What do I need this site to do for me? What do I need to do for it? A neglected blog depresses me, but that’s not what has kept me going, come hell or high water. An inventory of past and current sites and how long any may have languished will do nobody any good, so we shan’t go there.
A ragged Band-Aid on my left index finger keeps catching my eye, and from the looks of the ragged shroud, it catches other things, too. A little while ago, as I was reading First, We Make the Beast Beautiful, I thought about taking the scissors from the little Moppets flowerpot on my desk and cutting off the dirty brown strip of fabric keeping my blood from marking everything I touch. Winter temperatures have arrived here in Maine, which means that the heat is on. Therefore, my hands swell and crack and leave red streaks around the house as if I needed something less tempting than breadcrumbs to find my way back home. An eighth-inch fissure on my right thumb is more painful than any other break in the skin. Two days ago, I nearly dropped my cup with the Degas dancers when the act of plucking it off the shelf touched a nerve that reacted as if an icepick had been stabbed into it.
The question of the day is: Why am I here, sharing this stuff? Too much Annie Dillard and Sarah Wilson, I guess. I had no intention of reading about making the beast beautiful, but there it was, in the box of books that Bridget left behind when she returned to school on Sunday. There is something about the title, and the hardcover printed with that marvelous, almost constellation-like image of an octopus, no dust jacket needed, thank you very much. Sarah Wilson’s book is about her life with anxiety, and it’s a bit unconventional in approach. I like it. I like the sections in each chapter that begin with a number in the left-hand margin. I like her jumping about from past to present, from personal experience to what others have to say. I like that it reminds me of Bridge of Clay and I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak, an Australian author like Wilson. I guess mostly, though, I like it because I like stories.
Tell me your story.
Why was Dennis surprised that I was reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek? Doesn’t he understand that it’s the stories I want? Annie shares her routines, her forays into nature, discoveries and experiments, and wraps around it all the information she’s gleaned from the books she’s read, the insights passed along through the people she’s met, and the wisdom she’s grown into. I like it when she relates stories about elementary school teachers, shares the head-scratching wonder of Jean Henri Fabre watching ants march like lemmings to starvation, and talks about God talking to Moses.
Why not write about what I like? Why not take time out of my day? Why not write simply because I like stringing words together? Why not add to the overcrowded ether and give Ruff Edge Design a reason to be? First, we make the blog. Then, we keep it going.