A spiral, or a fractal...

I always find myself stationary, hesitating for the right beginning. Interesting proclivity, looking for the right begining when you're not sure of the ending. At any rate, I've sideswipped the intro with an aside, so onward ho.

I'm coming at this "blog" thing rather...Perpendicular. That is, I'm not sure I'm in line with it, I might just be against it, but apparently I'm running headlong into it. I do know that I love a good contradiction, however, and the notion of a blog is packed with them. Public displays of private self-construction, self-reflection as performance art, an excuse to ramble organically in the most artificial environment one can think of. Grand.

The vanity of it is amusing as well. Writing is vain enough to begin with. First, you assume you've something to say a priori. Next, you decide it is vital that others hear it. And you are certain that -- of course -- they will decide to listen. Self-importance on a positive feedback cycle, when you come right down to it. But that's just the surface of it. Deeper down, writing is so appealing because it offers not only the opportunity to appreciate one's self, but the chance to create that self. You adopt a grand voice, turn a clever phrase (never mind that it came after hours of thought). You step back, deconstruct and reconstruct, until you project just as perfect as you'd like to think you are.

But then the blog takes it even a step further. Like a diary, you know chances are no one is listening, but unlike a diary you write with the assumption that someone is. There's an expectation of an audience, but no reason to preconcieve one -- and thus, as you write you are free to construct that audience. Now that's vanity - think up yourself, then think up a world that appreciates you. Neato.

Of course, all that vanity surely rises out of insecurities. You have to construct that self, because you can't quite silence the voice that says you aren't that self. You imagine an audience precisely because you can't imagine that anyone really cares to listen. And above all, you spend your time constructing the perfect thing to say because deep down, you're pretty darn sure you don't really have anything to say.*

Truth be told, I don't know why I'm starting a blog anymore than I know how to start it. But I do know I'm enamoured with a particular quirk of the form. Every post -- every thought, as it were -- is pushed down by the next, creeping nearer the bottom, creeping nearer the end. So there's my excuse for beginning this without a beginning. I'm coming in through the out door; this is just the end, the beginning is yet to come. And even then, it's only temporary.


* I think this is evidenced perfectly by the amount of time I spent figuring out just which words in the prior paragraph should be italicized.