Why

I've been writing for years, since as long as I can remember, on various surfaces, with various media. Rarely with any regularity, but when the time is right I don't stop until a pen is in my hand and the thought is expressed. For many years it was an almost feverish urge that hit me at all hours of the day, every day. But then I stopped, for some reason, the many books that I had filled stayed in their neat, orderly pile, and I found myself with empty hands and for the most part, a relatively empty mind. The day to day thoughts were all that were swimming around in my mind, not the rich, complex menagerie that results in pages of scribbled prose.

Over the last few years I've chosen not to record moments of my life, for my benefit or anyone else's, out of a sort of disdain for vanity and self-aggrandizing. For the most part I stopped taking photographs as well, thinking that if no one ever saw them, I might as well not bother taking them. But I realized over the course of the last few months that this style of expression doesn't need to be epic. It can be small, simple and clean, concise groupings of words or a single photograph to express a simple sentiment that I might want to come back to at some point in my life. Maybe my friends, family or maybe a total stranger might stumble upon this. Maybe not. I think of this as less of a journal or an autobiography and more as a bulletin board, when I can pin the moments I collect out of everyday life to create a landscape of the ordinary, the decidedly un-epic. The everyday.

I'm not a scholar, I'm not a celebrity, I'm not a person of note, an academic, someone you might know or like to get to know. I'm a thinker, and I have two hands that help me remember these thoughts.

Read at will.