Sunday, April 16, 2006



For those interested in that sort of trivia, this is my 300th post to the blog.

Looks more or less the same as all the other ones.

I've been sitting on this post for awhile, not wanting to fill it up with someone trivial or meaningless, which seems to be the sort of thing I've felt most inclined to blog about today.

A part of me wants to write about how complicated it is to find a way of understanding the world, of trackign down meaning in the world, while your busy juggling an existential perspective, a need for scientific measurement, and a desire to connect with divinity. I want to write about how I am often envious of people who have very easy, very simple, world perspectives. Who don't question things. Who simply live inside of their little boxes that they've defined for themselves or, sometimes, allowed others to define for them.

This attitude I will call "Anal Sex and Wheel of Fortune Syndrome" in honour of a story I wrote a few years ago.

The thing is, I'm not sure what more there is to say beyond: "I have no answers, but to this day, I seek them. And I hope one day I will find them, but as each day goes by, leaving me no closer to them, I fear this mission can only end in failure."

Beyond that, I've had a burning desire to write *anything* -- though, by this, I'm not referring to the blog. I dug out and dusted off last year's National Novel Writing Month novel, with a few vague memories of where I was planning to go with it, but I only managed to toss out one page that was okay, but left me with the sense that each page following would be worse, because I hadn't reconnected with the identities of my characters yet. So I dropped it.

I thought about opening up my unfinished short story about the day that the world was going to end, and how on that day the world held the largest party of all time, where they destroyed everything they could get their hands on, including -- in some cases -- themselves, only to find at midnight that due to technical errors, the destruction of the world would be postponed for a week.


But, in spite of my burning desire to write, I don't have the energy. That one, I thought, I might actually have some luck with. And that's what turned me off of it. I thought about how much was still left to do on the story, how I hadn't even finished the countdown to the first scheduled destruction, let alone gotten to the point where the narrator was wandering through the carnage, exploring the devastation, simultaneously in awe of and disgusted by mankind's potential for self-destruction.

So I just skipped it.

And now, of course, in a perfectly appropriate turn of events, it looks as if my internet connection is down, which means this blog post -- the only thing I've written today, in spite of the endless, burning desire to write -- isn't likely to get posted either.

(actually, it would seem to have just been a burp in the cable modem, as a reset of that has gotten me back online. although now I've lost my train of thought)

In the end, I don't suppose this is any more of a significant way to honour the 300th post than any of the other miscellaneous bits of gibberish I'd bee thinking of posting about. It's writing about nothing at all. Writing about the absence of writing. Self-referrential creation of the most egotistical variety.

Writing about nothing at all, and assuming people want to read it.

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