apologia
April 30th, 2008The problem with blogging is that it is communicating without conversing. It is a confession via satellite. A nar- cissism performed in degrees of anonymity. Nothing but easy arousal and hard orgasm can satisfy the stranger in an encounter such as this.
A new blog is rather like a funeral. In both cases it is impossible to know what to say without knowing to whom one is speaking. The regular smiles, cheery greetings, and happy questions of a well socialised existence fall flat and echo in the absence of the other. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m trying not to rejoice – as I do – in meeting you.
The stream of consciousness broadcast.
Graffiti on the wall.
Fuck.
For we have bodies we never see. Imperative, questioning. Word read crude for trying to say grace.
Words in search of their meaning in anothers mind. In the meaning of an accidental failure in the search engine matrix that returned this page instead of the one that you were looking for.
- do you come here often?
- All the time, I never come anywhere else.
The meaning is the difference between the most sophisticated math google can craft and the most basic empathy that it cannot achieve. In the long run each word is a self fulfilling prophecy spraying pheromones for the robotic crawlers filling hard disks with history. The boy that wrote wolf. Wolf and many other words. Each with its individual alarm.
My responsibility to the lost reader is too great. I can offer nothing but inadequate apologies for mazing words that can only frustrate whatever messianic desire for the founding of a promised land that lead them here. For this anticapitalist inefficiency in the information economy. For the mine I plant on the fibre optic path to you.
Perhaps in the promise of all hope for that which is to come is enough possibility that what is to come will not be what was expected and yet still what came. I disown whatever part I play. Or at least put down the mask between scenes.