i hope you're reading this in comfort, because i am here to write, which at the moment is a very uncomfortable thing.
my knuckles are protesting, rusted over like the tin man who sat in the woods for who knows how long before someone came along and oiled him up. oh, how nice it must have felt to move freely in his own body again. maybe it took awhile to get used to being himself after so long, but underneath the stress of learning to walk again, i bet he felt whole. free. alive.
that's kind of how it feels to find writing again, for me.
i can't promise that what i have to say will make you smile -- that it will disentangle you from whatever emotional turmoil you're battling (if you are), or comfort you, or give you confirmation, or radically dismantle your preconceived views of society. i don't flatter myself a world-changer.
i can only promise it will be honest. and what is honesty but cleanliness? and how do you really clean something if you don't admit that it's dirty? a dusty mantel is easy to ignore, until someone comes along and strokes it with a white glove, leaving behind a narrow, undeniable trail of the truth. i tell you, it will stick out like a sore thumb till you get a rag, roll up your sleeves, and finish the job.
honesty demands authenticity, even when the dust has settled and you want to leave it alone because you know disturbing it might make it harder to breathe, might make your eyes sting for awhile. but once it's cleared away, you'll breathe more easily. and you'll be able to move about freely, without being careful not to stir up dead things.
this is an unearthing, and as with every excavation, i don't know what we'll find. it could be something shiny and precious. it could be a corpse. either way, it's begging to be noticed, seen, recognized.
so let the earth under my fingernails be confirmation -- a witness to the importance of this holy work. and let us begin.
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