thumb drives and oven clocks: a litblog, of sorts

What next


Suffice it to say I have good reason to believe it must be 2005 because I heard-tell there's a conversation going on out there about blogging for books or something? About specifically exchanging blog-press for free copies of books? Which, I mean, I thought that was the kind of conversation that people already had once? Like, ten years ago? But I guess I must be confused about the timeline? Because if the conversation is going on right now it must actually still be 2005? And if it's still 2005 then I guess I'm still blogging? I don't know? It's really confusing?

Ha ha, just kidding, I totally know it's 2014, and I've got the barf bag I just filled thinking about it to prove it.



Suffice it to say that I'm not going to link to any of the 2014 equivalent of that dead horse because in part anybody involved in it today probably doesn't remember or know me worth a damn and they'd just call me a newbie or something and who needs that, jeezus, and also because it was probably a terribly stupid conversation ten years ago and I'm sure it's only gotten more stupid since (because no offense to anyone who actually works in the industry but I don't give two figs about your day job making money off my passions when I'm sitting on my porch listening to the summer rain and I've got a book in my hand and everything is right with my insular, emotional, intellectual world, any more than you give a damn about me when you benefit from the fruits of my day job's labor (and in one way or another I'm convinced you have though I don't often like to think about it or talk about it, being but a sliver of a sliver of a sliver on the back of something much bigger)), and that whole conversation was and is probably a generally useless waste of time and mental resources, and so but, BUT, for the fact that it did spark off a series of what passes for thoughts these days in your faithful narrator's brain about the passage of time and the seeming near complete de-evolution of conversation and participation on the internet and the professionalizationing of the web and the unreliability of memory and the relationship of said faithful narrator to the written word generated both by himself and others, all of which thoughts have lead in turn to the fleeting glimmers of the births of realizations both personal and profound, about what we're doing here, you, me, those people over there, anyone else, the rest, and how if that the beating of dead horses is the kind of thing we're here for these days, then, just, for, the, love, of, no.


And I mean, there's a lot wrapped up in that no, because if there was ever any contradiction at the core of what writing I've done during my life I would suggest that it is that there's an inherent tension between the need to communicate and the fascination with the uncommunicatable, the thrill of sharing in an experience and the recognition that our experiences are ours alone to hold in our hearts and minds and our degenerating bodies until we die and all our experiences go with us, and I pack it all into that no, which is also a yes, a yes to something else, something new, some other desire or struggle or passing whim, something, something else, that I can't tell you what it means, but I miss trying. I miss the nostalgia of it. Of passionately failing to ever get it right in this medium that I once took so bloody heart-wrenchingly seriously and which, today, tomorrow, the day after that, could be the last chance.

Things have changed, though, and maybe it matters, and maybe the change matters, and maybe it doesn't, and maybe the change doesn't, and maybe nothing's really changed, and maybe you'll be moved anyways, maybe I'll move anyways. Maybe it's time to move.

Because it's 2005, and the world is still moving.

Or maybe it's not.


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