BOG

Yes, BOG. It was what I wrote in the final stages of this website making, meaning to say “Blog”, but Bog was really more applicable. It was what I felt, having viewed the whole thing in all of it’s clean, white precision, and thinking this says so little of the whole, the real, the all of life. The utter messiness of the whole thing, the infinite tread-mill of trying to express images and never quite getting there, the feet-stuck-in-the-mud of decades of illnesses and relationships and child-growing and never quite enough of anything to make what wants to be made. The swamp-like realization that all excuses are probably of my own making, my own fear and resistance, projected into the perception of external realities that lurk like sink holes waiting to swallow me up to my hip. A much more interesting Bio would have filled in all the gaps with all the tragedies and misfortunes and way-ward wanderings seeking impossible things that refused to reveal themselves, a history of failure infinitely more textured and colored than easily won successes.

So here I am, quite near a real-life bog on Stevens Pond. The heaths on the floating islands are turning scarlet and the small larches are gold. There are pitcher plants and cotton grass, and in the winter the mink will leave their tracks in the snow where they have come across the ice in search of voles. And I will glory in the soft wet squishyness of both my inner and outer bog.