I write for a blog. This blog as a matter of fact, and I’m pretty damn proud of that. I mean sure, we’re sitting here in this odd corner of the internet, safely obscure, (for now that is, plans for world domination aren’t set to implemented for about another month) and yet there is a hypothetical readership out there.

What’s beautiful about this, or any other blog for that matter, is the fact that it operates as an excuse to sit down every day and try to shift the swarms of thought-dreams that drift through my mind into type that can conceivably be understood.

I’m a writer, that’s what I want to do, write. Novels, poems, essays and plays; any damn thing really. And to be certain, I do have my back-up plan in effect, pursuing some far-off degree that will entitle me to either teach literature or flip burgers and act high and mighty.

So what’s this? This bloggin’ thing, is it just another medium for the silent masses of humanity to expunge their inner most thoughts? So much of what I come across in my random surfing is just mediated exhibitionism, the confessionals, the bragging halls, the attempts at profundity, it’s beautiful. All of it. Not that I find a whole lot that makes me want to stay or come back, but those nuggets are out there, people posting poems that allow you to see the glimmerings of a kindred spirit in someone you’ll never meet, in a forum where they could be hiding behind two dozen layers of accumulated disguise.

Half of what I write could probably be reduced to egotistical posturing if looked at with a truly critical eye, but so what…

Kurt Vonnegut said – “Be careful what you pretend to be because you are what you pretend to be.” and Nietszche said something to the effect of ‘all great men are merely play-actors of their own inner ideals’ but I can’t be bothered to go look up the proper quote right now.

This bloggin’ thing is the perfect excuse to sit down everyday and hammer out something, anything, even if it’s just a paragraph or something as ridiculous as a defense of blog participation. {hehe}

Myself, I’ve wanted to be a part of the next Beat Generation for as long as I can recall, a fairly adolescent fantasy that refuses to fade. That’s alright, gets me through tough times, plus it’s fun to think about a bunch of turned on hipsters invading our public spaces and demanding poetry readings and cheap wine.

So here we go, I’m masquerading as a turned on hipster to hide my neurotic tics about what it means to be a human, I’m invading this public space of the internet, and I’m demanding more poetry readings, but if you’re stopping by, bring scotch instead of cheap wine.

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 18th, 2005 at 10:59 pm and is filed under indiscriminate. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.