Thrash and Burn

My interior boasts a melded mortuary of past selves. The flaming licks of liberation have  charred the upholstery and left smoke damage on the walls. But the plants, my god the plants! Have you heard of this forest fire phenomenon? A technique of slashing and burning to clear fields for agriculture or in the long term, enrich soil for new cultivation? The remnants of my inferno, doused following desperation, have grown to enormous proportions. They take root in the carpet and line the ceilings with verdure. I can pick from the fruits of their labor to nourish the acrid of my scalded soul. There is new life amongst the branches and I climb each limb for a better view from the top. To see goodness grown from my fervor is enough to contain this conflagrant culprit for now but it's always brushfire season in the back of my mind.

Genesis

I can't help but envision a foal, with its initial strides wobbly yet undeterred, progressing toward the confidence and ease of an early trot as I attempt this first entry. Sorting through the contents of my mind to sift out that which are viable for a public venue and that which best remains undisclosed. Twas the determination of a proper name for this blog that delayed its creation, fearing the depths of clichè or melodrama might befall me before I'd even begun. This is not to say the title I have selected does not dwell on the border of self-importance but after toying with it for a few weeks, I still found it rather enchanting and decided to go forth before a tendency to hyper-think got the better of me. One must consider before beginning to blog whether its broadcast is warranted. That is to say whether the blogger in question has something worthy to share or at the least, thinks they do. As a self-proclaimed hedonist, indulgence is fairly constant in my world but the projection of self-indulgence remains fraught with unease. Does assuming a blogging stance thus express an egotistical mentality of ones musings as essential public knowledge? Entering the blogosphere under a guise of conventional journal-keeping, that is, private, is naive at best but more likely transparent and tacky. It seems impossible to deny the presence of an audience and deny the unshakable effects of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle . I know you're out there and make no mistake, it's affecting me. Regardless, my intentions here are simple and few. And following this self-analytical dissection of ambiguity about blog keeping, all subsequent diatribes should be breezy. Or at least, wider in scope. I can't promise they'll lack the wafts of pseudo-intellectualism that emanates of this entry however, that's all part of my je ne sais quoi. To write, for me, is to burn. Language is the kindling and lately, my woodpile's gone sparse. Rather than belly aching each time I'm asked what I'd prefer over the current context of my 9-5 , I am simply doing it. In doing so, I accept egoism as fundamental to the process.  Into the belly of the beast I go, with the hopes of rubbing a few idioms together and torching my way out.