also doing this. Becoming something else, someone else, going somewhere else.

I’m not sure that’s still not happening. I just don’t feel it as strongly.

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The other day, I realized I was wearing the wrong bra size. It feels strange to hold that type of new knowledge, as if someone told me that I had been measuring height wrong this whole time. It’s not information I really need, but it’s something that seems important to know about oneself.

I thought about how, in the beginning, there would have been an entire post about bra sizings, and somewhere in the middle of writing about how cup sizes are figured out, I would have meandered into a soft-feral spiral about how we measure and measure and why. But time changes things, and being aware of your size changes things, and I’m writing this here in the journal post knowing I’ll have a least one inappropriate comment or email to delete. That doesn’t bother me. The odds are in my favor. I could write a post that just says “Hi, friends.” and I’d get at least one “hi” back, and if that isn’t the loveliest thing on the Internet, I’m not sure what it is.

But that open access does make me second guess. It does make me skip around. It does make me tape up my own mouth, my own fingers, and I don’t like that.

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The things I don’t like stack up lately because I can’t seem to dissolve one before the next stands right on top. I still haven’t recovered from this cold, and I’m still recovering from all the other icks and sicks. Work isn’t going as well as I’d like. Every so often, I see a raven and think of Mark, and all the other people in this space that we’ve lost. I think about how we really saw them through that process. The becomings and unbecomings. How we saw them walk through so many doors. And sometimes bolt them shut, or stand watch, or rip them off their hinges.

So, I guess I’m just tired and a little nostalgic, and a little sad. I guess I could have just said that.