The truth is I have always found the blog to be two things; pretentious and innermural. For in the first place to cast a blog out there, to breath existence into it and give it a voice is to assume that there is someone who is willing to listen to it, to presume that someone cares about an anonymous opinion in a crowded counsol of other minor opinions.
Furthermore, I belive that anyone who spends time blogging would be wiser to spend the time actually writing. To blog is to stall. If Hemmingway or Faulkner had access to blogs where would literature be? Instead of "Farewell to Arms" and "The Sound and the Fury" we would have musings on where to eat, what music to listen and how to vote by voices that every writer, poet, blogger is so indebted to that it as if the written word was created by such authors in some staging area for ther world itself so that upon their arrival their craft would be waiting for them to perfect it. Would our literary evolution have ended there? Aristotle's blog on "the poetics", socrate's blog on "the problem". Would we be any the wiser?
The blog is a distraction, a short detour on a long journey. The trick is to mind the course and understand the difference between procrastination and exercise. When to snack and when to feast.
Out there in the ether are channels of ideas and theorys and rhymes and words that stream by you when wind blows and when waves break and when nature trembles. Writing is our attempt to tap into the channels and express them in words that man can understand, a good writer is a translator for a language that he himself doesn't fully understand. Some times you merge peacefully into the channels unoticed other times you crash and the momentum is lost and the idea speeds passed you. It is not always easy and it is not always a smooth process. This netherworld that exists side by side the more obvious calm world we occupy chooses who it allows in and when, it also may choose someone one day and someone differant another day, exchanging the first for someone else who was searching a littler harder at that perticular time.
This is the world for novels, and poems, and plays and scripts not blogs. The blog is an oil change when what you need is a tune-up.
The world I struggle to write it about exists among the themes that haunt me; life and death and earth and science and God and man, the world that seems it would be better off with out our intrusion, the world that knows we are but temporary tennants and will one day heal itself of the scars left behind long after we're dust and bones.
The blog is a hope to keep the engine idle instead of shutting it off all together.
I still feel the weight of it. I know I need to write, writing is a type of exorcism. It is something purged after it has exhausted the host. But until then I blog hoping to find a reason, a common thread between the slight and grand. In my search for things within the world I know and within myself I will listen to the rhythm within the pulse and the words between the whispers.