Tuesday, June 13, 2006

My Anais Nin Past

It's only been a few days since I started this blog.

What I love about blogs is the unselfconsciousness. When you are getting paid to write, there's a certain amount of self-consciousness no matter what. And for my taste, any amount is pretentious, therefore, false. I guess that's what I love about the web, too. The general anarchy. How interesting would it be if it were governed by rules, a hierarchy, a power structure? Anyone with access to the web can be involved! (I wrote an article about this for a Japanese web magazine -- only in Japanese, sorry!)

At the same time, because it's a free for all, there's also a lot of crap out there, too. And previously, I guess I felt I didn't have time to sift through it all. But what's been amazing me is not the amount of cruddy blogs -- the "I went here, I did that" stuff -- but the truly thought-provoking, mind-bending, foundation-shattering stuff (there, I used that word again. Oh, I am such a pitiful writer.) that's there. You would expect it to be only the hack, unreadable blogs. But no! People who could actually get paid to write do this for nothing! Well, not for nothing, but you know what I mean.

I've kept journals off and on throughout my life. I was a pre-pubescent Anais Nin! Recently, I've gotten reacquainted with a poet friend (through the internet! Isn't it grand!) and he said that "journals keep you honest." I do know what he means. I almost never re-read the things I wrote. The past bores me (more on this in another entry.) But I remember finding a few loose sheets when I was packing or unpacking or whatever during the last few gypsy years and being absolutely stunned.

"Did that really happen? Did I really feel that way? Wow!" My memory is especially selective, so I probably buried the memory, or "rewrote" it. I should have been an editor.

I started thinking about my poet friend's comment. And then I started to think back on my miserable adolescence where I had many made-up lives because the one I was living was too miserable for me. My journal certainly wasn't honest. Not in the normal sense of the word. But it was a real reflection of my lonely soul. One that had to make up friends -- and write about them! As if they were real! Very sad, but very real part of my past. So in that sense, my journals were very honest, even when I wasn't.

Funny how I am writing about all of this now. In this blog. Where anyone can read it. I am such a private person, I never bare my soul and yet I am telling the world. Sort of. Maybe no one is here. Maybe no one is reading any of this. No one ever leaves any comments. I am both relieved and disappointed. But way more relieved.


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