What Tha Dilly Yo? More Ramblings
4.25.2005
I don't get it. I started this blog with all kinds of energy, and I have a number of friends who, having begun their own blogs, have taken to the medium as if they had this one last chance to say their piece before the final curtain falls. I'm speaking of KOD, WH, folks like them. Blogging is like the air they breathe.
And they blog about all things political. But that's not for me. Instead, although this place has always been about expressing myself in whatever fashion I think best, I find myself avoiding coming here; avoiding posting; avoiding contact. It's not that I'm tired of blogging or writing -- far from it -- it's more that I'm tired of the pain of isolation. Is blogging ultimately a self-deception? That is, is it an illusion of community that works to serve the solipsistic?
You know, I worry too much. Now that I think about it, blogging isn't "ultimately" anything. Nor is anything "ultimately" anything. It just is what it is.
I was listening to NPR this afternoon and they were talking about the recently deceased Philip Morrison, a guy who helped build the A-bomb. He was also one of the first people to argue for the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe. They replayed part of an interview with him, where he said that it was as likely as not that since there was life here, that there could be life elsewhere.
And occasionally, since my own awakening from the nightmare of theology, I think about such things. Why the hell are we here? Whence did we come? Was there ever a beginning? Why was there a beginning? Unfortunately for both us and Faulkner's Quentin, history is a nightmare from which we can never awake. Time is a mental construct that constrains us at all--er, times. I can't conceive of no beginning. And to posit a beginning is to posit a cause. I think. Although that may make me guilty of post hoc ergo propter hoc by default.
Whoever -- or whatever -- set all of this in motion has a lot of shit to answer for.
Say, I think I rediscovered my reason for blogging: it's to find ways to work myself up into a furious lather, of course!
And they blog about all things political. But that's not for me. Instead, although this place has always been about expressing myself in whatever fashion I think best, I find myself avoiding coming here; avoiding posting; avoiding contact. It's not that I'm tired of blogging or writing -- far from it -- it's more that I'm tired of the pain of isolation. Is blogging ultimately a self-deception? That is, is it an illusion of community that works to serve the solipsistic?
You know, I worry too much. Now that I think about it, blogging isn't "ultimately" anything. Nor is anything "ultimately" anything. It just is what it is.
I was listening to NPR this afternoon and they were talking about the recently deceased Philip Morrison, a guy who helped build the A-bomb. He was also one of the first people to argue for the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe. They replayed part of an interview with him, where he said that it was as likely as not that since there was life here, that there could be life elsewhere.
And occasionally, since my own awakening from the nightmare of theology, I think about such things. Why the hell are we here? Whence did we come? Was there ever a beginning? Why was there a beginning? Unfortunately for both us and Faulkner's Quentin, history is a nightmare from which we can never awake. Time is a mental construct that constrains us at all--er, times. I can't conceive of no beginning. And to posit a beginning is to posit a cause. I think. Although that may make me guilty of post hoc ergo propter hoc by default.
Whoever -- or whatever -- set all of this in motion has a lot of shit to answer for.
Say, I think I rediscovered my reason for blogging: it's to find ways to work myself up into a furious lather, of course!
