THE MORTAL FLESH

An illness of the mortal flesh prevented me from posting yesterday. I tried but my incoherency was such that even I couldn't understand it. I hated the idea of losing a day, as if it would keep me from some goal. But then I realized what I really hated was the idea of losing the relationship with blogg for a day. One might say we were dating. Personification has taken place. I suppose it's the same thing with "Dear Diary," but diaries don't usually go on forever and one does not picture onseself a few years hence saying "Stacy, what ever happened to her." Aside from the fact that I do not know anyone named Stacy, I cannot imagine turning on my computer, feeling sentimental and going for some of the best of blogg. But I am back at my post today, filling in an absence, as it were, trying to get back into the rhythm of it. The logical thing to do would be to go back and read the last post, then decide whether I wanted to be continuous or discontinuous, since they seem to occur in nearly even proportions. But why do the logical thing? There is a piece of thread here that is either connected to blogg or a cat and I shall follow it long enough to give me a direction but not long enough to get scratched. I am glad I am not ill any longer because as I recall, I was in a "Rah Rah Blogg" phase last time and I would like to stay with it as long as possible. That was proceded, if I recall correctly, by an endless string of "What is the point of this?" type shit, which I hate but is sort of like tuning up. I am still not 100 per cent well so this post will end here while I heal. Two days would have been intolerable.

EPHASE 2

Tired. Major changes taking place in the writer's life hard not to include. Need to keep reminding myself they are not relevant to the work at hand. Feeling better after what seemed to me a sort of rededication yesterday.NOT SURE THAT YESTERDAY HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH TODAY'S ENTRY. WILL CHECK. I no doubt still will spend much time and many lines doubting the validity of what I am doing but I am hopeful that I will just regard those lines as additional text and keep at my job. ADDITIONAL TEXT? THE WHOLE BLOODY THING IS ADDITIONAL TEXT It's a bit like meditation where a thought interferes with your breath and you go, "oh, a tought." Ending blogg will take that posiion. Talking about ending blogg, however, is fair game as long as I can keep it interesting and the sentiment is sincere.AND TEDDYBEARS KISS STUFED FROGS. I was thinking two thoughts earlier: 1) Blogg is unlikely ever to see paper and 2) Blogg is unlikely to ever see financial remuneration. Were Blogg a conventional piece of prose these could both be seen as negative. In this world,AS OPPOSED TO THE ONE THE AUTHOR INHABITS however they are neutral, or even positive. The paperlessness, the brain to electron connection embellishes what style there is and probably speeds up the process of writing which makes the text take less time to make it from brain and heart to screen.YOU HAVE SAID THIS 400 TIMES. Not necessarily good, but more eficient. The lack of remuneration simply takes us back to a time when people wrote because they had something to say and if people wanted to read it, fine and if they didn't, fine. Small magazines and blogs seem to be reviving that option.WOW, THIS GUY IS REALLY KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT THE HISTORY OF PUBLISHING It must be mitigated, however, by the impossibility for the average citizen to find anything and the general short attention span that accompanies perusal even when one finds something interesting.A MEANINGLESS SENTENCE THAT STANDS OUT IN A MEANINGLESS PARAGRAPH BY VIRTUE OF ITS MEANINGLESSNESS-- NOT AN EASY FEAT. Blogg solves the short attention span problem by focusing its attention relentlessly on one thing, the thing that it is. For better, for worse, blogg is blogg and will relentlessly and tirelessly keep explaining that to anyone who wanders on its turf.WARNING; VISITORS WILL BE SHOT IN THE BRAIN. The writer is feeling as if he has cut through the initial waves which threatened to drown him in doubt and is standing on his board now, surveying calm seas. THE WRITER IS HALLUCINATING. The issues in his personal life will pass. Fuck, everything will pass.HE'S A PHILOSOPHER TOO. For today calm and gentle are the words.
SHIT, I WAS HOPING THEY WOULD BE ELBOW AND TYRANASAURUS.

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.

eNEW POST

Never has anyone not wanted to write a post as much as I loathe the prospect of producing this one. Events in the author's personal life have conspired to make the author see how truly idiotic and meaningless BLOGG is but for reasons he cannot understand he insists on keeping the reasons private. There must be a Latin term to describe this but if it's in Latin I wouldn't understand it. While his life is on the line in other areas author wants you to know that he has decided that the joy of rhythmic typing is responsible for much of what he has written thus far. If this blogg had to be written in a notebook, it would be empty. Were our fingers evolutionarily designed for computer typing as our brain was for destroying the planet? For a mad moment I thought the riff about typing might develop into one of those rivulets I have been searching for to prolong the life of BLOGG although BLOGG's life does not deserve to be prolonged and only four people including myself and chelsea joe would know if it evaporated and since I am not even reading it, it really has only three followers. I am starting to hate BLOGG. Maybe that's the point. It shows you how despicable and lonely utter meaninglessness is and why our stories are populated with people having and solving problems. Final entry? No way. BLOGG will end on a positive note because this is America. Now to go swimming through eons of music looking for one. p.s. The tone, which seems at least to me to be nastier than it usually is, probably has more to do with the personal event I mentioned at the beginning rather than the blog istself. Those fucking personal events are really messing up our electronic literature and should be banned.THE PERSONAL EVENT THE AUTHOR REFERRED TO HAS LONG BEEN FORGOTTEN. IT IS NOT EVEN A CERTAINTY THAT THE AUTHOR HAS ANY PERSONAL EVENTS AT ALL HAPPENING TO HIM. BLOGG MAY BE HIS ENTIRE LIFE WHICH AT LEAST WOULD GIVE IT A PATHETIC PSYCHO-NEUROTIC REASON FOR EXISTENCE WHY DOES THE AUTHOR NOT CONSIDER BLOGG ITSELF A PERSONAL EVENT. IT IS AS PERSONAL AS EATING A RADISH SANDWICH. BECAUSE THE AUTHOR DOESN'T HAVE A CLUE AS TO WHAT HE IS TALKING ABOUT, THAT'S WHY. THE CURRENT SCREED MAY INSPIRE ME TO WRITE A NEW BLOGG THAT BASICALLY REPEATS THE SAME THING. I WILL TRY TO CALL IT HENRY SO YOU CAN AVOID IT. I WILL TRY TO CALL IT NOTHING SO I CAN AVOID IT. BUT I AM OBVIOUSLY OUT OF CONTROL SO HENRY MIGHT POP UP ANY TIME ANY PLACE. HAVE I CLARIFIED EVERYTHING? I DO HOPE THESE CRITIQUES ARE DOING THEIR JOB.

eTHE END

This may be the end of BLOGG or it may be the end of endings. Bear with me for a while while I decide. Logically speaking, there never was anything to say so I could just stop saying it at such great length. Logically speaking there is no need for the color blue either. The author is vested in BLOGG and feels it would be a failure to end it without an ending that made it make some sense. He just wrote a blog about writing a blog, decided it didn't work and ended it, would not work for this author, though it may come to that. I am hopeful that as I go back and edit I may discover rivulets which may take up the main subject and transfer it there. The odds for that are pretty slim. Every day, I suppose, just like universes, blogs are born and die. No big deal. If BLOGG dies, the author may turn his petty talent somewhere else. Right now he regards it as his attempt to understand the medium. But that is for him, not necessarily something to share with the public at large who either gets it or doesn't care. If I decide to quit you deserve a proper final entry. And I deserve something too. I need to think about what it is. I promise I won't write about it.ANYONE WHO HAS SCANNED AHEAD KNOWS THAT THIS IS NOT REALLY THE END. IT'S JUST THE AUTHOR'S RECOGNITION THAT THIS CAN'T GO ON FOREVER OR HE WILL BECOME A TURNIP.

e IS FOR EFFORT

Definitely a crisis in the making. Slamming into a closed door. The blog of blogs was supposed to open out into a vast prarie that told us things about ourselves, our art, our commerce, our desires. It seems instead to be be opening into its navel. If I were reading this as a reader, I would have skipped out weeks ago. Is the problem the subject or the execution. Or is there a problem? I detect problems two ways: 1) I get bored 2) I have nothing to say.I am still writing so I still have something to say. Am I bored? Not exactly. I am talking about being bored, which I guess one defines as writing about something that one is no longer interested in or the reader is no longer interested in.It feels like a chemistry lab where all the logical formulas have failed in developing the miracle drug so the chemist is randomly mixing things together hoping something will percolate. The fact that I have no additional followers should be cause for concern, but that could be cause for concern about my technical abilities as well, which I plan to fix regardless. As for the overarching comment, I refuse to comment about it until I reach the end. If we are approaching the end and blogg's format is this length, so be it. I will not keep it going just to keep it going. But I will not end it just to end it. I may play around with endinglets and see if any turn out to be small streams that lead to wide seas, or at least lakes. The oral comments I have gotten take this all rather seriously. My tone is serious. Do I take this seriously? I think if you have come this far and it looks like just a few more posts till the end, you should stick around. Something interesting may happen (like I may decide to change it into a history of possums) or not. I feel a sadness and a heaviness. Why? This is just a stupid blog. What I vested in it and why. This may take us out of the anonymity rule but rules are made to be broken. There may be some cool shards.

EHANG ON, SLOOPY

It was inevitable-- that this blog would start to grow tiresome. Originally I had envisioned doing it for the rest of my life, which I may have done (one never knows), but I am getting tired of saying the same stupid thing over and over and it becomes increasingly difficult to find interesting variations. Blogs tend to have shelf lives anyway, don't they. I mean people do them for a while, then stop, do something else and perhaps start another one. But I cannot finish Blogg without giving as good a reason as I started and sharing with you the experience of writing it even though that's pretty much what I've been doing from the beginning. It's also possible that the wind-up may be longer than the blog itself. Who's to say that there's not more to write about why one ends a blog than why one begins it? But (sorry) I'm not quite done yet. This is a sort of prequel to my consideration of stopping. Of course if I were to receive hundreds of desperate requests begging me not to stop, that would have an impact. So would Santa bringing me a new sled. So if one ends a blog it means one has said all he wants to say on the subject, the subject here being the writing of a blog, what blogs are etc. There is a compromise solution I may adapt which will make blogg even more labyrynthine. The three of you who allegedly have been with me from early on know that I have been going back and editing earlier entries for style and for shit I promised and didn't deliver on and to dis things like the radio gig. It could be that lurking in the revisions is some heavy stuff that I might want to go into in some detail. I am also curious as to how many bloggers revise at all. I can tell from my spelling errors alone that I don't. I feel like a little boy with a stick walking along the shore. He can hear his mother calling him, telling him lunch is ready, but isn't that the outline of a whale on the horizon. Does this make any sense at all? ISTHIS THE FIRST OF THE HUNDRETH TIME I HAVE TOLD YOU I AM GOING TO GO BACK AN EDIT EARLIER POSTS. MY BRAIN IS MUCH TOO FILLED WITH SUBSTANCE TO REMEMBER.