This is a young blog. And my relationship with it is still exploratory, nascent.
And I find that what thrills me the most about it is its way of not showing me up by name or appearance.
It seems to offer the cartilage between distance and engagement, so I can be at once veiled, at once naked.
Within this single medium, I can subdivide. I can be he or she or He or She.
I can congeal into wet shining slurry: breasting words into hiccups that fill your mouth but mean so little.
And in the trekking dark of it all, I can hold your hand and let you believe my hand is not a hand.
That it is moss or a sheep or a bidet. That it is moss and a sheep and a bidet.
Because you cannot know what my hand feels like.
You cannot know that I have a hand.
And I can remain in this suspended colloid of words, never to be removed, or dried, or formulated by levels of science unknown to me.
Unless of course, the Internet really is Big Brother, with blogbusters as myriad as megapixels.