When I was using a different WordPress domain in my less assertive days, I was so scared of attention from the world that I did not even want the site itself to publish the things I thought. I had set up a publish-via-email function, and every once in a while I would just send an email, and it would come up. This made it feel like work, because that email was how I was conversing with peers and teachers at my high school. This was fun. And fun is not work, or so I thought.
And now that I know better, I know that: everything until a masterpiece (or perhaps, a coherent and personal, piece) is work. And even editing and revising the copyedited stuff is tremendous work. Even, and perhaps most importantly, the unwritten, unacknowledged, or un-posted would be work as well. So I think I can be a little more lenient with the ton of drafts in my WordPress, grand ideas and non grand ideas, and verses and non-verses, mother tongue and international tongue, they all mean something. even in their form, drafts, and deletions, they mean something, and is part of WORK. Work: transformations and also attempts at molding the soul into this physical (yet not so physical, because internet, and electricity, and a host of other things, made it so) world.
America is so damned distracted, distractive, distracting! I blame myself though.
I am finally writing again, and I think perchance I were to write- as in write, I would think a lot harder about the Internet, and the colossus of the searchable world, every word that God summons in my head can be quickly verified, and therefore added context, and made into my own: I, and you, are more barren and naked than ever. And a whole host of oddity things: Where can I find Life in this place? Give me Life, you cynical pretentious alternately factual inter-net! Or not! This is a metawork on work, because this is also work, and I should address that I am not trying to be SMUG here, but just a homage, as if the title is not enough homage to the dead person I grew into and out of a love-hate relationship with. I can run on and on but the point is I have come full circle and I am trying to find my way to converse with Him, because he is dead, and maybe I will take a small portion of his Flame, and put it on my torch. I am a lot more vocal and rhythmic and appealed by sound and soul than he WAS though. Of course, I never smoked that much pot, I am not white, and I grew up believing in a lot of things, and I am sucking hard at academia. This is all excellent, though.
He never got round to writing about the Internet, even though half of his fame could have been from it. A shame.
Shucks, I guess I am left with Dave Eggers (I will begin him soonish). This thing I’m writing is more poetry than prose, because my heart is poetic and defiant of forms, though.
Save me from my real life, though, please, pretty.