It’s been over a year since I’ve posted here. It’s been an interesting time, especially since it’s been nearly two years since I posted with any kind of frequency.
In that time I’ve removed myself from every social media platform, excepting instagram and goodreads. You can find me on those if you care to. It really depends on if you like to read my book reviews and/or see pictures of my cats. And I suppose I keep those because I don’t get stuck in them. They don’t lead me to hours of wasted life and frustration.
There’s been a push in me to sort of erase my digital footprint. You can blame that on any number of impulses, but it’s primarily for my own wellbeing. I think the world right now can be divided into two people: those who can use social media and those who can’t.
Chelsea has no problem using facebook. She doesn’t get stuck inside it. She can open it up, browse around, shut it down, and then just keep on letting it remain shut down.
I can’t really do that. Never could. It’s a bit of a sickness, I suppose, or at least some kind of neurological defective aspect that causes me to get stuck in the algorithm getting more and more annoyed and frustrated with what I see there. I think it’s something common to people who are writers, really, because, even when we say we’re not, we’re desperately seeking an audience, approval, and social media thrives on that kind of neurotic and narcissistic impulse.
In this time of digital erasure, I could go on about how my life actually did improve. How I feel better and less mentally drowning in the detritus of all the things that never mattered to me. It seemed so utterly positive to me in part because I lost that need or desire to just share. Share endlessly, compulsively. It’s strange to be so reticent with my personal life and so willing to share any thought that pops into my head so long as there’s someone out there able to read it, give it attention.
It turned this site into a bit of a wasteland, one I was somewhat lost over. I had lost my desire to share my thoughts online, lost my desire to be found online at all, and yet…this site is a mausoleum for nearly a decade of my randomly sketched out thoughts about so many different subjects, ranging from suicide to drone wars to why I love ballet, why it comforts, consoles, and fills me with life.
So I’ve considered quite often that I should just delete this all, and yet there’s a bit of nostalgia for it all. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever read many of my old posts, and I doubt anyone will ever comb back through ten years of stupidity to wonder what I thought about kimchi during the summer of 2011 when I was constantly sweating in Gwangju.
For better or worse, I’ve decided to pick this up again, to begin writing on here. Not for me, but for you, Fritz.
There were once people who used to actually come to this site to read what I wrote down. I can’t imagine why anyone would bother to do something like that–I found it almost impossible to read the blog posts of anyone else, even dear friends. But those people are likely long gone, and there’s no reason for them to return here–a year of absence is a good tactic, I suppose, for defeating any kind of fandom that might arise from what you did marginally well. And so now there’s only you, though I doubt I’ll ever show you this. Ever admit to any of it. Ever let you read what I once thought–all the embarrassments, tragedies, and harrowing recklessness of my 20s.
Letters to you, Fritz.
I get chills even just writing that down. Son. You are my son. I have a son.
I suppose this is an introduction for no one, to no one. Maybe not even to you, who I just said this was all for.
So I’ll just finally write down those first words I said to you when your mother was asleep, when no one else could hear me.
I’m not afraid. I’m not afraid of you.