Looking through my pocket travel journal from this summer I'm nostalgic but also frustrated that all the little stories I hoped would fill my blog didn't always come to fruition in print. I find myself wondering where that short story is about the man I met at Reggae night who declared that the U.S. was the best place for a black man. I'm searching in my journal for the passage about my first walk to work through the streets filled with hollowed out vans and shells of homes and the palpable feeling of all eyes on me as I made my way through them.
A part of me mostly worries that if I don't form the words on a page I will let those tiny moments slip passed my memory. So, I'm digging into my journal and bringing forth those moments as best I can.
I'm also changing the layout of my blog once again, for the nth time, due to the incessant headache I get when it loads on my page and I see white letters floating brightly in a deep black backdrop. Doesn't everyone feel like they're falling down the black hole underneath Eugene's passenger seat in Wristcutters? Well I do. And I'm slightly embarrassed that it also resembles a 14-year-old's Myspace page. Since it is my blog and I'm probably the only reader besides my grandmother - I'm doing it for us.
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