first

I don't know what this blog is for. It's got the best name out of all the ones I've had, so it seems only fair to make something of the enterprise.

I wanted to keep it a secret for a while, to have a place to tell the things I hesitate or outright refuse to tell elsewhere: who upsets me, how much and why; how I'm lonely; fears.
I've written these things before, though, or things close enough to them, and if I wrote about it all again, the way I would in a diary, the way I did in an earlier blog even, if I did that, the sentences would wend their ways back toward the past and the pen and keystrokes of a person I've hoped so long to cease being. So fuck that.

I love this photo.

It's not very remarkable, really, as a photo of a bridge, or a photo in a car, but since it's old, and aged, with the yellowness and flecks and being black and white--containing rounded-edge vehicles, relics of the past--and with that light, a reflection or quirk of exposure that marks it all the more ghostly....all of this pointing toward the passage of time, the ending and passing of things, and we're on a bridge, yet! And that clean white sky. How damn evocative can you get.
I wonder how a photo like this seems at the time it's taken, if it seems like anything at all, or only a blurry fluke. Somebody kept it for many years, anyway.