art on the walls

I occasionally occupy rooms (bedrooms, living rooms, office rooms, etc.) for years and years with blank walls staring down at me.  I enjoy visual art and decor as much as the next person, and while I can procrastinate with the best of them, I’m not that lazy.  My hang-up (pun intended) has to do with what the act of actually putting whatever on that blank spot in the wall implies — that this painting is just that good.  That I like that picture well enough to privilege it above all of the other options.  An indecisiveness, in short, born of an inappropriately exaggerated sense of finality, permanence, completeness, whatever.

I am, I fear, making myself sound insane.  (I’d suggest that the self-awareness here gets me some sanity credits).  And what in the world does this have to do with anything that the 3.2 people who could possibly still have this RSS feed in their aggregators care about?  I mention my decorating tendencies by way of analogy and explanation:  I think I have come to see this blog in the same way. While it’s been over six months since I’ve posted here, I have literally started dozens of posts, written notes about things that interest me, tagged hundreds of URLs, etc.  None of these things are here because none of them are that good, none are worthy of being privileged over the others by an appearance here.

Just as this way of thinking about it is silly and suffering under an inappropriate exaggeration in the context of my walls, so is it here. And so, it comes to this:  I’m either going to stop treating this space quite so gingerly, or I’m going to stop bothering with it altogether.  I’m honestly not sure which it will be, but I’m going to give the former a shot.