Yes, yes, yes! Finally cracked, writing two novellas, a full-blown science-fiction novel about a dystopian future in which mankind becomes surplus to Earth’s requirements; and a screenplay about the life of a homeless man and a normal man who are both as miserable as each other, but who derive pleasures from very different things in life, simply isn’t enough for this dude, for I do not abide, and I wholeheartedly claim that right.
I must BLOG, people must know my mind, it must procure future, or purpose, or whatever that human thought-set of ideological self-worth pertains to. I’ve been known to phrase this as either an amalgam of society sat round a table chuckling, possibly drinking, possibly smoking and proclaiming “We’re bold people; bourgeoisie bold” or as the great, and just slightly-occasionally-mildly misogynistic Aaron Sorkin wrote, “Writing snide-bullshit from a dark-room because that’s what the angry do nowadays” Well, I’m not angry, but my room is dark, and it’s features are illuminated by artificial candles almost all day and night, and I’ve a kind of, sort of, wanton desire to ridicule ignorant people; so in essence I’m a cynic, borne out of a society riddled with ill-comprehension.
My definition of the ‘ignoramus’ is simple, a person about whom there is much to question. Do they contradict themselves daily? Do they subscribe to societal pre-functions? Is every pore on their body defined by their contemporaries? Do they believe in diversity? – which branches into ethics, gender, skills and basic socialism. Do they run around screeching sanctimonious rhetoric, praying they’re unchallenged? The list could become infinite in fact, so perhaps it isn’t as simple as I once assumed it was to label someone an idiot. I was hoping it would be, without having to go into objectivity, subjectivity, scenario! But, but, but, my hands, particularly my left (obvious metaphor) is forced to clench and encompass adversity to absolute ignorance, absolutely.
I have seen too many people spout directly from their blogs as if to say it gives them artistic license to be asses, and the promulgation brigade doesn’t stop; no-no! It roars on! Blogging to me appears on the webface of it, to give rise to the seeming value of expression. Inasmuch as most expression is worth while, the internet doesn’t have the power to completely discriminate totally, and nor should it. The idea of anonymity is certainly attractive, I’ve engaged in IMDb fan-fests, YouTube troll-fests, Facebook fuck you-fests and even BBC News matter of opinion-fests where things almost always seem to get bloody, minds are bent, coffee is spilt, even on promising beginnings! When in actuality all they can reach is an email account, that might not even be mine. Rather, it might have been ‘set-up’ entirely under the premise that, me, my personal self in our communication metaverse might be spared any real cyber abuse, or more importantly blame.
This is where I take issue, to write for just cause, is just, it’s freedom of speech, it’s what the internet was built for; in order that everyone is granted the grace to opine. To discriminate, to racially abuse, to show the world how much of a dick you are is fine with me, so long as there is a real person, with an actual mind who holds true to that line of willful wrongness. Stand by that insanely stupid statement, shampoo it, renew it with more stupidity – just as long as I know you’re Joe Bloggs, from Chicago, Illinois. It is your opinion and no one else’s; it is as veritable a statement to you as mine is to me, we are on equal footing in this cybernetic arena, hit me with your best shot, Joe! Because I’ll be doing the same, Friendo.
Anonymity is cowardice, I’m John Watson, I’m from Blackpool and I hate 95% of the residents here, I’m a cynic and like Daniel Plainview, I hate most people. Like Mr Plainview, “I don’t need to look past seeing people to get all I need. I’ve built up my hatreds over the years, little by little.” Nobody likes everybody, let’s get past that liberal bullcrap now, right the fuck now!!!! The thought-provocationary wizard Thom Yorke once wrote that “Everybody needs someone to hate, yes everybody needs just one person to hate.” In the same era, he also asked “Why’s it always so fucking violent on the street?” For me the street in question is the internet, communication interweb-sphere avenue.
I feel I’m wasting myself on the issue of moral accountaibility, I don’t believe a person should be arrested for their evident lack of l’étiquette d’Internet. But to know that when I tell Joe, from Chicago that he’s ill-informed, spouts fallacious nonsense, and is nothing more than underprepared malignancy, it does me good to know that Joe at home read that himself, and hopefully reflected upon it; perhaps that’s pushing the envelope though, right into the letterbox of self-satisfaction!
I wanted to talk about life, but life is lived on the internet these days, anyway. Mine’s lived on the piano, but that’s not really relevant; that’s a bio line on a webpage, that’s the top activity box on facebook; that’s the most pure and perfect version of me, on the internet. Undiluted by my flesh, my feelings and my life; that’s the clinicality of the internet. Where a working class man’s profile on twitter might not pertain to such humble beginnings, and where an aristocratic gentlemen of the same age might only be perceived as such because his picture is clearer, on a more pleasing angle than the standard webcam fair, he’s generally more beautiful or his bio box is whimsically occupied by text, designed to make young liberal hearts melt.
I’m nearing the 1000 word mark, and I’m boring the g-damn tears out of you, I know, but you must hold on because this is not just madness, another schizophrenic episode, another fuck-up, no-no! This is real and true and pure human counter-thought. I must make you believe that maybe my words are as valuable as your time, maybe playing Richard Strauss’ Eine Alpensinfonie whilst reading this will make it come to life right on the screen in front of you; maybe lots of things that are wholly irrelevant in the timeline of our lives. My person, my flesh, my spirit, my being is the story of my life. The faint scar on my cheek is the story of trauma, the story of my unkempt hair is the story of my inability to trust barbers, the story of my partiality for suits is the story of my will to be older and a gentleman and cool, you are the story of your life.
My flight is boarding, I’m going to 1982 for a few films and some brewskies, I will be back soon; and I will, like a soppy, sorry pup, beg that you stick around for the show; because this is not just madness! And it won’t always end so abruptly, and I’ll no doubt improve as a blogger over the next 80 years.
I Bid Thee Adieu,