about a year ago, my named website was compromised after a 15 -year run, and I didn't have the energy or bandwidth to fight to get it back... so I didn't.
slowly and surely, as I've condensed and then largely eliminated my in-person presence from the internet, the side effect that's been the hardest on me has been the loss of space to exist... or, for me, to write.
somewhere around 2001, i began writing weird little musings and posting them to an anonymous blog that I had titled 'the drawing board'. when I built my personal site (that later became my named professional site), I incorporated that same blog into my site as a subdomain page; somehow, all of those things are all gone now.
and maybe that's for the best, as I found myself playing the role of my own historic archivist of assholery earlier this year whilst simultaneously (and near-constantly) complaining that nobody would allow me to grow or change or morph as a person... which made this realization all the more painful, but very very very funny.
at my core, I suppose I'll always be a writer. I think I've always been one, regardless of the eb bs and flows of output. now, I find myself with a deep desire to express myself and to tell this story and explore these new ideas and efforts and mistakes I'm embracing, but without a specific or notorious platform. there remains a formidable appeal to have a hidden, maybe-known place where I'm able to pour out the deepest (or dumbest) things in my soul and let them percolate.
i tried doing it with posts on the blog of the shop I owned, but all that came out was a small piece of the chaotic, complicated story about how I stumble-fucked my way into owning a business I didn't want.
can't exactly go pouring heart and soul out there, I'm afraid. and perhaps this isn't an ideal location either -- but I'm unwilling to create yet one more space where I'm intentionally misunderstood by people who know nothing about me.
the efficient part of my neuro-spicy mind says we should build our mud hut right here, if only to consolidate spaces of potential confusion. so I am. and this may be the only thing that ends up here. or I might choose to post daily, evolving back to the stream-of-consciousness that substituted for therapy all those years.
then again, it could end up becoming just a digital recipe box that eventually dies as a 404 error page.
one could argue that I find solace in the inevitable death of all things and humor in my stubborn irreverence for the socially-imposed sanctity of that death... even, eventually, my own.
welcome to the 'inner dialogue' page of beepbeepmotherfucker.com-- you're probably going to regret it.