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typical. i get all geared up for putting words together, and all i think of is someone else's. words meander like a restless wind inside a letterbox. that kind of thing. some of the literary constipation over the past week stems from the NYTimes article about blogs, last week... rants about how self-serving online journals are, the addictive snooping into others lives, the grasping at intimacy with people you'll never meet. and, the time spent in the pursuit. well, that part stung, a little. all this time, i thought it was about keeping thoughts organized, events remembered, ideas committed, worthwhile observations archived, writing honed to relative sharpness. potential energy. that you could share the whole thing has been a bonus. ironic, this criticism... as the author was, no doubt, indulging in his own little ego trip, to be adored and f�t�d at soir�es for his keen judgement and incisive observation. bitch. now... the blank page is scarred. tattooed with meaningful characters. grammatically connected. to be continued, regardless of the motivations and the analyses. |
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