I’ll just come right out and say it: I fucking hate blogs. today, at least. and, yeah, yeah, I know this is one, but not that kind. I hope. I tried to convince a friend this morning that blog was merely a vehicle, that saying, “blogs are ____” is just like saying, “books are ____”– that books, like blogs, can be any sort of whatever– variously conceived, written, used– and I personally feel that there are better and worse ways of doing them. of course, my “better†is possibly somebody else’s worse, and I’m okay with that. point is, I never liked playing games of telephone—always you pretty much get it wrong, which, okay, yeah, is the point, but still it takes me awhile to stop wiping invisible egg off my face. can’t say I’m overly fond of gossip or circle-jerks or he-said-she-said. and when specifically directed to read someone’s blog, whom I do not know, I can stomach it for perhaps five minute before the wash of nausea swamps the effort. and it’s kind of even worse when reading the inside track of someone I tend to call friend. I end up feeling, just, dirty. okay, too, I know I’ve vented a version of this before. we all know by now I’m not great at parties, I lay prompt claim to dwelling under a rock. plus I happen to be super-cranky today. living like this in the midst of dropcloths and paint drips, carting load after load of stuff I actually like to mildly snearing consignment ladies, and that woolen blanket still hasn’t gotten replaced by a bottom sheet. downward spirals can sneak up. I’m in the midst of one. and all that crowing about climbing up out of depression. in the past when I’ve cycled down I’ve simply, mainly, gone dark here. but now… I guess, here you go. served up piping stinky. this, I fear, is the sort of crap ‘n’ kvetch that blogs and online diarists traffic in. I do not want it to be what I do. what do I want to do? geez. from down in the spiral it’s hard to tell. why so disaffected? why rain on other people’s parades? maybe because I’m supposed to kvell to the yammer about poetry this-n-that, who’s who, what’s what, yadda yadda yadda— and frankly I’m slightly appalled that all it does is make me want to hurl. why did I go to the iowa writers’ workshop, again? what the heck am I doing with my life, again? someone please please please stop—or spare me from— the parade of little egos in this little fishpond or the next. all the kazoo trumpeting and prancing. someone hand me a level latitude. paolo, where are you? artfarm in the bloody boondocks can’t happen fast enough for this particular sarah-head.
with any luck, however, I’ll have shaken it off and fetched a different one tomorrow. maybe I’ll even be able to make some palatable words come out of it. which would be nice. given that I’ve abandoned that little bouncy ball off in some forlorn corner, too.
the dreams right now are unbearable.