Ever since I was a little cornichon pickle, growing up in sour, confusing times, in equally as confusing and confused quasi communist, power-hunger-torn land, persistently brushed by the winds of cold and hot worldly wars, relentlessly soaked by juicy, rebellious, pop-art radioactive rain of revolutions, a land which was rapidly heading into another drawn out, prodigal, senseless bloodshed, I was experiencing life through maximum loads of imagination, fun and creative spinning of it’s idiosyncrasies.
I hold tumultuous bubbling Balkans somewhat responsible for having this built-in kaleidoscopic, revolutionary sense of life, but mostly I should thank my young artist mother, who out of constant pursuit of private, inner peace and absence of suffering and physical pain, force-fed me this multidimensional way of thinking, as a complex remedy and escape solution – head-trippy liberation from life’s harsh pseudo realities, in 1-2-3… I was a kid, I went along.
My mother was a highly creative, wicked story teller, I sucked stories through my baby bottle, and my thumb, and later through my straw, so story spinning is naturally linked into my DNA, it tingles my nerve endings and is a constant backdrop of my experiences in life. I started writing short stories in 5th grade, I was an award winning teen story writer, in my native language of course, prior to emigrating to America in 1993. For me, transitioning between two languages was like stepping out of a noisy circus and into a deafening dark silence and slow-motioning thorough 20 year immersion process. It was hard enough to handle thoughts and life’s transitions single-lingually, it was a whole other ball of wax to completely switch off from the familiar one to the somewhat familiar other, and roll with it cold turkey, in a brand new world. It was only recently that I started feeling comfortable and able to adequately express my thoughts in English, without feeling like a linguistic handicap, or at best like a complete goof.
A good friend of mine writes a successful blog for over a year now, and I remember watching her get started. She had oodles of inspiration and creative talent, but no technical knowledge of blogging. She took it on as a science project, did research, read lots of articles, even blogs about blogs, she learned about every layered nuance of publishing online. And then she took off, three times every week, week in and week out, rain or shine, consistently!
Me, I don’t think I will do it like that. Starting to write a blog feels no different than packing up my life into a suitcase at 23 and learning how to live all over again. I enjoy studying from within the experience itself, and getting dirty, not because I would not love to glide alongside her, as fast as I could, but because it’s part of my nature to experience new in a raw, pulpy form, and to run into new territories unprepared, with lots of passion and some naivete. Seems more fun that way, bruises tell good stories too.
Like with many things in life, same with my blog, I will follow no plan, I will not define it, or package it, rather allow it evolve, free-flow, and form extemporaneously.
I hope we both enjoy. 🙂