If I’m going to be honest from the start, let me say this. It’s hard for me to be honest. Starting a blog makes it even harder. I can take all the time in the world to craft every word, every sentence to present the perfected doppelganger. I can look up words like “doppelganger” on the Internet and throw them around like it’s loose change.
Then there’s the issue of how honest I SHOULD be. The best writing, in my opinion, happens when there’s the utmost transparency. There’s an honesty in this sort of writing that leaps off the page, waltzes into the readers’ eye socket, and strikes the chord of Collective. Human. Truth. You can’t miss the sound it makes when that happens. There’s that wonderful click-clacking in your brain followed by the swish of an understanding nod.
But it doesn’t happen as much as it should because it takes real guts to peel back your skin and offer what’s inside. Good writing needs to be tempered so that it’s not a rage of thoughts and sentiments flowing unchecked into the public forum. It needs to be moderated, whipped, beaten, molded so that in the end, you have a small nugget of humorous recognition.
The Fig. It’s first a homage to a little restaurant in Sonoma, California called The Girl and the Fig and it made me think about the little pockets of restaurants, trinkets and treasures, homes, kitchens, gardens, and landscapes that we’ve stored away in our wistful, sorrowfully nostalgic selves. There’s the lake in Orange County, where I had my first kiss. 1988, which was the year that my BMW was born. Ponte Vecchio in Florence. Little pins with clever double entendres like “I won the Wicked lottery.” Gyros at 2 AM in Agia Pelagia. And most recently, the Brooklyn Bridge.
In the restaurant, there are at least 8 or 9 matted prints showing a girl and her fig, and I remember thinking that I would give anything to love something as much as she loved that fig.
It was a reverent, passionate, and delicate love, the sort of love that we should burn hard for. And I found it interesting that in the Bible, Adam and Eve used a fig leaf to cover their private parts in shame. An object of love doubling as a shield from the naked truth. The name for my blog emerged not so lightly.
My intent with this blog is to wield the fig leaf like a magnifying glass, bringing to light the smirking imperfections of daily living. The blog will serve as a proxy for my never ending search of honest expression. With discipline, I hope to love this space like that girl loved her fig.
I haven’t really explained the fodder because the fodder will explain itself. It’s just the liner, the filler, a needed break from all this philosophizing.
Hopefully, a lot of my future entries won’t be as mopey-dopey as this one was, but at least for the first post, I thought I’d crack open a bottle of perfectly aged sentimentality and chase it with a swig of lionized prose. Just how I like it.