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I wonder what brought you here. If our friendship is ongoing, upcoming, or a lucid memory that’s matured enough to lead you to this post.

What brought me here is you—the optimism that someone will see past the aesthetic walls around my digital reputation and follow the instinct to be a little more curious than usual.

Writing this is an invitation, to myself and to you, to just stew in that curiosity. I’ve noticed staying curious isn’t met with the same reverence as the profound and noble act of staying hopeful. But if it’s an unexpected urge to read further than a peer-reviewed Instagram caption, and all the other predetermined micro-interactions designed to promote conflict between strangers, I feel it’s worth stewing in.

Yesterday, I tried to remember the last time the Internet showed me something truly fascinating that it didn’t immediately undo within the next five seconds. Where was it that I didn’t feel the need to say or acquire something? Can I go through the tangled web of emotions being asked of me, without having to scale it down to an incontrovertible signpost of my virtues?

I can, actually. I do it every morning on our front porch when I let the dogs out to pee and I watch them do all the things nobody taught them to do. They’re all such a delight, such endlessly charming companions. They also tore apart the very delicate seedlings I spent three weeks fawning over and singing to. Every morning, I’m reminded that my heart has space for more than what my language can regulate.

There aren’t many online spaces in which I feel that inarticulation is allowed. I think you know what I mean. And I think you’re here because maybe you’re searching for something more than a catalogue of articulations and rearticulations that overvalue themselves. As Laura Kolbe would put it, we need “rooms to babble, to keen, to wail, to rib, to rankle . . . and maintain our right to be unintelligible, rude, and loud, and fully alive.”

I’m starting this blog as an exercise in carving such rooms for myself, so I may truly lean in on the things I’m curious about. There’s something I’m struggling to say here about the saving power of representation to yourself, of saying things aloud to yourself because you know they matter.

This is an exercise that needs a certain kind of openness, which you are perhaps being called to, since you’re here, reading a blog post that has absolutely nothing to do with anything else but itself.

On that note, welcome. And thank you. May this be the start of us never overlooking the smaller and quieter ways we have already asserted who we are at certain points in time.


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