first evening post

APHORISM; NIGHT IS THE BIRD THAT SINGS NOT OF THE DAY.

Of monumental importance to myself and the other solitary soul purporting to read this who is probably a google administrator,how can anyone read something they don't know about and can't find. Millions of Americans with nothing to say are probably asking this very same question. (POST FROM THE FUTURE; EASY, THEY ARE NOT AS STUPID AS YOU)""I want to be read," we cry in unison. "Make my electrons famous electrons>" "Twitter me, Lord." But we are all met with a deafening silence. No one wants to hear our thoughts, our beautiful thoughts which we have taken seconds from our horrendous lives to place in this pocket where THEY can be seen by all. "I am so fucking intresting," we are thinking. "If only they would give me a chance."

Returning by the scruff of my neck, fueled on by a rabid determination to make this the blog of blogs even if there are NO readers, I continue. I continue for the sake of the unborn for they are also the unblogged. I continue for bungee jumpers everywhere. I continue because the alternative is unthinkable-- not continuing. Were I to not continue none of the meaninglessness of these words would MATTER OR not matter any more. I would be deprived of learning how to operate in a new medium-- sort of like driving a Saab. I would be deprived of eventually having to scan some meaning into these pages since I will have run out of nothings to say. But if the blog is to remain a pure medium, it must remain an anonymous one. Texts with subjects belong in books, newspapers and magazines whether on electrons or paper. Subjectless text is the purity of the blog. The only subject is, like the Himalayan snowman, the search for its elusive meaning, a meaning that unlike a text grows more elusive the more you read of it. You wrack your brain to think of a reason for why you are wasting your fucking god given hours listening to someone you don't know write about something he doesn't understand. But perhaps there is something obvious in all this obviousness.9OBVIOUSLY--COULDN'T RESIST) It is the search for non-meaning, a search much more difficult than a search forits positive brother which can avail itself of avocados, gargoyles and all sorts of things and positively spin yarns from them which can actually engage a reader. No avocados or gargoyles will grace these pages, just consciousness, sheer unadulterated rageful consciousness.

I believe I said earlier that content would eventually, inevitably creep in.I withdraw that.I put a fence around my blog to keep all content out. The world is overflowing already with content. It is content that causes trouble and makes writers who should know better give blurbs. But if nothing means anything, then doesn't that nothing mean something, meaning anything? A sophomoronic question with no answer I can think of. Fortunately it was asked by no one of any significance so no one will go home disappointed. Timing is the key. The dosage (DOSAGE OF WHAT/ WHAT THE HELL IS HE ON)must be kept minimal to tempt the reader into thinking that some vestige of sanity will ineveitably slither into this sacred script in spite of the author's wholehearted attempts to keep it out. But is not the author's attempt to keep content out' a but a backdoor way of making non-content content, not to mention continence and continents.(THE AUTHOR OF THE FUTURE HAS READ THESE LAST FEW LINES REPEATEDLY AND CAN MAKE NO SENSE OF THEM).

The discriminating reader already is hooked. She knows that content is dead, It is the desire for content that lives and splashes itself all over everything. The truth is here and only here. I wasn't going to tell you until much much later but this is really the work of God who is feeling right now that evening blogs are substantially stranger than morning ones, regardless of the lack of readers. Will the next entry be a.m. or p.m. or at the stroke of noon? Or will there be a next entry at all? And how will that effect the ultimate destiny of the universe. Big questions for a small (5 ft. 7 inches) man to be asking. But he is up to the fucking godforsaken task. Make no mistake about it.