eDEATH OF THE BLOG

AT SOME POIN IN THE FUTURE YOU WILL COME TO A HARANGUE ABOUT MY NOT BEING ABLE TO ACCESS OLD BLOG ENTRIES AS EASILY AS I ONCE DID. I HAVE SOLVED THE PROBLE BY HITTING THE EDIT BLOG BUTTON TWICE SO ANTICIPATORILY DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT AND THIS PAGE, WHICH WOULD HAVE GONE UNEDITED WILL NOW BE REVISED TO A KEATSIAN SHEEN.
Don't get your hopes up. Not quite yet. One of the most difficult things about killing a project like this is that there is still an iota of the something that made you start it floating around in the big thing between your shoulders. Before you started that thing had already predicted that you would come to this point (i'm tired; it sucks) and wanted to see if you were man enough to go beyond that-- to go beyond where common sense and literature and sanity would take you and just keep pounding out the same point because....because BLOGG (and if anyone who knows anything about art is reading, I'm fucked) makes as much sense as a brick wall with graffiti standing in a large gallery. It is. That is its complete statement. We allow music and art and occasionally poetry to make that meaningless statement but we want our words to mean something because that's what words are for. After all, we use them every day and couldn't live without them very well. BECAUSE STARING AT A BRICK WALL WILL NOT MAKE YOU A CUP OF COFFEE. So why should we take these useful tidbits and waste them saying the same stupid thing over and over AND OVER again. Because it can be done? Because the only way you can get to the wordiness of words is by turning them against themselves. And because they are such powerful tools, bearing the relationship to prose that atoms do to the atom bomb,(WHA?) that the only way you can get people to even be aware of the fact that they are using these odd letter combinations thousands of times a day is to turn the little mothers against themselves and show just how useless they can be. And what is the point of that? The same as the brick wall in the museum.BY GOD HE'S CLEVER)( Even by Picasso's time art had shed its need for a point. Why should words be different. Especially now that we have this wonderful electronic medium that allows us to spin them out with unprecedented speed-- so fast, in fact that the writer barely knows what he is writing about, let alone the reader.(REPEAT NUMBER 612) The fact that there may be no readers or an infintessimal number of them in a medium that reaches billions every second makes the point even more strongly. (WHAT POINT?)That was the point that was bouncing around in my hollow brain when I began and before I typed word one I had to believe that I would never stop. To stop would mean defeat. It would also mean that I have wasted a lot of everyone's time. That's for others(IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE HERE/ COME OUT, COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE) to judge on their own, but to me BLOGG as useful as anything else that employs words.(EXCEPT FOR TELEVISION LISTINGS) The mere fact that on the day I decided I might kill this thing (today) a whole new thing(THE SPECIFICITY OF HIS STYLE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PARTS OF BLOGG) sprung up (the elusive rivulet) proves that it can and must go on forever. It is only when the meaning of BLOGG is universally acknowledged that I can consider terminating it. Blogg is alive and making his way through the literary and internet universe. Its stupidity is of an order that deserves awards.(GOLDEN GLOBES?) The stupider the words get the more the point is proven that words are...well, just words and perhaps we would do better developing a communication system that uses tangerines. We have scared the doubter off this time. It was never a serious contest. I have reams of electrons and the determination that only the borderline insane posses to prove something UTTERLY IDIOTIC(. Blogg lives! (OH, IF IT WERE ONLY AROUND DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION THOMAS PAINE WOULD HAVE UNDERSTOOD, AND PERHAPS LED A MUCH MORE PAINELESS EXSITENCE) OUT OF HERE. THE LEVEL OF THE TAR PIT IS RISING OMINOUSLY.