My writing for Cowbird is unique.
I have a fairly large internet presence, with blogs on WordPress
and Blogger, photography on 500px, YouPic and my own portfolio
site. I'm active on Facebook, and even on Twitter from time to time.
But never, on any these, active with any persistence. Long stretches will pass when I do nothing, or become fixated on one particular forum, for photographs perhaps after a particularly productive spell. Not for me the reliable excellence of a Ben or a Kiki or a Pete or many others who maintain a strong consistent presence on Cowbird. Not for me either the engagement of following a board, reading others, responding and amplifying. I might do it in brief spurts, but much longer times of complete indifference take over and I might as well be gone completely.
Except I never am.
Cowbird, uniquely among any internet vehicle I use, is a forum for the raw and unformed. I edit far less, and write much more spontaneously. I'm not afraid to play with form or structure, whereas elsewhere I find myself constrained by a stronger set of expectations. Consequently, much of my writing here taps directly into my emotional self, as close to the Kerouacian concept that 'to rewrite is to deceive and lie and you betray your own thoughts' (as admirably expressed in the film "Naked Lunch") as I ever get.
Cowbird's format enables this more effectively than anything else I have ever used, including writing, laboriously in cramped long hand, in those little diaries I used to keep.
The picture is crucial. An image acts as the key to the emotions I want to express, unlocks many of the many doors and barriers that lie in my way and allows to me to get close.
How close I get depends on how vulnerable I feel and how much I am willing to admit. Sometimes - recently - I feel that otherworldly sensation that fills the borderland between depression and contentment. I look into the abyss, obliquely and clinging on to anything that will anchor me, never quite sure if it will swallow me. These days it doesn't. That's not quite enough assurance to remove the fear, but that's a price I'm often willing to pay to explore. For I learn much in these adventures. Writing here is a form of therapy, in both the doing and in the reconsidered appraisal of what gets recorded.
As such it is really valuable. That's why I keep going.