Writing Habits
I started this post just wanting to make a post and touch the blog again to try and keep it fresh but then I started thinking about other stuff to say. I keep noticing little things wrong with the blog and researching them and improving them, which seems good. On the docket is: improving the design, fixing the tags of the posts, and enabling some kind of dark mode based on the user's system preference.
I still don't understand exactly what purpose this blog serves but I'm hoping it will come clear. I felt a lot of joy writing on Medium because I really like the elegant clean interface. It's not quite the same here, but hey. I'd like to transfer that joy here where I actually own the content and it won't go away suddenly.
Last weekend, I wrote:
- First of October Sunday at noon in the backyard on a bench in the shade, looking at the ripples and flickers of autumn color in the woods, blasts of red amid the lingering summer green, the orange and yellow, like beautiful warnings or alarms, and every so often there’s a very solid whack of a black walnut hitting the chicken coop metal roof, little green baseballs and then a sneaky flapping sound of the baseball rolling all the way down until it hits the gutter and there’s a little jump off into the yard.
Where are my beautiful friends, I have neglected them.
- Thinking of major Ragain, his backyard with the Tibetan prayer flags across to the little garage. The one I did a tearoff on and re-shingled. Remodeled the bathroom. Tore out the old sidewalk and poured a new one by hand, troweled it till my hands bled. The first time Maj walked out he slipped and told me it had to be roughened and so I came back with muriatic acid, washed it all down probably killed all the plants too. It’s just a kind of thing where Maj would say "don’t you go killing my plants or my ass will be in a sling", pretending like he wasn’t in charge of his household. The black walnuts keep falling they startle all the chickens crashing down into the dead branches. In an enclosure inside the coop there’s five new chicks, thoughtful and curious, picking around watching carefully. Soon they’ll become common-looking ugly normal chickens with a job; no more personality. I think of the river running through Kent in the dark. Think of the dark paths along the brightness of nighttime Taylor Hall. The backroads between Kent and Nelson. Somehow I found my way out of the Darkside of 2008.