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Dear Reader,
When I undertook to write this blog, I dreamed of a blog where I'd be able to share a harrowing portrait of the artist's inner life, where together we'd revel in the feats of the great writers, their names no more than a reverent whisper on our lips. This was to be a blog balanced by tales of outlandish sexcapades and drunken revelry. Likely with arty photographs of women (very tasteful, or whatever).
I dreamed, dear reader, of a forum devoted to the twenty-year-old's base, hormonal yearnings, and equally, the ubiquitous aspiration to create art, order and meaning from amidst the chaos of existence. Where douchey friends would pop in to tell me that such and such post, title, or idea was the Worst. Ever. But, alas. Alas!
The incessant ramblings of a young, confused mind, the complaints and trivial details from an idle man's routine, have mudied the crystal waters of that once noble dream. The big casino in the sky calls to me, the soft chk-clink of electronic chips stirs on the breeze, echoes in my guesthouse.
Perhaps I have finally succumbed to the view, relentlessly advanced by my professors, that the experience of a twenty-three year old aspiring artist is not fit for art. That such material "can't help but go soft." Perhaps, in putting an end to this, I take a small step toward recovery. Again, to quote my professor: "It's really one thing to have trouble. It's another thing not to get help for it."
And so, with heavy heart, I bid you farewell, dear reader. Though I am saddened by failure, I do not wallow in it, have not lost resolve:
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
When I undertook to write this blog, I dreamed of a blog where I'd be able to share a harrowing portrait of the artist's inner life, where together we'd revel in the feats of the great writers, their names no more than a reverent whisper on our lips. This was to be a blog balanced by tales of outlandish sexcapades and drunken revelry. Likely with arty photographs of women (very tasteful, or whatever).
I dreamed, dear reader, of a forum devoted to the twenty-year-old's base, hormonal yearnings, and equally, the ubiquitous aspiration to create art, order and meaning from amidst the chaos of existence. Where douchey friends would pop in to tell me that such and such post, title, or idea was the Worst. Ever. But, alas. Alas!
The incessant ramblings of a young, confused mind, the complaints and trivial details from an idle man's routine, have mudied the crystal waters of that once noble dream. The big casino in the sky calls to me, the soft chk-clink of electronic chips stirs on the breeze, echoes in my guesthouse.
Perhaps I have finally succumbed to the view, relentlessly advanced by my professors, that the experience of a twenty-three year old aspiring artist is not fit for art. That such material "can't help but go soft." Perhaps, in putting an end to this, I take a small step toward recovery. Again, to quote my professor: "It's really one thing to have trouble. It's another thing not to get help for it."
And so, with heavy heart, I bid you farewell, dear reader. Though I am saddened by failure, I do not wallow in it, have not lost resolve:
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
posted by Ari at 11:26 PM
5 Comments:
WTF, mate? You gotta be kidding me! You're canceling the blog after a couple months? I know I clowned the new title, which deserved it, but shit ... I don't get it. Why abort?
Blogging's not art -- shit, you've read mine. Song lyrics and racism do not art make.
I don't know what I'm talking about, and I'm drunk, aqnd it's 2 a.m. But keep the blog.
Biatch!
Sober now, at work. But I still don't understand -- are you quitting writing??? Or just the blog? What trouble do you need help with? Is there something more than the garden-variety writer depression going on?
And is this unnamed professor who's saying all this total bullshit about being too young to write the same one who was in Best American when he was 25? What, do the two years between 23 and 25 provide that mythical "experience" we all need to be interesting enough? Dude, he's a good guy, but he's full of shit about that.
I'm going to need you to make another post. I've got too many questions.
Oh give me a fucking break. I know this poor little old tortured me bullshit, this I've got so much to say and I'm so sensitive, with so much potential and yet tragically crippled with this Hamletesque indecision. What am we supposed to do? Beg you back? Please, please, keep blogging. Don't give up the writing life. What would I ever do without your writerly witticisms colored by your fresh, youthful voice. I say good bloody riddance. There's too many deluded writers out there already, people like "st," who thinks everything from his latest crush to his insipid ponderings about what he's going to do next in life are somehow interesting to anyone but himself, that they somehow warrent archiving in this semi-permanent and very public display. That's pretty self important, no? Dare I say egomaniacal? If you ask me, you both could benefit from putting in an honest day's work like the rest of us Americans.
Who's this Plato-aping dipshit? I love it when anonymous e-stalkers from Georgia with nothing better to do than perform blog searches and read the blogs of people they don't know tell them they're self-important for blogging.
Learn to spell.
Dear 'Otto' the garbage man,
"What am we supposed to do?"
This blog wasn't intended for you to read, and the presence of your irrelevant--albeit, long-winded, self-important and poorly written--opinion is only further reason to discontinue it.
"If you ask me, you both could benefit from putting in an honest day's work like the rest of us Americans."
The waste management industry, while honest, has never appealed to me as a career option.
By the way, if you can't pick up on the overwhelming level of irony in what I wrote, go back to 8th grade and get that middle school diploma.
Good luck.
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