I am a grown man, sitting in my shorts, tapping at a computer pretending I am a writer, though I make no effort to market and monetize my work. A tiny handful of people ever read even the very best things I write here. It is easy to see me as a sadly overgrown perpetual kid with an overactive imagination, childishly playing at being a serious adult writer. This is the case, of course, with anyone who doesn’t actively compete in the actual professional marketplace to find an audience and get paid for what is actually hard work. I write to communicate with others, I don’t write purely for myself, but this blahg is the next best thing (to writing purely for myself). My name is not even attached to these pieces. WTF?
I set up this blahg years ago (2012) in order to gain access to what turned out to be a very disappointing archive of so-called source material for Manning Marable’s problematic late 2011 biography of Malcolm X. Without giving it any thought, I set it up under my cat’s name, Oinsketta, and that is the author’s name you will see displayed here instead of my own. I don’t know how to change that, haven’t even really exerted myself to find out if it’s possible to change it. Even if you like these posts you will have to do some work to even figure out my name, something every writer in the world must promote.
All that is true. On the other hand, I generally see it from another perspective.
I live a contemplative life. It is not an ideal life for everyone, but my inner world is quite compelling to me. I can honestly say I don’t know what it feels like to be “bored”. I play guitar, ukulele and guitarlele (a very cool little six string guitar with a high voice– a 4th above guitar range) just about every day. Music is an important part of my life, playing it, keeping steady time, making each note ring as true as I can. I draw and lately have been practicing an idiosyncratic kind of calligraphy. I cannot refrain from this long graphomaniacal habit, nor do I know what to do with the output, and so every place I sit I am surrounded by an uncombed tangle of drawings. Both of these things, I guess, are forms of meditation. I think about nothing in particular as I play, and that is a beautiful thing.
When I write I am writing for you, the reader. I have something in mind whenever I sit down and I try to make it as clear as I can. I focus my thoughts in the most concentrated way I know, cutting through vagueness as well as I am able, editing with care to eliminate confusions that careless words can create.
There is value in the exercise for me, independent of the possible value to anyone who reads these posts, unrelated to money or fame. I am silently thinking out loud, really, when I sit here tapping out my thoughts and feelings. I have no need to burden people I know with something that vexes me, once I write it out to my satisfaction here. If someone is interested in my view I can send them a link. Writing itself, in order to put your thoughts in order, is a useful practice. I recommend it. We all know how to use words, this is an excellent use of words.
Most days this second way of thinking of my situation is my perspective as I sit down to write.
Today I just feel like a listless, immature 63 year-old asshole sitting in my shorts, writing nothing, for no reason, for nobody.
Luckily for me, I know this feeling will pass the next time I sit down with something burning me to work through and set out as clearly as I can.