So… what do I want with this blogging thing (anyway)?

Maybe my problem is that I expect blogging to be something more—or something ELSE–than what it actually IS. I expect blogging to be a magic bullet for connecting and engaging with other people. I expect blogging to be something that might very well be perfectly ALIEN to its very nature and media. I expect any message and stream, and any voice and any meaning, to go into that hole. That tinyest pinprick hole, that eye of the needle, that fleeting electronic space, weaved out of technological shapes, and yet also with breathing and bleeding, heart-and-soul, LIVING PEOPLE, that will forever stand at the gate, looking through, into just one tinyest part, of the whole. Only with whispers and guesses, and fleeting moments of maybe’s, ever-surely getting through.

Blogging sure isn’t a chat. (Tough Maybe we could turn it into a chat?)

Blogging isn’t a phone call either (neither to god, nor to man. Or… maybe it is, or could be?)

So what is (the nature of) blogging? Posting and linking, and comments.

Blogging is a text. Blogging is a private-public journal. Scribbled and foot-noted, at the very end, and by the margins, of the living people who are reading that text.

The text really DOES have value to me. I love all kinds of texts. If you read, and write texts, you know of their value.

And yet, adn yet, the people also have so much of a value. And the people can often get pushed away, and overshadowed, by the text.

What is needed then is human relations, interactions and connections. Conversations and engegemantes. Dialogues and trialogues and multi-logues.

Speech—and human responses—in addition to the text(s).

So, we might need both a phonecall, as well as a notebook and a pen. A text that is spoken—in spirit—and speech that is written, in web and in life.

In my other post (the one about selfsabotage), I blamed myself, for why all this blogging in some ways had failed, or at least not led to anywhere close to what I’d hoped and prayed. I blamed my own perfectionism and my own imperfections, and my own everything else, and thus merely confirming how I still think that it all is my own fault. I’M the one who is so unbelievably imperfect. I’m the one who can never get anything right. So I blamed everything on myself and all of my own, as I always does, yet again and again.

And so… maybe I’m right.

Or maybe it is all of our faults. The conspiration of human imperfections and flaws. Imperfections colliding and clashing. People not seeing eye to eye, and not really nearing each other. People (on the web) not truly understaning that there’s another flesh-and-heartbeats human being, at the other end. People, so seldom, and so late, ever barely understanding each other. Even just a tiny part of their and our lives.

Maybe people aren’t always all too compatible. Good, and well-intentioned, and yet… also highly different. Like they’re (we’re) from another time and space, or even from another unspeakable world.

Maybe we all have to make the serious effort. To understand, and to connect. To engage and to embrace. Each other. And also all the many others. The living and breathing. The others. The human being(s) at the other end (of the line, or the text, or the web).

I don’t yet know… what it is, or what is there.

But somehow we all have to make the attempt. At least if we want it to be/come more than a conversation… of and with… just (barely) one’s own little self.

Also everyone—or at least some little ones—or maybe just a one.

Or maybe many many many more.

But at least it would be really rather good if we all attempted to try.

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The words that are not my own

The words that are not my own

We dressed ourselves in words,
someone elses threads of thought,
speeches…
hanging in the air,
soon getting ready for plucking.
We weaved these together,
in (heartbreaking) hope,
that they would
become our very own.

But how can what is always others
still be ourselves?
Welllllll…
Isn’t there some small part
that we all share….?
You know, that little something—called LIFE
or even just being alive.
(even that infamous chestpump of ours).
A-one, and a-two.
Most of us still know
how to listen (to others)
if only
a small part of what they say
is ever really heard
beyond these few words.