I know, I know.


I need to update my blog more than twice a season. I’m bugged about it by needling, annoying (very well-intentioned) friends nearly every day. But c’mon, people, things change. I needed a creative outlet like I needed air when I started this thing in January. I felt like I was dying a slow death working for lawyers and living in a big house on a hill. I was aging like a figure from an Edgar Allen Poe tale– spirited and sprightly one minute, withered and sallow the next. I got my culture and creative fix through a computer screen and stack of magazines, and spit it back out in the form of private verbal explosions and the sometimes blog. Unsurprising to anyone who knows me, it ultimately wasn’t enough. As that great sage Yoda might have said, “learn one must but live must one as well.” So I moved back to New York, got a demanding but very cool job, a bright and airy apartment above the beautiful mess and felt like I was again a fleshy, bloody cell in the vein of the City. The importance of the blog waned as the urgency of the job waxed. There was less desperate need to see and do (create) since seeing and doing became a normal part of my life. I was part of it again.

Well, yes and no.

The great and crippling thing about New York is exactly its bounty of possibility. There’s so much to do but you’re never really doing enough of it, are you? It’s enough to keep you up at night. Part of me craves that activity, wants to be in the thick of it, out meeting new people, seeing incredible things, having random adventures, collecting experiences, down the rabbit hole I tumble. And then writing about it, breathe it in and breathe it out. Constant pursuit. It’s an inextricable part of what makes Kelly Kelly. It’s why I had to leave San Francisco. And the other part of me is never happier than inside on a rainy Sunday (or solo Saturday night, as was the case yesterday– those nights both nourish and terrify me, I simultaneously relish them and am wracked with fear and guilt that I should be out Doing) with a couple books, a dozen meaty magazines, a pot of coffee, an innocuous Pandora station, a completely nonsensical French film that makes my brain hurt. It becomes an exercise in gluttonous consumption, see how much I can soak up, stuff in my brain in a single sitting. An intellectual Thanksgiving. This is the me that has always just wanted to lose herself in a trance of learning. No output, all intake. And these two parts – the collector/creator and the learner – are in near-constant violent opposition with each other.

Which is a long-winded way of getting closer to explaining the lapse. The collector/creator has been busy with work and traipsing through New York and any time left over has been greedily snatched up by that curious, cerebral little girl with her nose in a book.

So no promises for now, but I do feel another change coming. I had a birthday recently (28, holy crap), New Years is coming up, we’ll soon have a bright and shiny new president in office. So many arbitrary reasons to shake things up and tip the scales back over in favor of abundant honest expression. Stay tuned…


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