“Lets face it, folks, blogging is bunk!”
Those were the words I used in response to commentaries on someone else’s blog. “The complete blogger is as useless to life as he is to his wife,” I wrote with masterly understatement. “One by one his deeper instincts, his spiritual requirements, are famished by stress of circumstances. The charismatic miscellany of life ceases to have any meaning for him. To console himself he sets up wilful tenets of right and wrong. Nervy mannerism replaces wisdom. Thinking in terms of snippets destroys the ability to think in terms of texture and consistency. Indeed, studies in bloggerism even suggest that chronic habits can lead to solitary addiction and subsequently to reclusivity.”
My statement to the world remains!
And yet, a highbrow attitude makes enemies. A free spirit seems to hostile critics a form of conceit. In truth, I’m a Z-lister - simply a siren possessed of enormous chutzpah. A person for whom the cyber age is not just a post-modern period, but a schizo-riddled stratum of the collective psyche, a never-ending alma mater through whose halls I can meander as an eternal adolescent riddler. Yet, I am here to taunt mortals with the frank confession that I have surrendered myself to the consecrated folly. Restraining my affliction has been daunting, not least because I was born an apostate. I had thirty-two teeth by the time I was six months old, and at twelve was diagnosed as having the mental age of about seven-hundred-and-fifty.
What’s worse, I felt the part.
Of my physical features I would rate the orbito-frontal cortex rather highly. I don’t spend much time on exercising it, preferring clitoral stimulation to full electro-convulsive irrigation, and yet it seems to do quite well. At the age of ten I had solved the riddle of creation (Though almost inevitably - and this will disturb you - the acclaim went straight to Einstein).
My puberty was marked by the development of a time machine designed to hit the 22nd millennium with an error margin of but a few weeks. Zero-Hour was set for 0317 on August 12, 13 minutes before first light. At 0317:05 hours GMT, the mechanism’s time-contraction circuit closed. The trip took me just over 45 minutes. I was almost ripped apart by mc2 and damn near perished in the process. I locked the time-vector in neutral and took a stroll through the bright orange aluminium fibre grass. By an astonishing dispensation of fate, I myself was captured intact during the battle of the Cosmos. Two weeks after my arrival an Anglo-Galactic force surrounded Ophiuchus and during a sortie on the following day I was cut off and pulled from my horse by an archer whom I found to be an Englishman. I won’t even tell you what he did to me - it’s too abhorrent! But a local tribesman saved my life. After endoscopies, colonoscopies, blood tests and further research in obstetrics, ophthalmology and cerebral circulation, he bailed me out with the only currency that was universally recognized as worth having: an unending supply of pubescent virgins. He then asked if I planned to spend the rest of the millennium having sex?
As you can see, it was a whole lot easier getting out of the solar system than it was getting back in. But now, that I’ve returned, nothing has ever looked so desolate.
The news, after all, could hardly have been worse.
Back at the Spearmint Rhino Club, I learnt that my favourite champagne is now only served on Tuesdays and Fridays. More unhappily, the sad moral of this particular planet seems to be that there is a fair proportions of Bloggers who are mentally conditioned to the acceptance of the mediocre rather than the striving to surpass. As I studied the general blogosphere, exasperated by the tedium of it all, I could not help but see the irony of the situation - the fact that I urgently wanted to deprecate what I had come here to admire:
The Higher Man!
Am I alone in this particular nostalgia?
As I began to rationalize the process, forced to appreciate the gradual stultifying power of such blogs, I arrived at an alarming conclusion: that we have succumbed to the most dangerous ailment of the human mind:
Inertia!
Inertia is the privilege of a sated sow. A predicament which leaves me wondering what may be the dreams and ideals after which some of our earth-bound souls are dimly groping:
More blogs?
More sex?
More Kylie Minogues?
Nor is mere blogging the true aim of the creative life. For anybody intentionally trying to sponsor that aspect of his art most likely to restrict his freedom, has no real contribution to make to the genius of his time. I am not going to suggest an exploration of the values and ethics of Plato’s legendary dialogue on the nature of death and the immortality of the soul. Nor am I going to imply that we should recreate an electronic version of the Attic sages’ Lyceum. But I must do you - and myself - the justice of saying that our lives are limited by the ideals to which we aspire. And if anyone desires to be elevated at all, to possess and treasure veracity, no blind struggle, no lack of belief in his own sense of a higher purpose will ever achieve that end.
Death is the first condition of renewal!
And for those of us who will accept neither defeat nor compromise this is the end of an era - as much as a new beginning. We live in a world gone virtual, a world which can only be judged by the technology that created it. And the materialistic, acquisitive, narcissist, self-adulating humanissimus homo of the post-modern age can no more deny this self-fulfilling trend than the tide can cease or the moon stand still.
I bow to the inevitable!
Dreamy
