An Update about Why I Haven't Updated Much Lately

I have tried several times over the course of my life to keep a diary, and have invariably been stymied, mostly because of my inability to function in an organized manner, but perhaps also by a certain sense of futility. I am completely in love, lust, and worshipful reverence with the state of inspiration, the condition of having words magically flow from one's tongue or pen as though beamed down from a benevolent celestial realm, expressing ideals that seem perfect and true and sacred; I feel more alive while so vociferating than at any other time. At the risk of proferring TMI, the act of writing is so much an affirmation of life to me as to seem almost sexual, the ultimate vindication of humanity's nature, and nearly as pleasurable as the physical act which is necessary to create life (or at least was until the advent of in vitro fertilization; now we let our machines fuck us as often as we fuck ourselves).

But no matter how vital and empowering it is to write, the written product thereof is dead, dry, and difficult for me to stomach in quantity; occasionally something I read comes alive in my mind, but just as often the act of translating symbols on a page into living ideas is a tiresome mental chore, and the result often doesn't seem worth it. Why did I slog through 2000 words on Wikipedia just to completely and accurately learn a single fact, when I could have made up a fiction to amuse myself in 1% of the time required and felt as though I'd just gotten my mental rocks off in the process? Something is weird in my brain, probably from 14 years of growing up with essentially no friends who weren't imaginary, and the difference between a factual truth and a fictional Keatsian beauty of a "Truth" has never seemed all that relevant to me. After all, the world we live in is just kind of there, sitting around ignoring us in its typical nonsentient way; we didn't create it, it doesn't belong to us, and I don't feel that we really need to care about it. But the worlds in our imagination, the ones we weave into being from the stuff of dreams and whimsy, those are real to me, at least as real as the ground beneath my feet and a lot more important, but located in a dimension of pure mind where our squishy, filthy meat-bodies can't ever touch them.

So to me, writing is a holy act, the opening of a channel to a higher dimension of pure mind and the ultimate affirmation of the self, for whatever you write was written only by you, and no one else could have written exactly what you did for exactly the same reasons at exactly the same time. But that's only the action, the process, the verb "to write" in its third person present tense; the resultant noun whose plural is "writings" is only a consequence, as inevitable as the wet spot in the bed after you and 0 or more sexual partners have finished opening a channel to a higher dimension of lifeforce, possibly in an attempt to ultimately affirm your DNA (after nine months of discomfort and one resounding crescendo of agony for whichever of the reproducers has the misfortune to be a girl). I'm far more interested in the verb-writing than the noun-writing, and that goes double when I wrote them both.

Therefore, while I have written a number of what may well eventually make good posts for this blog, and tucked them away in my Escherian labyrith of disorganized notes, I am very seldom in much of a mood to go looking for them, edit them into something resembling a product fit for the consumption of my very small target market, and toss them out on the series of tubes in hopes of applause and vindication for my chosen path in life. It'll happen eventually, but it requires me to be in a productive mood when I have time to do more than simply produce. Producing is the easy part; it's cleaning up the mess that sucks.