morning

APHORISM: IF MORNING IS THAT MOST GLORIOUS SEASON OF THE DAY THEN WHAT ARE PEANUTS?

It is terrifying how eager I am to plunge back into this after working on it (if I may use the expression loosely) less than 12 hours ago. Why and what on earth am I trying to prove? First things first. Why? Because I like to feel my fingers going clickety clack across the keyboard with no regard as to what they are signifying. Why? Because my ego is boundless and I seriously believe on some level that my readership of two (myself and I believe a google technician) is some day going to morph into, say, seven. If I can get my daughter to coherently attach this to my facebook account (please don't ask why I have a facebook account) thereby notifying people who actually no me, my readership might, at least temporarily catapault into the double numbers. What an ego trip. What on earth am I trying to prove? I am not certain yet-- that I can write interestingly with no content, a kind of literary abstract expressionism. That I can write indefinitely and interminably with no readers, a bravura performance of masochism. That the rest of my life is so dull and meaningless that doing a ballet on a toy piano gives me jollies.

But yes and not. The yes part means I am not yet denying what I just wrote. The no part means that there is something else- that I find something inherently curious and meaningful abou this medium which seems to have sprung up spontaneously from the earth (does anyone know who wrote the first blog? Will it be enshrined in the Smithsonian?). Thoughtlessness is a state I aspire to in my morning meditation. Can it be that my blog is a kind of literary mindfulness. That as long as I keep bringing the content back to no content it is giving me a sort of literary peace-- tamping down whatever ambitions I may have in the area without making me work for it? Showing me naked to the world with all my clothes on? Trying to pull off a wacked out tour de force of creating the longest and most beautiful nothing in the world? Pulling a sick joke on whoever, if anyone, may be sick enough to read this by having them compulsively involved in digesting food with no nutrients whatsover, possibly ruining their real appetite for real literature by making the real seem effortful?

One (this one) experiences first and judges after. Though I have said repeatedly that you couldn't get me to read this with a nine foot mole, perhaps I shall peruse a paragraph at some point and either jump up and down on my kitchen chair with enthusiasm, screaming to the refrigerator, "This is fucking brilliant." Or saying, "I will never do that again," but hopefully the process not being so depressing that it stops me from continuing it. Any writer who writes without admitting that he desires readership is a liar, so I must be trying to see how long I can do this before someone catches on and thinks it worth reading. I realize that this blog is visually dull as dishwater (as was that analogy) and I am going to ask my artistically inclined daughter to design it, to jazz itup, as it were, with design and illustration whose irrelevance to what I am saying will underscore the inanity of the project on a completely new level. The Avatar of blogs.

I just scratched the back of my neck because it itched and because I thought I felt a bit of content trying to worm its way in. The neck no longer itches. The content has fled. O Reader, there is so much I would fain tell you about my life in a format that made sense if I could only do so for myself. So we both shall have to settle for this blend of truthfulness and laziness. Of course nothing means anything unless you give it meaning. Plato could have told you that. If Plato had a blog what would it have been like? Would he have abandoned his search for meaning seduced by the klickety klak of the keys and would Western civilization have taken a completely different turn? As a result of the blog Western civilization, or at least literary civilization will take a completely different turn. It is way too late for me to consider myself a pioneer-- more a victim who has just been infected and is now doing a St. Vitrus dance or whatever it is that makes you jump around the room uncontrollably with no thought whatsover as to what you are doing.