Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Still Just Thinking

Why do I write this blog? Well it's not to go viral, that's for sure. I'd be lying, of course, if I said I didn't want that to happen--anyone who dares print their words on the world wide web should dare not pretend they don't want to be noticed . . . But if I was deliberately trying to get attention I most certainly wouldn't write the introspective, sometimes depressing, no central focus "blog" that I run, here. I'm deliberately obtuse, deliberately inaccessible, idiosyncratic, sporadic, and, you know, etc etc. I am constantly plagued by the question, "who am I, and what do I want to say?" Always asking, "what do I want to say?" always writing things that basically hover around and around in circles that don't go anywhere around this question.

So I had a thought: Who I am is the person that asks these questions. My job, it appears, at least for right now, is to just lurk on the edges of topics and ideas and just...think. Posture, position, ideate. I'm no great thinker or anything, I'm not classically trained in the art--but I happen to be quite fond of my perspective, thank you very much. I think of it as grounded and flagrantly seeking. I'm a traditional Christian who is growing to hate Christianity, as it is popularly manifested in this country, more and more by the day--no, the hour (not that that's ok or anything, but it does happen to be a fact). I'm a self-hating political conservative who doesn't really think their views are correct, it's just that I can't find any opinion on a subject that I happen to hate less. It's all garbage, in any case, as the local Kroger outlet has much more influence over my day to day operations than any politician, patriarch or patristic blowhard ever did...

When something happens, culturally, I am much more interested in watching and evaluating how others respond, rather than to offer a response, myself. It just is what it is. I've been running this blog for, I don't know, close to 10 years, and there have been so many (too many) years where I have fretted about what I would write about because no one would want to read what I actually wanted to write. Which of course was vague, introspective meanderings about the relative and utter contingency of our frightfully short existence in the face of yawning eternity that, for the most part, doesn't having the part where we are actually breathing written into the script for very long. This horrifies me--and not just because it makes me regret my real estate investments. But I was scared to write things that would "drive the reader away," which is of course a joke and a paradox, given that there is no reader. Sorry, internet denizens, but if I only have a few hundred people show up, and I'm sure I don't even have that much, then no, I don't have an audience. Even a few thousand is not really an audience.

So hear I stand (well of course it's writing, but please picture me standing), furiously dancing my jig for an audience of one, utterly petrified that I will drive off all of the non-existent audience.

That is par for the course for myself and my perspective: I don't know what I'm supposed to write about. All I end up writing about is vaguely worrying about coming up with stuff to write about; constantly evaluating and reevaluating ideas and thoughts and wondering if I have the right perspective, if there is a right perspective, if God and his son Jesus are con-men, if they exist, yes they do, but do they...you know--etc etc.

I am finding there is great freedom in simply telling the truth. I am a writer who will probably never be known, might not figure out what my Great Subject is, won't make enough money from the craft to treat the family to an evening at Denny's--but none of that contradicts the first four words of this sentence. I got bit by the writing bug when I was very young, and I find pleasure in it. I find pleasure in it, that is, when I am not writhing on the floor, rending my garments, screaming internally and externally at myself that I am not, in fact, a writer, that I am not anything, that I am a blank space with no original thought in my head. I think the truth is that when I am really hating myself for the writer that I am--maybe it's happening because I am hating myself for not being the writer that I am not.

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