.

unbeknownst

to the verbotically-rambling
muse of Self ....

now that this readership
has distilled itself down
to an audience of none,
perhaps I finally feel
like writing again. but
it has never been the notion
of verbing a blog nor the
social construct of blogging
that inspires a reason to
write; there is no immediate
sense of satisfaction in that.
instead, the question remains;
who do I write for (in this
so-called space of a place
for words, with its
relentlessly-faceless
screen)? and who is it
that I publish these words
to, if not to some Buddhist
notion of nothingness? all
my words adrift in the ether,
connected but capsized in
a sea of metaphoric black
with no particular destination,
at least none until all of
them collide with other
(previously written) ones
in unexpected ways as if
to conquer new meanings,
to go where no words have
gone before (or so one hopes)
... ?

... because I really like
that image of (all my) letters
weightlesssly adrift and
breaking free of their
predictable (ie. traditional)
word-orbits to recombine,
circling others like new
moons, re-creating skylines
of thought, horizons
previously unbeknownst
to me, because it's all
about process, about
clicking their little
lettered launchpads and
blasting them into the
digivoid just to see what
conspires in the milky
way of meaningful bits
and bytes. not light-on
but light-through, and
only to be revisited from
another space of thought,
from another evocation
further down the line of
time.

maybe if time is a line,
it is a stretchy string
that flings itself back
and forth with certain
elasticity and with such
speed that all we see is
a battered blur until our
persistance of vision leaves
us with that illusive
possibility of seeing
many lines at once.

multiplicibilities.

and being a seeker of
images, maybe this is how
we write, by gathering up
our line of time into one
great big stretchy ball of
tangled thoughts, layers
upon layers all strung up
but allthewhile knowing we
could unwind our lifeline
ball of history-words,
unfurl it like an umbilical
cord, could pull it back
into one long stretchy
string that connects us
to some philosophical
conception of (capital L)
Life that actually makes
sense from start to finish.
but how tedious. and why
bother?

perhaps I launch these words
from here, today, just to
create a temporary record of
myself, a mirror image, one
that I can revist or reconstruct
from within a different frame
of mind (ie. another time)
knowing that one day, soon,
and whenever technology takes
its next great leap, that
this particulate expression
combined with this software
and this hardware will also
be obsolete. when that day
comes, all these words will
be lost forever. when CDs
and memory sticks are no
longer compatable storage
devices, ours will be a
generation with no permanent
trace or trail, with nothing
left on paper and therefore
no lifeline record of who
we are. from blogging to
texting to youtube to
talking on a cell, all
habits that benefit trees (?)
but also contradict our
current concept of re-corded
history. perhaps McLuhan was
right; we are fast becoming
an oral society once again.

and as for this trite post,
knowing that it will ultimately
disappear, will be lost in
time, perhaps I will eventually
rethink my notion of publishing.
perhaps I'll transpose my first
novel onto one long-stretchy
string of words, reconfigure
it into one elastic line of
paragraphs that I subsequently
tangle up into one big bouncy
ball of thought. literally.
then I'll place it on a
gallery pedestal for public
viewing, words objectified,
and maybe its bibliography
will get tangled into
a significantly tinier
ball, a little über-moon
of ancillary thought
that will mechanically
rotate 'round my bigger
globe-of-thought
construction.

object permanence.

until then, I'll continue
to launch these little
lettered ships into the
digivoid, destined to no one
in particular but allthewhile
pondering the grander notion
of nothingness with its
quaintly characteristic
click-click-click.