That was the name of my first blog. I think it was a Tumblr thing. Like I did to my notebooks and binders back then, I tried to impose on it a structure, a structured system, a perfect organization and a clear theme or something. It was like the beginning of a semester in school, you know. New notebooks, new pencils and utensils, labeled and color-coded. I couldn't even keep the format of the dates consistent from day to day. I lost most of my pencils within a week, and there's no exaggeration in that.
I looked it up again, and it means, the incurable desire (itch) for writing.
That blog was a little different from those hopeful first pages, those failed experiments, those evidences of my obsessive-compulsive desires without any sort of substance to match it. It was the blog I made when I was, for the first time, giving up the idea of a perfect organization. I didn't make sections and tags and pages and tabs to categorize my posts. I was starting to write about whatever I felt like, really. Having no aim or purpose got me going on it for longer, back then. A definite goal of any sort was something that I couldn't live up to, something that didn't get me to follow suit and continue. It was also around then that I started to make the first entry of my diary sort of half-assed. No pretty first entry; that guarantees a downhill slope of my entries, if not no future entries at all. But I must confess, I read through a Wikipedia article titled, "Latin phrases" to find a cool latin phrase to use as the title of my blog. Vanity was still there.
Hum a strange, unmelodic sound. And then hum that on repeat. No matter how absurd, if you repeat it, it sounds a little musical. More or less melodic.
I couldn't brace myself for something clean and complete and concise and coherent. ADHD of thoughts. Lethargy and escapism. The best I could do is love the randomness. My favorite jokes, the humor I practiced, was based on 'random' remarks that barely had a rational connection- an expression of something distantly and spontaneously connected. Strenuous pattern was my humor and writing of choice. The joy was in connecting them. It suited who I was or what I was ready to be. Irresponsibility was the name of my game. Duty and structure I didn't have enough to live up to. I wanted to say and write things, but I didn't want to- or more like, I wasn't capable of creating anything cool.
모람모람 (Morumorum, or moram-moram): 이따금씩 한번에 몰아서 (adv. Every once in a while, all at once)
Now I hope to revert that. I don't think I have any more substance, in truth. I don't have any more substantial knowledge or thought, taste or passion, still. But I just want to revert it and write and think and act and speak differently. With more discipline, intent, honesty, and more of those fake words that sound heavy. I know the only way out is just to get going. Planning a system, let alone talking about it, never worked; I just have to go build one.
But I still enjoy this free space without form. Unlike some of my expressive and artistic friends that I have, I have a perpetual fear of a blank sheet of paper. A lingering, ever-present sense of responsibility to create something rational. I ran from that fear as I did from people, in search of irresponsibility and irrationality, of comfort, of sorts.
As I do with the mason-jar-full of sake g&t garnished with rosemary and cucumber, I find refuge and exile here, some sort of home and some sort of-
Mothagesso.
