i know why the caged blogger blogs

i think that i understand why the blogger blogs; a catharsis unmatched in anonymity. a blog is a series of screams into the dark, but the screamer does not perceive the dark as such. rather, the dark is an abstract giver of value. the abstract listener is an automatic promise of agreement given by nameless viewers. the spell is cast when the page ticker increases, and the spell broken when real feedback is given. thus there is the option to disallow feedback. in a world that does not allow a single squeal, we turn to a seemingly vast and unknown comforter: internet users. when the scream is merely a cry for attention, we burn crimson embarrassment when the attention is manifested in a location other than the subconscious. when the cry is in rage, we later either deny such rage or explain the cathartic effect. actually, we have drawn true comfort from the ever listening computer screen.

the conclusion is thus: the blogging is a poor solution for the disconnection between peoples. we blog what we cannot say elsewhere; blogs become a repository for the mental states that are tacitly unacceptable. when we ought to come closer to our brother and sister, we instead "deal" by coming closer to a virtual entity. aside from the obvious problems that occur from interacting with strangers, we damage our ability to be open with fellow humans. it is as if a person chose to speak to himself or herself for an entire year whenever he or she wanted to engage in humor. afterward, he or she would no longer be versed in humor understandable to another.

perhaps this is not the case for all of us. we might blog intelligently, hoping to raise opinions and questions to stimulate discussion that would otherwise not occur. we might truly seek feedback. but if we seek much more than opinions by giving blogs more than opinions, then we wrongly use the blog to gain a phantom comfort, a phantom confidence, a phantom worth.

suddenly it feels as if everything is going wrong. time is a-wasting. it is impossible to tell which way to go. as if the whole world was ready to just run by. breath catches in the throat. can't find a reason or rhyme. take it a bit at a time. this is not a practice round; win now or lose forever. put the right foot forward, please.

but i can't. not now. i'm busy. i'm undertaking. i have things to do. i have work to finish. i have work to begin. there are people to begin, but none to continue. i just don't have a pace. i run by falling. i sleep by seeing. i turn my ears down to the ground to hear the coming of a great silence. i consume so that i can excrete. there is no rhyme or reason.

bump

often i am afraid to write because music is a stronger medium. mere silence i feel is more powerful than any number of words (or absence of words). should i be playing music, which is often, then i will be more than intimidated. my inspiration will generally be blown away by the emotional power of the music; my mind does not rest on letters but on notes. they lift me up, so to speak, higher than the lines of my paper.

but yet i am always compelled to speak in words and not music; my expression comes through characters forming words forming tales. they are written down, paper or screen. each time i cry out soundlessly that no word could ever trump a noise in a rigorous demonstration of pathos; each time i do not cry out soundlessly for that in itself is music which is beyond my ability.

the catharsis of writing is then replaced with that of music. an overwhelming flood replaces a burning pen, and the soothing gushing melody comes through my ears to put out a flaming passion of dictional momentum. time and time again, you will not read of me for i am too busy hearing of you.

nontheless, here am i, the perpetrator of his own words, themselves paradoxical. i am writing to say that i cannot use words for i can hear well enough. for it must be done, as i am capable of no other route; i am a locomotive with motivation and here in this paper is my destination. my pen hangs over the paper through any blows and down always it goes to make ink splotches and run rivers of images where you can drink lots of literal anecdotes, rhymes that float, poems that rhyme, and please excuse me if this is no masterpiece, for everybody has their fair share of mistakes and botches. and now that here i am, please stand back as i prepare to generate a mass of prose that will inundate each line and page; no, i'm not one of the pros, but on it goes, saturating and liberating prisoners of the dictionary, words risen from the pages into fiction, diction coming out now to serve from previous dereliction. but i do not write to bring peace: i am not here to put you at ease; please, this piece will subject you to gees, will charge you to fees, will take out your knees. it's just not feasible to cater to all when there are just haters, but i do something greater because i move in one direction, like an elevator, which is up in perfection. you can dissect this all you like and sooner or later you will find that i am but a traiter, using unjust beats and unowned treats to achieve a feat of musical production which is this.

so i find that regardless, there is music greater than any set of words i can produce. i myself am prone to falling into lyrical production instead of simply writing. but perhaps there is no right and wrong.

music is an essay

music is an essay that i cannot find myself to write. i don't have a paper to write on, nor do i have a pen with which to mark. not that it matters. there are infinite combinations that could be laid out. sequences and patterns never before thought of, never imagined, that don't exist until they suddenly do.

but they never will, because i will not write them. music is an essay that i cannot find myself to write. i cannot find myself to write. i cannot find myself. i cannot. find myself. but i could, before. before, i found myself to write a essay of music that was merely an essay. can i not find myself, or can i not write the essay? or can i not find myself to write the essay?

sloth is an essay that i can find myself to write. i write it each day, each hour, with my still eyeballs that scribble madly, lazily, nothing. i write this essay of meaninglessness so that i need not write anything else. my pen is a paint roller, my paper not important. i write while lying down | i write while standing up | i write while sitting down | i write while writing | i write in my sleep | i write incessantly as if running in place will win me a marathon where the reward is a single step forward.

evil is an essay that i can find myself to write. sometimes it sneaks up on me; i write this essay accidentally. i write an essay so dark and drenching that the pen is my blood and the paper is my life. it soils my soul to write this essay. but this accident is not the careless tipping of my inkwell; when i spill my blood there i have known for days, years, and eons that it is to be spilled. the blood falls from my every orifice: i speak in blood, hear in blood, smell in blood, see in blood, urinate in blood. the sweat from writing this paper is not blood; it is bile, a noxious odor that destroys the fat of life. it stains me when i sweat, a stain not easily removed by any means. i do not wish to write this essay.

soon i wish to not write any essays. soon i will not need to write any essays, because they will be beneath me. i will write music, and you will hear it. it will be a song of heaven, and then you will know that a single note is better than any number of words however beautiful.

where you are

imagine for a minute that you are in a swamp. imagine the emptiest, most colorless landscape possible. this is where you are. this is your current surroundings. the trees are a mush green, as is the ground, and the sky. is it night or day? doesn't matter. it's just blackness here. you might as well have no soul. who needs one, anyway.

anyway. there you are. are you physically there? you might as well be a floating eyeball. one of those floating camera robots form movies and imagination. never mind that this is imagination. imagine that this is not imagined. this landscape? this is who you are. be there. be here.

there is no sound. like you're in space. so silent, you've probably just gone deaf. but you can hear the faint sounds of some small voice nibbling at your sureness. you might as well be blind, because there is nothing worth seeing.

then, there is somebody else here. where? how do you even know that another person is here? who is it? is this person... kind? or cruel? foolish? amicable? reticent? tempered? tolerant? able? reserved? alive?


after a moment or infinity, the sensation of the muck inside your guts changes. not murky, not a cluttering, but a jerking of tendons and creaking. suddenly there is something sought. suddenly satiated senses are unsatisfiable. suddenly, you crave it all: a raw sensual mourning, a deep thirst in the bottom of yourself that threatens to creep over the edge and saturate. you need anything and everything. it is not merely hunger, greed, or lust. it is a yearning so strong that it borders on apathy. to care so much that you do not care at all.

you realize that this desire, it seeks what was already had. you want a state of nothingness, a soullessness, an independence. you were not searching for the somebody else, because you found yourself. you know, now. you know. and that is not enough.