xo bs

Homesickness as I experience it is a dull sort of ache that is easy to forget when there’s a more immediate sensation, but which will always and eventually settle back in. It falls into the general category of melancholia, but is one of the least debilitating members of that emotional genus. It’s like the ache you get after being tattooed, which is quite a pleasurable and edgy sensation. You feel satisfied - you chose this, this was intentional, and it’s with you now forever and the ache is just part of it and you don’t judge it like some sort of negative externality. It’s a part of the whole thing and the whole thing is good, is motion, is construction.

I have noticed that homesickness does not specify a single home but an idea of home, of home as a concept. To me there is a looseness in the word ‘home’ and even more in the question ‘where are you from?’ At what point in the chain of geographical references invoked by the term ‘home’ is an actual origin identified? de Botton gives his analysis of Flaubert’s attitude toward origins and nationalities in The Art of Travel - he was ‘as much Chinese as French’ - and the question ‘where are you from?’ was one of affinity, not necessity. For those with mulitple affinities, or an affinity to motion, ‘home’ is a funny brown colour like the one you got when you mixed all of the finger paints together.

A flavour, a scent, a song, a book, a line from a television show, a peculiar turn in the weather, an image, the specific sound of a specific key in a specific lock - these things send me into this almost endless and entirely circuitous sequence of invocations that have composed my homedoing. ‘This weather tastes like London‘ seems like a rational thing to say. Each place is a gateway to another place, and I build this web of places in the world and my way of building it is entirely unique. This is what home looks like - it’s always weaving in and out of itself and stopping at places it has already been and attempting to reproduce itself. And thus the general blur; the muddy brown colour.

Homesickness is a reminder and it tows with it gratitude, self-reliance, and affirmation. Leaving can be a sort of masochism, but one that, if indulged with discretion, can sting in all the right places and serve as a refresher for what you’ve endured and what you’ve brought upon yourself. Homesickness, like the leaving thing itself, is for me a sign of forward motion. Turning over and over the past in order to make it functional for the present, going back to be here to go forward. I choose to be Homesick, because it’s the only way I know what’s home.

xo
bs

Please click the images to see them sized properly - I cannot figure out how to get it not to crop them or how to size them for the margins in the template. If anyone has help, I will give you food in exchange.

In my inagural xobs post, I predicted most of the content here would be about sex and snacks. Save for the one directly below, that has not occurred. I promise some dirty talk at some point, but at the moment I am most motivated to talk about snacks.

Since I’ve moved into this palace of magic that is my new house, its functional kitchen appliances have been quite seductive to me. I choose to spend most of my house time in the kitchen. I know what the fuck’s going on in there, which is more than I can say about the rest of the house, and for that matter, much of my life. In the kitchen I am the most responsible for my own needs and I can create with only my own personal parameters and tastes in mind. The camera (my camera) was doing that before, but since it’s gone, I’m consuming way more calories and getting some of my tummy back. I can’t help it if Paula Deen loves butter, and if Paula Deen loves butter, so must I.

I’ve not really been breaking any new ground in the kitchen since I started hanging out in there - no soufflés, no tartiflette, no cornish hens stuffed with paté. I’ve been doing what’s comfortable and what’s been missed. I’m re-adapting some recipes that I’ve used in past lives for this whole new thing I’m doing now. I’m revisiting a lot of things that have been central in my life before - when I found cooking in Liverpool that’s how I survived (and got fatter). So it’s all a way of surviving in this moment, and the food I eat is a big part of what my survival looks (tastes) like, and the fact that I cook it looks to me as though I’m surviving on my own terms.

Most of the time I’m spending in the kitchen has been about baking. I guess I love the slow alchemy of baking, the way you turn something like mush into something like magic. It’s sort of a meditation in and of itself - it doesn’t have the high-speed intensity of a lot of stovetop cooking and it’s just something you have to pace and reserve a bit of time for. And it’s very photogenic.

The recipes I’ve been using are mostly ones that have been passed on to me. When I gloated about my baking prowess to my father recently, he remarked, ‘it’s in the Sheets genes’. I hadn’t really considered that before, and I’m not inclined to connect with my family in that ‘genetic personality’ stuff, mostly because I don’t know most of them. But then I look at my recipe book, and see how many of the things I like to bake for other people are Sheets family recipes. My grandad was the baker in my dad’s house, and though I remember very little about him, I do recall that he just made ginger snaps and snickerdoodles as just a daily recreational activity. My mom paid for so many of our Christmases by baking and selling cookies to her friends and their friends. And she could bake on a budget - we’d have a cookie backstock even when we were broke. When she and my dad split he pinched a lot of the recipes and is now making them Devo Dan-style and emailing the recipes to me. I wonder how much I would find out about a family I really know little about if I went through some recipe books.

So there’s also all of this history and these personal connections in baking, and I guess that’s what’s making it so useful to me now as a coping mechanism. Yesterday things were shit - my bike was damaged and I got a parking ticket and work was shit and I felt poor and cranky - so I baked for four hours using pumpkins I had grown myself. Today people will eat that stuff and tell me nice things about it and I’ll tell them that the cinnamon came all the way from Pittsburgh and from somewhere ever further away before that. And my mom’s recipe for pumpkin roll, which my dad calls ‘Guaranteed BEST Pumpkin Rolls by Sheets Family (puts other imitators to shame.)’ will have travelled to another continent and won the hearts of many and I’ll get rich and buy you a pony.

Of course it is making me insane not to photograph the things that are happening in my kitchen - I could do it with a shitty camera but it breaks my heart even more to see things like this not given their justice in imagery, so I just don’t do it to avoid that disappointment. But trust me, it’s pretty.

So, how do you do culinary therapy? How do you share it? Why does it work? Can I have a picture? I’d love to see what you’ve made. Take some photos of what you’ve created and email them to me - I’ll start a flickr set of the stuff we eat. It’ll be fun. And it’ll give me something to upload while the pie is in the oven.

Matiatia’s orange, almond meal, and chocolate ganache tiny cupcakes

bs rendition of Amory’s sweet potato pie

xo
bs

I’m the sort of American who apologises. Fast food culture, Fox news, consumer distribution of the Hummer - on behalf of my countrymen, I am sorry. But there are a few things America got right, and the Food Network is one of them. Nowhere else can you watch so many attractive people eating. Except maybe at Boogaloos in the Mission.

Kat and I used to fall asleep each night to Alton Brown, and I can’t tell you the number of times I had filthy, sordid dreams about him in which his glasses got all smudged and his sterile cooking surface defiled. There is something about watching someone cook, and then watching them eat what they’ve cooked, or watching someone talk to the person who cooked the thing that they’re eating (Rachel Ray, I’m looking at fantasising about you), that automatically invokes sex to me. I’m quite sure that eating is almost the same thing as fucking - the beignettes at The Commoner were a sort of shag in and of themselves - and to me watching someone fuck is often better than doing the fucking myself. So it’s only appropriate that watching Giada de Laurentiis slice into a watermelon with her eyes lifted to the camera whilst wearing a low-cut top can be viewed as a sort of porn.

There’s also this thing where you feel like your friends are sharing recipes with you. When you’re swapping recipes, you know who you’d go after for advice on a roast, and who you’d speak to about avocado gelati - and often they are not the same person. The Food Network’s website lets you look at about 30 different recipes for banana bread, and you know that Emeril’s is going to sit in your stomach like a rock and that Paula Deen’s is going to call for three sticks of butter, and so you decide which friend’s banana bread you would be more inclined to like. (In this case I’d probably go with Deen’s Southern Baptist Drag Queen take on things. Also, I think her sons are sleeping together.)

My newfound domesticity, which mostly hangs out in the kitchen, has sent me to foodnetwork.com almost daily, and I love the satisfaction of seeing something you would never come up with yourself in an ingredients list. It invokes that ‘oh, you!’ expression towards the author of the recipe, and creates this sort of intimacy that occurs when you share the alimentary with other people - even on the mass scale that exists with the Food Network’s expansive reach in the world of mainstream food media. It also makes culinary exploration more accessible to those who can benefit from it most - the suburban housewife, meat-and-three-(frozen)-veg chefs out there who will buy anything Emeril tells them to. Sometimes the man on the teevee tells you the right thing to do.

Only in American could celebrity chefdom expand into a mass-multimedia conglomerate like the Food Network, and to that I say ‘fuck yeah’. It’s also the only place where Mark Summers could still find work. But I think the very greatest thing about the Food Network is that it paves the way for some media-savvy, d.i.y., market-going, tech-geek foodies to start their own alt.food.network…don’t act like you wouldn’t get into your best apron for it.

It’s a sad day in the ‘Burgh.

Myron Cope is a fucken legend of broadcasting, sports writing, and general local colour in Pittsburgh, my hometizzy. His voice is a Pittsburgh trademark and something that I’ve often Googled when homesick. He speaks a dense, frantic Pittsburghese and his raspy voice represents all that is haggard and yellowing about the city - even though he’s had it since he was young. I know of no one who could get more validation for making up words for shit than Myron, and I can just imagine those words being uttered over col’beers and scrawled on posterboard hung in shop windows in the Steel City in the days following his death. I know it’s cheesy, but I wish I was there to be with the fellow mourners - this is one of those things you can’t possibly explain to a non-Pittsburgher.

Cope is best known in the ‘Burgh as the colour analyst on Steelers radio broadcasts, and generations of Pittsburghers have a hard time separating that from their experience of Stiller Sundays and weeknight radio analyses. My dad had a special method for watching Steeler games, which involved turning the volume right down on the teevee, tuning the radio to KDKA 1020, and blasting it through stereo speakers. I didn’t understand this at the time, but now it makes perfect sense - Cope made you feel like you were right there at the game, screaming with the rest of those crazy fucks wearing nothing but black and gold body paint in the middle of winter. I remember being in my living room in McKees Rocks, watching my dad watch the game. Snow on the ground outside, dad in moccasin slippers, plaid shorts, and a NASCAR t-shirt, going out to the back porch between plays to turn the wings on the grill or get some more crinkle cut potato chips. He used to drape a Terrible Towel over the top of the television and place a mock-up Steelers helmet on top of that, building a Sunday Shrine to Steel Curtain. Before I was old enough to stay up for a whole night game, I could hear him downstairs yowling along with Myron over every Stiller success. None of this would have had as much of an impression upon me if not for Cope and everything he brought to the experience of being a Steelers fan.

In 2006, for my 22nd birthday, my dad sent me a copy of Cope’s autobiography Double Yoi, titled after one of his many catch-phrases used to describe football and life in general. In the inscription dad predicted a Super Bowl win for the Stillers. They won that year, just a year after Myron had retired from the booth. It’s honestly one of the best books I’ve ever read, and if you are from Pittsburgh or want to properly understand your Pittsburgher friends, you really need to read it. The only thing better than reading Double Yoi would be to listen to it as an audiobook read by the author, which unfortunately won’t come to pass, either because Myron died or because it would be a very difficult thing to propose to a publisher. There is a certain breed of person who can tolerate that voice for more than a few minutes, and nearly all members of this breed live in the Pittsburgh metro.

Well, Myron, I hope you and Mildred keep your afterlife radios tuned to 1020, Terrible Towels in hand. I know I will be, and I’m in Australia, which is heaps further away than the afterlife.

xo
bs

I’d like to be the bestest, most reliable blogger I can be. Sometime soon.

All this talk about domesticity made me think about getting a new one, and somehow I (we) did - packing up life again next weekend and moving it over to where they serve Bees’ Knees on tap. So there is much frenzy around this, but when I come back round the other side, there will be photos of tiny cupcakes I have made in my new oven. Fuck yeah.

In the meantime, consider the following, which I also have considered but do not have time to write about right this second:

• For me, the hotness of sexual imagery made before 1978 is intensified manifold by the sheer fact that it was made before 1978. Why?
• Do you have spaces of warmth and cold in your house? I had some in mine. The whole struggle with this most recent nest was how to keep it from going cold.
• If you had to put an ad for some personal desire on gumtree, what would it look like, and what would it be?
• I Can Has Cheezburger?
• What’s the prettiest gay porno you’ve ever seen?

And since everything’s better with pictures, more dead shit:

My house got robbed. It was an adventure!

On Friday night I rocked up to my front door at around midnight. Walking my bike up the footpath to my front porch, I got a bit distracted by a light left on in the house, but there’s a fair bit of traffic coming through my house from day to day so it’s not an aberration for lights to be left on accidentally. As I sometimes have the attention span of a five-year-old riding a pony with a balloon in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other, I was distracted from the lights by a rather sizable web that had been built across my verandah by a huntsman spider (who packed up in the frenzy of post-robbery recovery and moved itself to the power lines above the footpath). I headed into the house to get my camera so I could take pictures of the spider and any possibly dead things which were caught in its web - right through the front door which I hadn’t had to unlock myself. The front loungeroom was torn apart - cushions pulled off of couches, cabinets and shelves stripped of the objects they stored, drawers open and their contents spilled out onto the floor. My first four thoughts were as follows:

1. I have an enemy I don’t know about and s/he is looking for incriminating documents (of which I have many).

2. Richard left the lights on…and accidentally overturned everything else in the house.

3. There was an earthquake.

4. Somebody I know knows where I live and came and took my stuff.

It did not occur to me that perhaps I had been randomly robbed. Most of this was probably because my computer was still on my desk, the only thing in the room that was still in its right place. Someone (a conscientious, considerate robber) must have known that I spend more time with my computer than with any other person or activity in my life and that to lose it would be a small death.

But mostly it was just cos they saw the camera, took it, and bolted. In a move of underdog bravery, the camera sacrificed itself for the better good. My stuff acts in solidarity.

So of course there was the frantic calling of friends whilst standing alone on the street across from the park spinning round in circles so that no one could take me by surprise and steal me too. And then friends showing up and letting me talk rapidly and nervously and make bad jokes to distract myself from feeling violated and sick and other such things. And then police showing up and being tall and lovely and looking through the house to make sure it hadn’t suddenly turned into a junkie squat. And then Ilana riding her bike from St Kilda and being disappointed that she hadn’t beaten the police to the task of securing the premises. And then a big fucken photo shoot of my robbedness.

Good times were had by all. Including the cop who came to photograph the scene of the crime - he didn’t so much care for my cabinet of sex toys which had been opened and ransacked, and chose to close the top door of the cabinet for his photos. I suppose he found the sparkly pink dildos to be extraneous to the required evidence.

I am an avid nester and my relationships to domesticity are very active and intentional constructions. My current abode was the thing that started to make me feel rooted here in Australia, that gave me some consistency and some personal connection to space. That was really safe for me, and nothing ever really called me to question that feeling of security until someone kicked open the door and made off with something shiny. It’s amazing how much that changed my relationship to the space - I felt completely alienated from all of the familiar routes and habits I made through that house over the last few months when I finally went in to check out the ruckus.

As much as we want to separate the private from the public by building walls and delineating spaces, those boundaries are arbitrary and penetrable. While of course I’m going to continue to try to develop my relationship to that space - even photographing and cleaning up the whole ordeal adusted my sense of what had gone on - I think I’ll have greater consideration for the fact that walls are built and taken down everywhere, all the time, and that the value I assign to my personal space does not necessarily apply to the reality of kicked-in doors or broken windows.

My current four thoughts are as follows:

1. I feel blind without my camera. Abby Winters, here I come.

2. I need some curtains.

3. There was an earthquake.

4. ‘Domestic’ is not tantamount to ’safe’. But most of the time, it’s damned close.

xo
bs

Once upon a time, at a farm in Dunoon, NSW, a whole buncha kids gathered together at the loving, list-making request of a certain farmgrrl to celebrate the existence of life and one another. Or maybe they were just trying to stay away from the Lismore showgrounds. Either way, they were there, they were quare (past participle of ‘queer’, dontcha know), and I got to watch.

I am challenged by the task of saying ‘what Camp Camp was’ for those who haven’t already heard me prattle on about it. Seems to me that it was a sometimes loosely, sometimes intimately assembled group of folks who started hanging round Matiatia sometime after Christmas and stopped…well, they haven’t really stopped so far as I can tell. Seems like quite a few of them are practically living there in their heads (myself included), and that some may even make that materialise to living there for reals. But since this post is more personal and more for those who did hear me prattle or who experienced it for themselves, I won’t muck about with definitions.

Instead, as a way of debriefing myself from Camp Camp and also giving it the recognition it deserves in virtual print, I am going to use the words of Camp Camp Monstress Vee Bee as points of departure for my own thoughts about what it was and what it did and how I experienced it from my little corner of the room/farm/lens.

connect with the Difference that is living outside of the cultural centres, embrace the landscape, be here now and other platitudes which seem to fit

Over the last six or so months since I started going to the farm for various reasons, it has come to embody all that is vastness and expansion and seeing over the tops of things. It has started this big internal push for me towards geographical remoteness - it made me consider the possibility that there was life for me beyond urbanity. Many of the Camp Campers were urban folk, and I sensed this collective curiosity and relief at being out of that infrastructure. The farm is very much about what is happening right now. As a citydweller I am not terribly used to what is happening right now as I am constantly going somewhere else, planning how to strategically use each moment of rush rush rush, and so there is a challenge in that Difference. One that I gladly accept every time I get into that outdoor bath or eat something I have just picked out of the garden (I constructed many small salads of cherry tomatoes and rocket whilst standing next to the chook dome looking out over the tops of things).

I’m glad it rained.
I’m sure you all feel the same, even if you wished for sun.
I’m so pleased that you were all so intrepid, that the rain became something which created a lockdown, but such a nice one, for that period of time.

It rained. It blanketed rain for days and days and more days and we all had to be mermaids and mermen and this required a certain cooperation and collectivity. I live alone. My life is very individual. I have a Job in a Company and I do these Certain Things and someone else does their Certain Things. At Camp Camp, you do what needs doing, and everyone has a stake in that and in meeting needs and feeding the troupes and making cocktails in large quantities and mopping the grime off the floor. Of course this would have been required without the rain, but the rain made it more immediate and urgent and close. It also made me stay longer than I was planning to. I loved this. The closing of roads out, the lack of control I had over the situation, the fact that everyone else was in the same boat, all of these were presents from the rain and I was grateful.

Bee Ess, for behind camera duties above and beyond and the creation of such beauty through the eye

At Camp Camp I experienced myself as a voyeur and a documentarian. Being that the Monstress was my only pre-existing connection to this gathering, I was a bit of an outsider to the whole thing, and my main function became to sit back and watch (with a camera at the ready when it was needed). The camera has become an extension of my already well-developed voyeurism because it allows me to frame things as I observe them - with edges and borders in place where they are apparent to me as an outsider. It also lets me capture things I may not have noticed in the flurry of happening so that I can look more intensely later on. It’s become a processing tool and an apparatus of desire. Documenting things photographically feels like a piece of service to me as well - I like being the one with the camera and the wherewithal to use it. It’s a skill I have to share, and it felt good to have one of those in a situation where all of the bakers and dishwashers and table-scrapers had already been found.

I know that this is all a bit disjointed, and the more I write the less it’s for anyone but Camp Campers. Meh. There are a few more small pieces I’d like to add.

Camp Camp was Camp for a reason. Pink bodysuits and fake eyelashes, dogs in cages, bound dishponies, and Hot Apron Sluts abound. I don’t have much of a queer sphere in my current life configuration, so I was grateful for so much Big Gay Energy around me. It reminded me of this part of my life that needs more engagement and community. You know you’re in queer country when you hear the word ‘facilitation’ used to refer to the promotion of possible sexual liasons, and that makes me glow.

Also: while there was of course some intimate collectivity going on, I also felt like folks were able to use the space of Camp Camp individually as well. I think we all took something different home with us, and despite the close quarters there was room for individual experience and contemplation. I think this has much to do with the farm itself and the way things are configured and that aftorementioned Difference. Each of us inhabited that space in a different way and I think it would be an amazing project to have us all report back on that - you can bet that a thousand different thoughts were happening in these contemplative and creative minds over the course of Camp Camp and I think it meant something different but of great significance to everyone.

Thanks to the Great Facilitating Listmaking Monstress and to the Camp Camp organism as it existed then and exists now. I’m carrying it all around with me as a reminder of what is possible.

xo
bs

It’s been my birthday. Oh, yes, it’s been my birthday.

I’m big on the birthdays. I can’t describe what that’s about exactly, given my anti-celebratory stance on most things and my general unexcitability. But birthdays are exciting. Over the years I have come to see them as ritual and renewal. Like New Year’s for the actual self. A chance for me to look at myself on my timeline of me and be impressed that I am the furthest along I have ever been - never mind that this is necessarily the case. While of course I love the part where I share it with others, my favourite part of my birthday is the part I spend alone. For years now I have been purposeful about taking myself out of contact for awhile on mon anniversaire and just sort of getting a sense of what it feels like to be in my body and in my head, and each year I am more convinced that it feels good. And that’s not just the birthday high talking.

My birthday also invokes thoughts about origins and new locations. Expansion has been a theme for me over the last year - wanting to get bigger and be able to see over the tops of more things, rather than getting smaller and huddled as I sometimes tend to do. I have this definite origin (the song ‘Love is Like a Rock’ by Donnie Iris was my birthday theme song this year), and I have these long extensions stretching over the earth and grasping all of my other locales and geographies. So expansion is happening. This was nice to see because when I look at the last year of my life I see so much huddling around a heart and so much drawing inward.

I’d love to know how other folks think about and experience birthdays. Sure, it’s an arbitrary day just like any other, but it’s your arbitrary day just like any other. I’m hanging out for a birthday blog from Ali - and for any comments about what your birthday is all about.

Coming soon: hookers and American junk food - more birthday bloggery!

An excerpt from my birthday dance, in my new birthday scarf - thanks again to Donnie Iris.

The Age weather report says this about right now*:

Fine. A hot, oppressive night with strengthening northerly winds.

This is the sort of heat that stings your eyes and throat when you cycle through the city streets. That burns what feel like holes into your skin when you stand in the sun. That melts the bar of Lindt ‘MINT INTENSE’ chocolate on your desk, which is fine because as careful research has shown, a Lindt bar is most delicious after it has melted once (and only once) and re-solidified.

It’s fucken hot. This has little effect on the topic of this post, but is a required remark - I spoke with no one today who did not speak about the weather.

Now that we’ve gotten that obligation out of the way, I can discuss what I’ve come to discuss: the glaring reality of life and of death, in my garden. A garden, in Australia, is a space around a domicile that’s got plants, concrete, woodchips, or indoor furniture placed outside. In America this might be referred to as a ‘yard’. I think this has something to do with the imperial system of weights and measures.

The universal truths of life and growth and death are manifesting themselves in the garden in what seem to me to be dramatic ways. From the time I began nesting here I had the sense that something was going on back there, which was confirmed when I’d find a torso here, a pile of entrails there, a coating of feathers and fur on the grass. (I have not determined to whom the torso belonged, but I can verify that it did not belong to a raccoon.) While of course this is slightly 0ff-putting to a city-dweller such as myself, I also sort of enjoyed the rather macabre goings-on in what is otherwise a sort of ‘Australian dream’ (Hills Hoist and all). I have a white picket fence. I have a few of them mod cons. I live a rather civilised urban-edge lifestyle, I drink peppermint tea in the bath, and there is a great murder mystery playing itself out in my backyard.

For a little while I poked my toes carefully around the garden for fear I would step on something killed. It was already rather Amazonian back there, with grass and creepers and weeds that hadn’t been tended to in quite some time and me with no scythe. But then I found this guy (well, this portion of this guy) laying on the path in the lovely morning sun, and it changed things.

He looks like he put up a fight.

And so began my obsession with photographing the dead and rotting things in my garden. I walked away from this one feeling a bit squeamish and a bit guilty - was I exploiting the pain and suffering of these poor creatures? What would my vegan friends think? What Would Jesus Do?

But there was something about the act of photographing, and of looking at the resulting images, that created some degree of distance from the visceral object itself. When we’re concerning ourselves with the technical business of obtaining the image, of capturing the rather gruesome detail of a severed head/jaw in the perfect light of a sunny spring morning, we make a shift to that task and to presenting some sort of ‘reality’ via image. I lost contact with my very human feelings about death (read: brutal murder) and sympathy during that time, and saw that this was simply what was, this was the reality of what is happening in my garden and what happened before I was poking my toes round it and will happen when I’ve moved back to San Francisco to be a juggling sexologist. There is some beauty in that - in capturing ‘what happens’, in looking at that image and simply accepting it. Curiously, I don’t get that same feeling when I look at the object itself, which is still back there, though now pared down from the state depicted above. For some reason the photograph, the mediated, interfaced image of the thing, presents something more ‘real’ to me than the origin, the thing itself.

Coming soon in part two…life!

xo
bs

*When I say ‘right now’, really I mean two days ago, since this post was interrupted and delayed by a midnight underwear swim/bike ride and a birthday.

Hi. For a long time I’ve said, ‘I should start blogging’. As with most projects that I start, I spend anywhere from several minutes to several years planning and making lists and conceptualising. I become so excellent at this that I never do the thing itself. This may cause others to think I am full of shit, and of course I don’t want that. So here it is: blogging!

My opening statement: this is absolutely a starting-from-zero, underambitious, undefined project. If I have learned one thing from reading other folks’ blogs, it’s that they are always open-ended and somewhat open-source. I’ve got no particular plans other than to write things you’ll read. And that will turn into whatever it becomes, which will probably be disproportionately about sex and snacks.

xo
bs