These past few months have been really hard. I've been trying to write about them, I really have! My journal, which I am normally pretty faithful to, remained empty for nearly two months and the creative writing that I had been agonizing over from my workshops was left untouched in Word doc folders on my computer hard-drive It's hard to write when you can barely sort through what you are feeling. I'm home for the weekend right now, under less than ideal circumstances, to be with my mother after the death of her mother earlier in the week. I hadn't thought about this blog of mine for a long long time until last night someone akin to a younger sister told me that she had been reading it recently. I was blown away. I sometimes forget that people look at this little piece of the internet. I forget how much this little piece of the internet meant to me for such a long time. I forget that it has the potential to mean something to other people as well.
Celia is experiencing her first year of high school right now. She's survived and thrived through a full semester of the ninth grade. I've known her shining inquiring soul since it first made its way into this world and hearing her talk about life with basketball practices and secondary school social circles brought me back to my own high school memories, many of which are documented here in this html. The idea of Celia looking at my blog and scrolling through pages of my outfit updates and ramblings--me with my pixie cut and intentionally disjointed color schemed get ups, posts filled with black and white prints from my hours in the darkroom and pictures that I collected from sites across the blogosphere-- made me stop and contemplate the person that I am and the influence that I have on those that I love.
I suppose that writing this blog was more than just a naïve or narcissistic exercise in fashion writing, or whatever I thought it might be. Having this record of my time as a teenager traversing the disappointment of suburbia is quite a gift to give to myself. Thinking back to the person that cut her own hair with rusty scissors filched from the bathroom drawer after the house had gone to sleep, I feel blessed to have grown up in the quietness of suburbia. I have most recently shifted into what I can only call the fast and loud reality of my present. My present entails lots of happiness and friends and passion and heartache and intensity; the kind of intensity that I must have longed for during high school.
I'm heading back to school tomorrow. There will be more time for writing and processing and reflecting. There always is.