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Amber Paulen

Internet no.2

…or this is not a blog!

Blogs are the numerous and faceless bodies which cram down any busy city thoroughfare. Bodies that shuffle or rush by, bodies with hurried objectives, bodies out for a stroll, bodies just bumming around looking for something to do, bodies, bodies, bodies, an infinite expanse of bodies, bodies smashed up next to each other like the multiple molecules of the sea. These bodies of blogs wear no clothes but rather for concealment offer up the banalities of their day, “Today I shat purple, today I saw on UTube, today I went for a walk, today. . .bleh!” Bodies tied to their own routine like a drowning man to a rope, bodies overly saturated with boredom, searching for the rag of eavesdropping eyes. Blogs the mass and the rabble, the herd and the perseverance of the flock. Rare is the blog with its own wits. Rare is the blog that questions its own validity and existence for if they did, they would surely be forced to press delete.

I am a late bloomer. Only upon the writing and subsequent publishing of the piece, “The Internet”/the-internet, did I actually submit myself to its searching. My realm, always being of personal relevance, instantaneously stumbled upon the word litblog. ‘Here,’ thought I to myself, ‘I can find some intelligent writing, some meaningful pieces, some thought out verse.’ But like the unseen glass door, I smashed into it with all the force of mid-step. Any hope I had held to my chest was blown away as so many barren seeds to the wind. Even writers of published books do not fail to stun me with their ennui. Even struggling and starting-out writers do not breath life into their own work, for they have signed it off before they have signed their name. Blogs make me sick. I run to the window to properly puke-up all that I have just taken in.

I have a reverence for words. Given honest expression they spew forth all gold, all silver, all frankincense and myrrh. As it stands, blog writing only manages to spew out in the most lapsidaisical of fashions. Words and posts are written from the ten second attention span, plucked into the glowing screen as one would stuff popcorn into one’s mouth at the cinema, blindly, hurriedly. Sure my pieces are long, sure you might need to swish them around in that mass produced brain of yours, but I know that I am writing. I know every word I write. I feel every sentence I lay down to paper. What I write has relevance for it sticks within the folds of my deepest layer until I have the gall to pull it out. Blogs are an insult to writing. This is not a blog!

All passionate infuriation aside, I have discovered some websites that pass in some degree:

With all this said, I am still hunting. I search out a URL which speaks, that can at least stand besides that which I know good writing to be. (Any good clues are appreciated.) Though this expectation may prove impossible. Our focus is all off. Our eyes jump jittery to each side-bar forever failing in powers of concentration and true meditation. Look down. Those are your hands. You are an individual. You owe it to yourself to write like one.

Bracciano, Italy
September 2007


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