commentary

ironic that in terms of volume and output i've had more words about other people's words than my own (privileges of the profession). no art there, just commentary, but my god, that's a hell of a lot of commentary. worth?

navel gazing

so, without controvesy, prurience, social commentary, or contribution to the web body politic, are blog words not worth the webspace they occupy, lint pickings in other words? can we at least pretend that the only real opinions are good ones, and the rest just so much fluff?

frequency

cokeguzzler has accused oscaraustin and myself for being two of the least consistent bloggers bar none.

guilty as charged. a multitude of thoughts to opine, but insufficient impetus to actually sustain expression. i suppose talk is still more immediate. but just in case this is mistaken for reticience, or worse, incapacity of response, here's something that was sparked off about a week back. Or at least half of it.

(0035 23072005) I’ve always thought what makes a writer who he is isn’t about having things to say, but having the words to say them. Of course as soon as I thought that, I immediately decided it was a terrible cliché, but then again, it is this very moment that I’m having trouble saying the exact thing I want to say, and therefore it is easy to conclude the questionability of my writing prowess (something I fancied myself able to do).

You see, I’m a little taken aback by the accelerative spawning and geometrically expansive verbosity of the blogs I see. I mean, like wow, I couldn’t write that much about the thoughts and feelings I have, even if I tried. Well, at least not anymore. Having used to keep a diary, copiously, and recording all the things that happened each day, was only sometimes a chore, and other times, I suppose, an outlet, a voice or a rant, or any combination of the aforesaid. Is it possible then, to have said or written all I wanted to already? Do we run out of words?

Or worse, do we run out of those feelings that engender or inspirit those words somewhere along the way? Because sometimes I wonder if I used to write better, or at least more successfully, in the past, having written so much, even if it were so much drivel, and at other times I wonder if I might write better in the future, because if I keep trying and working at it, it’s bound to improve. In any case, it is always the present which presents a problem in writing. I can’t write now. Whatever it is I want to write.

The reason this question came up is because at this very moment, I am indeed having some inexpressible fullness I am dying to put to word or fact, trying to give anchor or ballast to current sentiment, because it seems that all I can do is sit here and think reminiscently, attempting to locate this gut response in something I have experienced before, trying to specify this train in words I have at my disposal, and not succeeding very well, both in terms of centering, and expression.

And the thing is, it’s always about women. Love, lust, tenderness, longing, wanting to be half of a whole, wanting to be more than a half of a whole, seeking completion. That’s as much as I can describe it. And already it feels inaccurate.

length

and not just consistency, but length as well. copious and verbose.

quantity is taken to be stridency, magnification, substance, and passion of voice. fundamental flaw of all who first put thoughts into words - the need to articulate, explain, reason, justify, defend, prove.