Blame it, if you must, on a week reading nothing more challenging than Jacqueline Susann, and loving it. And who couldn’t love someone who cranked out her writing on a candy pink IBM Selectric?
Anyways, m’dearios, I have decided to go back to writing churned out furiously at top speed, put up there immediately after, then forgotten about. I’m almost an anti-blogger because I dislike the presuppositions of the internet. I’m not interested in the dull evolution of some eternal truth, to be unveiled in full at some indeterminate point in some other bugger’s future. I revel in the uniqueness of now, even when it’s rubbish.
I get off on the real hack vibe – produce against intense pressure, go to print, just chip paper a week later. The nearest equivalent I can think of is improvisational jazz, or the kind of music performance that depends upon chance elements. Once only, no rehearsal, and even better when performed with total strangers.
Knowing it can all go totally wrong is the biggest buzz, but also when something happens that you absolutely could not anticipate or plan for. It stresses the uniqueness of every place, every moment. It could be glorious, exquisite; or it could be awful. You will never know until it happens, and I will never worry about it.
That’s what’s missing about e-journalism. It isn’t of a time and place. It proposes a lie that somehow things in cyberspace always evolve but that there is no unique moment, no mistakes, no tedium. On the internet you’re supposed to revise a piece ad nauseum as new information comes to light. But sod that: is any creative’s life sad enough for that malarkey?
I’m particularly unwilling to go back and “correct” something that is totally of another moment. It should be understood as a snapshot. Reading it recalls that moment only, not an eternal truth. Not that there are any, anyway, but who cares?
As Tom Wolfe says, tongue –in-cheek, in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, “art is not eternal.” More than that. The best is not even good, or made to last.
This blog was never meant as the literary equivalent of a Chippendale chair. From now on, I make it trashier, more disposable.
I write it, post it, and forget it.
Read it as you will, enjoy it or hate it, but don’t ever ask me to revise it. Because by the time it upsets you, I will have moved on.