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michael "OC" clarke
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m. melting object
Friday, August 27, 2004
the social construction of meaning
the essence of blogging
Stavros the Wonderchicken, whose true name is hidden in the mists of time, blogged a thing recently with the unlikely title Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy, which refers to some pretty amazing changes he's put his body through by working out at a gym. Personally, we don't believe such pursuits are entirely natural. If God had wanted us to have flat abs he would have more intelligently designed the evolutionary process. Or, leaving the creationist quasi-rational pseudoscientific explanations out of it, simply plucked His/Her/Its magic twanger. Oh Froggy!
Anyway, we were implicated or somehow at least entailed in that post, so we (that is to say RageBoy® and myself) decided to add a little comment. The "comment" grew to nearly a thousand words, so we're replicating it here, to underscore the point that, yes Virginia, size does matter. Or something. However, reading Stavros's post first
may be is necessary to make even partial sense of what follows.
after just reading this I am now feeling somewhat baddish wondering if my testimonial played any part in messing up your head by making you self-conscious, or more self-conscious. my earliest days of writing EGR as a webzine list in 1995 (my god) taught me many things. two heuristics stick with me, have become glued into my messenger RNA in fact, such that I don't think I could shake them if I wanted to. fortunately, I don't want to. unfortunately, I suspect these molecularly embedded turns of mind are at least in part responsible for my present state of financial ruin. so be careful of what I am about to impart. be aware that these... perhaps principles they could be called... might very well fuck you up to the point there is no WHERE to return to. on the sort-of-plus side, I tell myself that there never was such a WHERE to begin with, so there's no risk involved, only perhaps some degree of terror. and what's a little terror among friends? However, as in all cases, YMMV. and of course such dire warnings and counterbalancing assurances serve as the most irresistible form of seduction. temptation. think St. Anthony in Bosch's manic nightmares. that could be you. please allow me to introduce myself... etc.
if you read further, you agree to indemnify me from any and all damages you may incur as a result of this transmission. to be freed from it's spiritual and psychic bindings, you will have to pass it along to another willing to accept these same powers and chains. this is the way these things we given to me. I look forward to my own liberation should you accept. this concludes the required statement of terms and conditions.
well gee, after all that, I think you may be let down by these two things I have to impart. they're just little stories, not much. nevertheless, the spooky language above still holds. and as this is getting rather longish for a comment(!!!) and I'm thoroughly wasted behind sleep deprivation, I suppose I'd better get on with it. so...
When I first started writing EGR, I quickly realized I could write anything. anything at all. and this was wonderful in the writing I began to discover was in me -- I truly hadn't known this much freedom before the net. who had? but when I was finished writing and obsessively editing -- so many times I thought I'd go blind -- then came the terror. I would think: I can't send this. it's too much. it's too personal. too confessional, too off-putting, bizarre, outrageous, pornographic, emotional, illegal... I just can't. Not *this* one. And I'd sit there, finger hovering over the send key, paralyzed with every form of trepidation you can imagine -- and I imagine you know what I'm saying here. Always, I'd finally hit the key and the terrible, monstrous, vile, beautiful and confusing thing that had come out of somewhere inside me that I'd never known was there, would fly through the pipes and wires of the internet to people I didn't know, had never seen or spoken with in any way. intimate pieces of myself going out like SETI probes: is there anyone out there? do you know what this thing is that I've sent you? because I don't. it makes no sense what we say until it's heard. unless someone says something back that begins to build something else, something larger, more complex and mysterious, yet more familiar at the same time. so I would wait and sweat and go through, you know, changes man, every time I sent out one of THOSE. we all know, anyone who really writes, when it's one of THOSE. one where you've bared a part of your soul -- even though I don't think we have souls, something else inside. just us chickens. once in a while a wonderchicken. a rare enough event. unique and miraculous I would say, if I put much stock in modernism or miracles. but still... however, the point was my waiting in a nervous jangle of conflicting emotions about the implications of what I'd just done, what I'd -- oh my god! -- actually sent to thousands of perfect strangers.
This one will be much shorter, but it holds the magic bit. Which is that whenever, and I mean *every* time I sent out one of THOSE, I would get the most wonderful, heartening, deeply felt responses from people I'd never heard from before. they would de-lurk if I'd somehow managed to write from that place that can only be said to be THAT place. you've been there, you live there, I can tell from what you write. there are many who have no idea what THAT place is. take me, for instance. I don't know either. but I can read a lot in the bounce. how it strikes other humans, touches them. the echo of that opened my heart a little more each time it happened, and what I wrote got scarier to send, more naked, more willing, more courageous in a way that felt often stupid, bufoonish... bombastic. that's why it took courage to send it. OK, I'd say, this one is a piece of shit, and it makes me a clown and a fool, but fuck it, it's going out. and the weird thing is that people would cheer me on. say, please oh please, whatever that was, more of THAT.
This is the actual transmission: write anything that comes into your head. and let anything *into* your head. send everything. now you are free. and permanently bound -- to the readers who make meaning with you, with me, with all of us.
goo goo ga joob, bro.
2:36 PM | link |
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"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.