Drama and blogging. Ackems Razor.. sort of.

I was out on the patio of my hotel chilling when two of the paraglider folks came in and asked if I wanted to head up to Chandi Desa for the night and do some flying there the next day. It was a great opportunity and I wanted to check it out as it is meant to be a stunning site. I called my instructor and asked if he would rent me a wing for the trip and what he thought of the whole idea. The launch is really tricky at the top of the hill (you have to be perfect or bad things happen) and even the lower launches off a myriad of peanut terraces are a bit dodgey (picture of one of the guys taking off below, "Basil"). He decided it wasn't really wise and I was happy to concede. Trusting a guy to keep me safe and then overriding his call is a bit ridiculous. I decided to go and observe and I trudged up the hill to check it out after a couple of hours worth of driving. I had a really good time.

I remember me and Jeh sitting in Wide Open one night and I was trying to explain a problem that I have with the act of blogging. I'm a little bit paranoid that this thing is overly dramatic, but just the act of writing something down as an attempt to describe it automatically makes that happenance 100 times more dramatic than in real life. "The dingy and poorly lit bar was as it should be. A hundred details that make me like the place were immediately apparent. Comfort. A good friend at my side and my favourite bartender doing what she does best; charm. The stereo plays some guilty pleasure for the 1000th time. Life is good." Its all true. I felt it all. Dramatic as fuck. "I went out for a beer with Jeh and it was fun" is also true, but it doesn't convey anything about how I felt or what was around me. So anyways, I'm in Chandi Dessa and we stayed in an awesome place for $5 including an egg sandwich breakfast and coffee. I was struck by this place and I paused at the door to my room that night. I need to tell people about this door. Its beautiful. There is a problem though, as the act of describing this door to any extent would have made it the door of a palace, of mythic proportions and incalculable worth. A picture is worth a thousand of them,

but it was a great door. It was a great place. Why do I feel like I can't describe them without making them larger than life? Its strange and I don't really know what to think of it. I am enjoying writing for the first time (this thing is my first foray into writing for joy). The primary purpose of this is to keep a diary for later years while keeping loved ones informed (my first attempt to do so that has ever stuck for more than a day). Everything that I write about has happened and is as factual as I can make it. I'm not sure why I feel like I can no longer write about stuff and when I do, it feels like I need to tone it down. Which kind of feels like lying to me. This door was awesome.

I have come to the conclusion that my inner critic needs to take a Valium. I need to get back to the who gives a toss Mike. For better or worse. Dramatic or not. He just keeps rearing his ugly, deformed head.