About

I stand in my own blind spot.

We cannot see the backs of our own heads. That simple observation in Yi Yi feels more exact to me than many accounts of self-knowledge. We are closest to ourselves, yet there are parts we need another person’s eyes to see. Even then, we may not know what to make of them.

Perhaps that is why I write.

A thought often seems whole before it is written down. Once it becomes a sentence, the gaps appear. Some things are overstated. Others take a long way round. Certain words keep returning, as though they know what matters to me before I do. Reading back, I sometimes fail to recognise the voice. Sometimes I find what I have been avoiding.

Writing leaves traces I can return to: how today’s explanation covers yesterday’s feeling; how things I thought were over come back under another name. It leaves me a little less room for denial.

This doubt extends to how I see the world. Where we stand holds our experience, desire and shame, as well as what our time has left in us. Sometimes I think I am judging a situation when I am protecting a familiar version of myself. Sometimes it takes years to hear the borrowed voice in something I once said with certainty. A change of position brings certain things into view. Some contradictions remain.

I am drawn to people who are at odds with themselves. They carry quarrelling voices, desires they cannot admit, and actions that fail their convictions. They can be earnest to the point of absurdity, wretched in defeat, and still do something worth keeping in an otherwise unremarkable moment.

We need not put ourselves in order before taking part in the world. Regret, worn-out ideals and ill-timed enthusiasm stay with us. Life goes on. To do one small thing well, or listen closely to another person, is already difficult enough.

Revolt draws me too. I distrust the pleasure it brings. Having escaped one identity, we are often eager to find the next. A voice that speaks our anger may gradually decide whom we should hate and who we should become. The more satisfying an explanation feels, the more I want to know what I have handed over.

The world owes us no answer. Much of our effort will not receive its due. Once we admit this, tomorrow still brings things to do and relationships to answer for. Sometimes the next step is too small to make a story about courage.

This blog is called unauthorized. I like the small trespass in the name. Some things ask to be said before permission arrives, before a respectable phrasing can be found, before I know whether I have the right. There is room for them here. What I write can be questioned and revised. In time, I may overturn it myself.

The lighthouse is this site’s mark.

I like its light and its weathered brickwork. It has weight. It wears down. It needs repair. It stands in a particular place and lights a limited stretch of sea. Behind it, there is still a part it cannot see.

Here I keep what I can see from where I stand, and leave room for what I have yet to see.