Time to redefine
Coming up with a perpetual, lasting definition for this blogging space is a frequent favorite past-time of mine. I've railed against "I did my laundry today" blogs even as I have blogged about my laundry. I've purposefully skimmed blogs outlining lists of daily chores as I have written tomes on my own daily chores.
During these months away from the blog-o-sphere, I've learned two things about myself:
1. I'm a hypocrite, as evidenced above, and...
2. I just like to have a space where I can write something fanciful every now and then.
In the past week that my blog has been, as it were, resurrected, I've had several people e-mail me and say "I see you are blogging again, and I'm glad."
And such is the nature, I suppose, of these messages in a glass bottle -- you rarely understand that they may be read on some more distant shore. Instead, you assume, quite insanely, that these sentiments are private: no one is in this room when I type these things. No ones generally mentions to me the things I type.
This prose becomes a missive to a future self, or a young one. Perhaps in reading through these lines there is a little prayer, a confession in guise of truthful exploration. Or just a son who wanted to show his author mom that he could sling a word or two. So rarely is the audience for these blogs known and, rarer still, is that audience member a real person, in the here and now. And so, quite resistant to rote, I remain surprised when I am reminded that there are real people, in the here and now, who read me.
Yet, forgetting about the audience is what lets me, I hope, write something honest. Dance as if no one is watching... and all that jazz.
And I wonder if that same sentiment, same pattern, isn't the meaning of purpose in one's life. To keep your focus on that Platonic Ideal, that ethic, that higher horizon and know whatever physical things you manifest will not be perfect, but they will be as honest as can be, for you and for those nearby.
And so, I realized, that I type because I like to and because I have something to say, if even to myself. And if I am so inspired by my laundry, we will hear about laundry. And if I see a truth in my overbookedness, I will laundry-list my chores.
10-years-hence Ed can wait a while, lest in the desire to provide him quality fare there is nothing presented on this virtual plate!
Fin.
During these months away from the blog-o-sphere, I've learned two things about myself:
1. I'm a hypocrite, as evidenced above, and...
2. I just like to have a space where I can write something fanciful every now and then.
In the past week that my blog has been, as it were, resurrected, I've had several people e-mail me and say "I see you are blogging again, and I'm glad."
And such is the nature, I suppose, of these messages in a glass bottle -- you rarely understand that they may be read on some more distant shore. Instead, you assume, quite insanely, that these sentiments are private: no one is in this room when I type these things. No ones generally mentions to me the things I type.
This prose becomes a missive to a future self, or a young one. Perhaps in reading through these lines there is a little prayer, a confession in guise of truthful exploration. Or just a son who wanted to show his author mom that he could sling a word or two. So rarely is the audience for these blogs known and, rarer still, is that audience member a real person, in the here and now. And so, quite resistant to rote, I remain surprised when I am reminded that there are real people, in the here and now, who read me.
Yet, forgetting about the audience is what lets me, I hope, write something honest. Dance as if no one is watching... and all that jazz.
And I wonder if that same sentiment, same pattern, isn't the meaning of purpose in one's life. To keep your focus on that Platonic Ideal, that ethic, that higher horizon and know whatever physical things you manifest will not be perfect, but they will be as honest as can be, for you and for those nearby.
And so, I realized, that I type because I like to and because I have something to say, if even to myself. And if I am so inspired by my laundry, we will hear about laundry. And if I see a truth in my overbookedness, I will laundry-list my chores.
10-years-hence Ed can wait a while, lest in the desire to provide him quality fare there is nothing presented on this virtual plate!
Fin.
Labels: why
posted by Ed at 12:38 AM
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