many times I have begun by asking this blog why it exists. blog, I ask, what the hell are you useful for. I don't have an answer yet. there is no use arguing that the internet enables us to do "better" things than we had been capable of before. I love the internet, but I don't know how many things I read on it every day that have actually affected my life. most of the things I read on the internet that affect me are documentation of an interaction that occurred in real life - e.g., an interview with extremely good quotes in it, etc. this blog is not a documentation of an interaction that occurred in real life, most of the time. most blogs are just links to documentation of real life, so it's life twice-removed.
blogs are weird. I frequently do not know what they are for. I can't even pin down an audience. there are some people who come to this blog looking for other things, things I can't possibly deliver, such as the people who came here after googling "blood reabsorb sperm nietzsche" and "herzog + erection + good currency". these searches compel me to type in all the words that have to do with anything interesting, so that they will come up in a google search. I like having people come here who searched on google for something to do with self-doubt. I like the blog title for that reason.
I do not know what this space is for. I guess it is the same with art. what is it for? I am finding it bizarre that I was once in a population that conceived of such a thing as "art that is useless", implying that there is art which is useful. am I now in a population that finds some kinds of blogging to be useless, implying that I find some forms of it useful? when there is no useful form of blogging?
every time I sit down with this box open I think "I am going to reinvent this blog" and I think of many different voices I could write in, various "gimmicks" I could use, like putting in pictures or writing posts that are broken into single lines; but I know that I would tire of these gimmicks quickly. in writing off-line, you stick with a voice or a gimmick long enough for one story and when you are done you are expected not to use it again or you are "repeating yourself." a blog, on the other hand, is a document which does not really begin or end. it can be redundant and derivative.
what blogging feels like mostly to me is a form of practice, one which admits the need for people to have an audience. I could practice off-line, and I do write a lot of journal entries that no one will ever read (I hope), but these journals become weird and odd and contain such strange elements as the google searches I quoted earlier. there is really no reason to even use the pronoun 'I' in those journals, since everything in them is one person. the blog prompts you toward communication rather than expression. you would never post your most valuable poetry on a blog. it is a place for throwaway things.
I am now thinking about if an artist decided only to publish on a blog; it seems impossible to me that, even if the art were as good as rimbaud or tolstoy, it would ever be properly acknowledged or legitimized. even if good opinion were spread about this person there would be flame wars on the person's blog and on other blogs and absolutely anyone would feel entitled to comment. whereas if it were in a printed book, the evaluating would be left for the critics.
these are some very banal circular thoughts brought to you by sitting here while the wind is actually knocking things over and making a racket outside and my head is tired and I have just used the word "blog" so many times I would like to never type it again. I am going to chicago tomorrow, goodnight.
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