Blogging Is Painful

Blogging is actually very painful. Ok, laugh now. I dressed as Indiana Jones for my preschool Halloween party. Sound of a thousand babies clearing their throats. Programs seem to be as good a way as any to talk about this, which I’m not talking about and won’t be talking about. But what I want to say is that when a person blogs and they know that a few people might read it, and relate to it or not relate to it, and all the things that come with that, there is a pain in being aware of that. They make me cry, and knock my lumpen head on blind wood. Blogging is a means to connect to others, but it's also definitely a disconnect. We need to shift the warlike energy associated with politician's names over to sexual energy. Why shouldn’t a person be taught to love? You are looking at flickr pictures of your friend with Terrence Trent D'arby in Cancun. You are thirsty again. You get up to leave the house to buy Fresca.

It is a lousy substitute for social interaction. Not sure what in it exactly I'm referring to but yeah... But it is painful because it is done, even if unconsciously, in an effort to connect with people one feels disconnected from—possibly a geographical disconnect, or just a peculiar social disconnect. Like two murderous clowns masturbating each other. It is painful even when done anonymously. I'm actually lucky to have been born when I was, because if I were kid now, I would probably be on every ADD drug under the sun. There are probably as many kinds of disconnect as there are blogs. Of course art does cause change. Or maybe I just don't care as much. The geographical disconnect might include people who live too far away to be physically touched. Then Perry Farrell all of sudden jumps off the stage and next thing I know, dude's fuckin suplexing me like I'm some fuckin cornish game hen. And then I'm layin there with fuckin asphault-encrusted yogurt all over my face, and Perry Ferrell's all back on stage and he's flying down, a tap-tapping his elbow, which is The Flying Elbow smash. I like the type this way after all, it’s like viewing the poem through a pair of binoculars. I kind of don’t care about that thing from before there was this thing. They would be driving a golf cart along side me yelling encouragements while I'm on my daily 10 mile run by the sea shore. So built and not demonstrated, it lassos the comely moon. The social one might be peculiar, say, in the guessing that goes into who reads this, or who reads that who can't be communicated with in any other way. They send out signals that mingle around variously patterned salons of intelligently synced-up pattern-holes. I couldn't find what is supposed to be my own blog! And yeah there is some measure of importance to be considered.

Blogging might actually be the least cathartic form of publication. What should I have for lunch? This could be affected by alot of variables. I hated the Chicago Bulls. I might be totally wrong. I also subscribe to a loose idea of being committed enough to the process that one is willing write things that are potentially stupid, embarrassing or even petty. But the transmission of a blog post carries with it an expectation of not only an instant readership, but one that will instantly (because this is the Internet after all) reply with a counter-transmission. Will you please reply? In no time? Like, Richard-Dreyfus-obnoxious right now?

Is it necessarily only achieved through google-sculpting? I wonder if the other patrons can hear me under my breath. Very naughty, and yet the listener can't decide its naughty without a certain amount of presumption. One could blog in a completely nonchalant way. I came over 900 times last month. One could really have absolutely no expectations about being found out. Would a salad believe this? Do you ever find yourself asking this question? One could blog in a completely utilitarian way. A dream where I'm on tour with The Arcade Fire, and I think me and the blond one are like stranded in a McDonald's parking lot somewhere, until Marx comes by with his Hummer to pick us up, so we can catch up to the rest of the band on tour. So I'm left with one less way to get myself out of the house. One could behave in a completely sociopathic way, or indeed be blogging at the behest of some psychotic intent. But what’s the point of bringing that up? Either voluntarily or not, they are a part of their own consciousness of it.

Believe me when I tell you that blogging is not to be taken lightly. This is cathartic: I also watched LA Law on a regular basis. More likely it was because we just couldn't remember. I would like to now bifurcate that sentence a bit, and just say that the blogging of literally billions has implications which almost completely eclipse the implications of blogging itself. I wrote this in an essay in Health class and ended up being invited to help keep score for the Basketball team. But maybe all of life is beautifully harrowing. And the implications of communication? Of the digitized message-in-a-bottle that any blog really and truly contains? Aphex Twin is playing and I’m writing this and I’m looking at the monitor with part of the words covered by a smudge on the monitor. Blogs are meta-containers, like Russian dolls, and do require maintenance. I should know better and I do, but I go around loving every thing. I wrote a thing where a kid is murdering his father. What is the appeal of black metal? Don’t get me started.

A dream where I had to go back to my dishwashing job, where somehow I was obligated to and there was no way to get out of it. And looking in The Sports Section at an article about how Steven Wright is actually a really great athlete. There's a picture accompanying the article that shows Steven Wright's rifle-like tennis swing. And also an article about a local couple who were involved in the Avant Garde in the 1930s and 40s, posing nude with their parts strategically covered. And I'm yelling at Ross in my father's living room, loudly complaining that there's no way I'm going back to that job. He's trying to explain to me how the person they have now comes in late, calls himself "Mr. Bumblebut" and uses the wrong exit to leave. And I'm getting really upset but then I wake up. And I'm very relieved.

How would a serial killer’s blog read? A dictator’s blog? A phenomenon of the late 70s and 80s. I once masturbated in the back of a bus in Ireland. (This will be the only Item here that involves me masturbating.) I mean its good and necessary to have a philosophy. When I was a kid, I had a staring problem. I do "creepy" pretty well. We are nearing the end of summer, when the blogging is dumb and the living, it's easy.

How would a virus’ blog read? I don't quite understand when people say, "well I haven't written anything in a long time". If a virus could blog, we would not understand it. Er, I mean we would not be invited readers. I'm not good at knowing whether someone is joking. That would be too lateral, passive. There's a level at which this is all rhetoric. What a virus wants, of course, is direct contact.

I've always dreamed of being in a band of misfits where we play our instruments by not learning how to play our instruments. But the format dictates the expectation of the kind of shared experience that's peculiar to the Internet. Today is my day off, what should I do? I think I have hemorrhoids. Today is my day off, what'll I do. Does blogging remind anyone else of shadow puppets? Why do I feel like someone out there is about to “break it” to me? Please be gentle!