Yesterday, or may be the day before, wordpress told me that it has been year since I started this blog. It is most probably correct, since I started it as I started my field work. I wanted -then-to write a proper serious academic persona into existence. I don’t think that a year later that person has come to being .Not that I am not serious, or that I am not totally invested in academia- (in fact I think in the very very end, it (academia) will be the last remaining friend that can put up with me), but just because everything fluttered.
Everything fluttered– I am not sure this is English but it sounds about right.
Anyways, I didn’t want go through the archive and check what oeuvre a year left here. Just today I found that the first blog post was in January. And I instantly smiled at my self who always puts off beginnings till the ends are close. I must have set up the blog two or three months before I had the courage to put myself out there.
“I was born on November 16, 1922, at two o’clock in the afternoon, and not on November 18th as the register of births, marriages and deaths would have it….two days were added to my actual date of birth…when I die, I will be two days older than the birth date on my identity card, but I hope no one will notice.” Saramago, Small Memories.
I too have funny stories about my birth. I too will die six days older than what is written on my birth certificate, because of a bureaucratic mistake. And I will always be too late, but I also hope no one notices.
This is not my first blog. I usually kept one, may be since my early twenties. Always anonymous. And usually have left them to die when they didn’t become anonymous. This would be the first blog in which I say who I am- a bit too much of who I am ended up here. That was not planned.
It is even not my first margins. Most of my friends say they love the name. I think everything that kept me passionate was always written in a margin of a notebook. I am still -always- in love with my footnotes more than the actual texts. And there are some texts that I only know by their notes. It has been a while now , that I have stopped dividing my pages into centre and margin, and I have been writing in all directions. I am still not sure if I want to arrive somewhere. I just want to have endless margins in time, until late is not too late anymore.