life is partly about the actual living but also, sometimes it seems more so, in the telling of it. the retelling redefining and recording. thats the blog.
i find i am aware of this when i read everyone else's blog stories. its a sculpting with the self and story as material, or a collage and decoupage with glue and scraps. its best when its most honest. but its never perfectly honest, always a recreation, always a form of artistic creation. a sculpting or collaging. decoupaging.
the art is different when it is published and available to be read even if it isn't, read that is. and looking back at the record reminds me. but, whatever, i don't always feel like recording. even though i find it important to mark the time. and arrange the scraps.
we can tell our story to make our actual living more like the one we wish it was, and then it has a better chance of becoming that. i write and tell myself i am a productive successful academic researcher teacher and baker and knitter and gardener and parent. doesn't make it so. but gives goals and pats on the back when deserved.
today i am another year older. my face looks older this year. last year i marked the time with new ink on my wrist. this year i feel the time and see it in the mirror. subtle. not unhappy. noticed.
ive used this space in a number of inconsistent ways. recipe sharer and keeper (ive been meaning to write about my love for making pizza at home and the best dough and best sauce), garden record keeper (talk about inconsistent - but i have potatoes and garlic and basil in the ground now), notes on parenting and cloth diapers and yadda yadda, but really its a collaged mess.
today i just wanted to dip my toe back in, to make the time, and say happy birthday to myself.
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