I’m in the final stages of working with a designer to move my blog to a brighter, shinier, all-around-easier-to-use space next week. The changes won’t be anything too drastic. But I’m looking forward to this space getting something of a refresh.
As is usually the case with any project worth doing: the process of getting the site looking shiny and polished required more than a little mess-making first. In preparing for the shift, I’ve been spending a lot of time rifling through the archives. I’ve spent hours trying to make sense of my nonsensical taxonomy. I’ve retagged and recategorized and stopped myself from deleting the most heinously embarrassing early posts. For my organized little brain, the project’s been like my worst nightmare and my very best dream all wrapped into one.
January will mark seven years since I started this blog. My mid-twenties, my late-twenties, hell, my early-thirties, they’re all here. Of course there’s lots that I left out. (And some things that I wish that I had.) For what it’s worth: if you ever you need to be disabused of the notion that you’ve left your awkward youth behind you, just read through your old blog archive.
But despite some of the more obvious growing up that I think I’ve done, I’ve found some comfort, too in how things have stayed the same.
Seems to me that more or less every Septemeber of the last five, I’ve found myself taking walks to Red Hook and shooting photos of flowers and sidewalk cracks. I’m not sure what exactly compels me to make the journey. The change in the weather, maybe. The pull of the sea. The urge to get somewhere a little quieter. A little grittier.