Tantric Tantrum

I have decided to pick up this dusty old husk of a blog again.
Originally intended to be a promotional showcase for the short graphic novels that I completed years ago, my blogger "dashboard" now tells me that this place has received 2815 page views since it's inception in 2009. What's more is that it still seems to average at least a handful of hits every week, which is of some consequence considering the length of time since it's abandonment. Every blip on the counter is just another slightly disappointed surfer passing by...

I picked up something today that I have shamefully been neglecting for far far too long now. The familiar novelty of creasing that sturdy cover back against it's pristine binding, flipping through the ten or so pages that lead into the actual substance... Well, there is no experience like it. This book is The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami and already, one chapter in, it is proving to be as welcome a return to fine literature for me as it is a departure from the countless other incidental writing forums one encounters day-to-day. What I'm trying to do is point at the 'book as format', not only physically, but as a representation of intent. The consideration that goes into simply binding a collection of words is a ritual that separates itself from everything. It commands a level of respect that is otherwise absent, not only denoting a definite beginning and end, but giving it a spirit.

I can so easily come off sounding like a bewildered stoner when I write. This is one major reason for my reanimating this space. After breaking into the surface of a new book early this morning, warm, dark coffee at my side, I felt a passion begin to reconvene with my consciousness. Trivialities slowly became important and my own inner voice began to harmonize again. Nothing as dramatic as a rebirth, but more like the pure contentment of returning home. I took a shower, my thoughts abstracting and congealing freely, impulsively. I began to plan on writing this blog entry as soon as I rinsed and dried myself, turning the lens, curbing the waves of ideas. And, like always, I find myself unable to catch that elusive fire. Playing catch-up on the page, hoping to recreate that first time... But this is an okay start.