| Throne of a Vengeful God |
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| 12:31am 09/08/2007 |
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the explorer walks in, canteen and boots, covered in dust, clearing his lungs of
the pulverized bones of the ages dead, enters this vast hall, and at one end is a
stone statue, this golem, segmented arms and body, vast lumps depicting
muscle, nude but for a cloth round his hips, a flap sinks to the floor between
his legs, and this thing this GOD its eyes glitter with gold and sapphire, the
torchlight casting red, and as he walks in the room explodes with torchlight
FOOM without his making the effort, suddenly the shadows everywhere are not
dispelled but dance like marionettes across him, suddenly he nearly drops his
own torch because he's an explorer of old, and the incredible spectacle is
worsened when with the grinding of stone the profile of this GOD turns to
stare at him, its face long and grinning some terrible hateful grin, and it
watches him
and its voice fills the room and echoes horribly THROUGH him gives him
shakes knocks him down onto hands and knees the thought is not WHO ARE
YOU the thought is not HOW DARE YOU the thought is OUR MAJESTY
HUMBLY WELCOMES YOU and the words are like lakes so deep that a
thousand hungry fish could wait inside or a thousand bags of gold but god it's
deep and dark
for science he stays for science and because he knows deep down past the
science and lessons and manners he is caught in a gripping web and if he
struggles a voracious tearing web
and so the voice with pomp proclaims EXPLORER YOU SHALL KNOW OUR
NAME
he holds onto a pedestal supports a massive bowl the sacrifical altar he can
feel it in his soul
and cardamom and chrysanthemum tint the air and the all-commanding voice
says I AM YOURS TO COMMAND
WHATEVER IS YOUR COMFORT YOU SHALL HAVE EXPLORER
NOW ASK
the frantic young explorer says A chair if you please a simple chair a simple
need
but there is no chair
and such a scream rends through his mind as could shake the stones apart and
bury him oh miles beneath the earth
I HAVE LOST ALL
I HAVE LOST ALL.
nobody had ever heard a god weep
there was a silence and the man ceased to shudder
then there was ONCE
I HAD A PEOPLE.
ONCE I HAD MANY LIVES DEVOTED TO ME
ONCE I HAD LOVE
I HAD FEAR MORE THAN YOU HAVE KNOWN MORTAL THING
WHERE ARE MY PULPITS
WHERE ARE MY PRIESTS
MY SACRAMENTS
THEY BURNED THEY ALL BURNED
AND NOW ASHES
AND SILENCE
and there were ashes and silence
YOU the explorer craned neck up to the red avatar fear thrilled his veins
YOU MUST BE MY SAVIOUR
THE SAVIOUR OF A GOD
YOU MUST UNDERSTAND MY CHILD MY SMALL MAN
the words were kind and terrible
I AM LOST
AND they hardened I NEED TO BE FOUND AND YOU
YOU HAVE FOUND ME
the man did not speak
YOU SHALL PLACE YOUR HAND UPON MY ALTAR WRIST ACROSS THE
HOLY SYMBOL
TAKE YOUR SACRIFICIAL KNIFE
AND I SHALL HAVE A RITUAL
and horrified the hand obeyed the wrist it kissed the stone
machete drawn the man prepared to obey
and as he tore his mind apart with how a scream is thought
he leaned his tortured framework backwards tilted tilted tilted fell
scrabbled backwards for the door broken like a bloody dog
and then an anguished wail rushed in crescendo to a shriek and then
the shriek to a shaking in the spaces in his teeth
the floor his eyes gave way at once
he tasted burning tasted electricity
tasted ashes
heard silence
for untold centuries |
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| Alert to my friends againds |
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| 04:50am 01/08/2007 |
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mood:  i'm not sure if i like that music: MY HAUS
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Remember my last post, about a gathering of sorts in the vicinity of my living space? (I'm certain you can find it if you don't.) Well it's been pushed back a week to August 7th (Tuesday), and everyone in the world can know!
Contact me if you want to come pls! I'm in the Phone Book!
Your Everlovin' Pal,
--Dylan |
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| ROCK OUT get-together; Useful to whatever friends read this journal and also live near me |
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| 02:40am 30/07/2007 |
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mood:  rockin' music: sniff - my nose
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On Tuesday night (the 31st of July), I'm going to be having my friend Reed over to play some jams (I assume). We got some stuff that we never get to show off because we only get together every so often. We would, therefore, love to get a group of people together to hear us.
Even if Reed can't make it, I'd love to see my friends.
I am therefore proposing a bit of a get-together at my place -- not boozetime, not a huge party, just some people coming together to hang with us, to hear us play (and potentially to play with us if you bring an instrument?), and basically to have a good time. If you want to eat, bring something edible because I won't be serving dinner. If you don't want to eat, well, good for you, you're a robot I guess.
What I am saying here is that this is a small but mighty <b>potluck affair</b>. If you want to bring something only for yourself, that's fine too, but sharing is caring.
The other thing you should know is that my friend Reed is (according to tradition) staying the night, and you can too, if you let me know. Anyone reading this probably knows directions and email and whatnot; if you don't, just leave a comment here, send an email, call me on the phone, or wait until they have invented time machines twenty years in the future, come back as your older self, and tell me the information you got to. Be forewarned that I probably won't respond until after noon on the day of, because I'll be at the cottage most of Monday -- so get your contactin' kicks with me where you can.
To summarize, for the "too long; didn't read" crowd:
1) Hangout at my place, no drunking, much jamming, small crowd.
2) Potluck or BYO food. I'm not feeding yas.
3) RSVP.
Wii or Gamecube controllers, PS2 controllers (if you bring a multitap), games for all three systems, movies, board games, or anything else of interest encouraged, if you wanna.
REMEMBER: This party is about rocking out to some awesome music, so feel free to wear some ROCK OUT wear.
I hope you didn't just skim all that looking for your name! |
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| Postscript to previous post |
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| 12:33am 16/05/2007 |
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This phrase applies to a lot of my life:
"This is fun, but it'd be better if I was naked."
Thoughts? |
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| The saddest ambiguous phrase I can think of |
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| 11:22pm 15/05/2007 |
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mood:  contemplative
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Positing this phrase as one of the saddest conversational phrases I can think of that
a) Doesn't actually name any person or thing, by relationship or improper or proper noun;
b) Therefore can be used in a multitude of situations and relationships;
c) Still retains a usual sad meaning despite this variety of uses.
"Will you love me now?" |
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| 02:58am 09/05/2007 |
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music: Sarah Slean - The Score
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This is a private entry, so you shouldn't be reading it. Stop here.
For my benefit, this is what I believe: I want to be part of the exciting people who I don't know yet.
I am a part of a different class: the kind who are looking for company up at 2 AM. None of us ever contact each other, maybe because we aren't usually there (I'm the only one really up at this time, the hero that I am), maybe because of some sort of mutual disrespect because we're all the people up at 2 AM, looking for company.
That does not bug me yet, that I do look for friends at late hours; I doubt it ever will. I'm friendly.
However, the fact that I group myself with these people means I identify with them on some level. Is this good or bad? Let us examine their traits.
By far, the greatest aspect of online friends at the moment is that they are, in some combination,
a) Dull. Cannot hold a decent conversation or illuminate a brief bulb's worth of wit for his/her life; defaults to "lol" when he/she can't think of anything else say, which is often. Completely unromantic, though may hold illusions otherwise.
b) Depressed. Broke up recently with a boy/girlfriend, should break up with a girl/boyfriend, wants/needs a girl/boyfriend, having family problems, or just being teenaged, but this trickles into MSN names and makes conversation awkward and single-track.
c) Illiterate. Can't spell, can't use punctuation, can't construct complex sentences, would be better off phoning if he/she is really worth talking to.
d) Mean. He/she has done something that makes him/her someone I no longer want to make the effort to contact.
e) Quiet for his/her own reasons. We never talk; perhaps he/she does not use MSN often or at all; perhaps we have built no real bond.
It has become clear, from the characteristics I have assigned to these people, that I do not want to be identified with these types. I dislike these characteristics. Do I take any of these characteristics on? There must be some reason I'm lumped in with them, aside from my nightly habits, and there must be some reason their silence produces these negative impressions on me as opposed to something more neutral. MSN names are not adequate explanations, at least not without examination.
Through personal investigation, I find that I am taking on these aspects to degrees I find unacceptable. By letter:
a) Dull. I've recently, through the company of the lovely Mr. John Koziar and Miss Tamara Koziar, found myself enjoying that phantom object known as Wit, and through both Mr. Koziar and Mr. Reed Stevens I find a new appreciation of that elusive wraith, Music. Through certain women -- Miss Kitty Gosen, though perhaps oblivious, being one of these -- I find a new appreciation of Life. These people, then, are the gateway to curing my Dullness, which otherwise threatens to mentally segregate me along with my 2 AM invalids, real or imagined.
It is not enough to avow to follow their ways. That is necessary -- to become the wonderful aspects I see, I must make a conscious effort to induct these various philosophies into my behaviours and habits. I must go further, in that I must also maintain Social Contact with these inspiring people, in order to have the mental drive to continually spend my energies in a worthwhile manner, and through such, become that which I desire to be. So is cured Dullness.
b) Depressed or Depressive. Contact with these people of the type before mentioned, and exercise of my Romantic Desires (being toward Wit, Music, or Life, or otherwise) is therapy enough to fully alleviate all minor depressions and assist in the bearing of those that are more major, and is thus doubly necessary.
c) Illiterate. Again, Social Contact helps to cure, as well as being literate, myself -- that is, I should Read more often!
I should Play Music more often!
I should Write more often!, etc.
d) Mean. Meanness of the spirit, at least in my own person and through my own experience, requires much effort to maintain in the presence of good, well-meaning friends and with the completion of stresses, gained through well-thought-out Work Habits and Plans for the Near Future. The latter two of the preceding list deserve some thought and time; however, the Company of Friends is, again, proved a successful point.
e) Not speaking. Not speaking is a symptom, as opposed to an entity unto itself, and can mean many things. In some cases, it means a dislike of the person on the opposite end of the conversation; in which case, there is not much to be done, unless it is to reconcile, and even that requires certain sacrifices from both parties, and some precipitating event to cause the desire to reconcile. There is nothing useful to be said here; specifics are needed for constructives.
Another perspective puts the blame for a lack of conversation on a lack of conviction, or confidence. This lack of Confidence is nurtured by isolation, and Confidence is created through affirmation of my Wit, Music and Life, through contact with these Friends of mine.
All of this coming together to mean, to save myself from becoming a person I don't like, I should spend more time with my friends who have qualities I value, and learn from them.
Not that the rest will just come naturally, but that's a first step.
Oh yes. I don't mind that you read this. |
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| I feel so good... |
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| 01:57am 16/04/2007 |
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mood:  chipper music: Tangent World - Track 13
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Go listen to your favourite song, or near that. One that makes you feel damn good. One that makes you groove like you're the hottest thing on two feet, if you got 'em, or hotter than that if you don't. Use headphones so it goes straight through your brain and kidnaps your bad mood at gunpoint.
Great! That's how I feel! |
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| A Letter |
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| 02:20am 09/03/2007 |
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This is unnecessary. It could be addressed to you. (If you're female, anyway.) So go ahead and take it like it is. Why not? Go ahead, see what happens: I wrote this for you.
Stop a moment, think about it, take it in. For you.
Now.
--------------------------------------------------
Dear Young Lady,
I went and saw The Seagull tonight. It was re --not relentlessly sad, not until the ending, and then it was horribly gripping. The girl Nina, tormented and destroyed, reminded me of you. Don't laugh or smirk, it's entirely true. I wanted to take her under my arm & fix things, like I do with you-- but I could not, that stage and that law separated us, a and we are separated as we were in fant in this fantasy. You were full of such hurt, such pain, such longing for soothing, and it didn't work out and lives were ruined. The last voice of the play was a quiet, pathetic, helpless sob. I hardly could applaud.
Now, ridiculously (isn't that Chekhov's love? Ridicule, the ridiculousness of life?), I am here in this lovely... Italian (?) Toronto Café thinking of you as I savour custard tart and éclair and cappuccino picture-perfect, domed with cream and dusted with light brown magic and on a saucer for just under $5, and I'd pay ten times that for the same meal with you sharing the table. You're lively; you need me in my fantasies, Seagull-induced, and I need you. We savour each other unabashedly, fuck the future cause we're in love. Neither of us thinks the other can realize her or his beauty. We eat slowly and we see things by candlelight; musical-sounding Italian men(?) and TV and shop sounds synthesize to create... something else. And we are catalyst to this gorgeous perfection, and if we were to fall asleep on this café table our dreams would have become realized.
The éclairs are divine; you would enjoy them. The tarts as well. I like to imagine -- oh, perhaps the men are Russian! -- that I make a scene while eating, or enjoying myself; that perhaps some young lady will look in, see me enjoying my meal so thoroughly, and rush angelic and Fury in to be a part of my life. Perhaps for short, perhaps for long. Perhaps it'd happen to be you.
Perhaps.
I shall try the cappuccino. Bitter, and somehow delightful. I'd love your thoughts on this, your comments. You are beautiful. You and I could be very rapturously beautiful. Together. Tight. (The pastry loses its hue and richness without you.)
I l o n g f o r
y o u .
If we love beautifully, it will be a surprise
only that we have actually moved to rest on
each other's souls, after all of the longing and
eager anticipation ------
and that, perpetually, forever.
I am, and will remain, yours.
------Dylan Hillyer
(P.S. Portuguese. I asked the...
proprietor, I suppose. It sounds beautiful.
The name is the Caldense Bakery. I hope to
take you here someday.) --D.H.
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| Every day |
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| 05:17am 02/03/2007 |
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music: Michael Bublé - The More I See You
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is the best day since the last day.
I'm appreciating that lately. |
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| Baaabyyy, you dance just like my wife |
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| 02:25am 24/02/2007 |
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Oh, but you're lovely, with your smile so warm, and your cheek so soft -- keep that girlish charm because I love you, and the way you look tonight.
Your eyes are like little worlds... and they're only little until I look into them, and then things expand and they're huge, there's so much I could see inside those pupils that I forget that I have a body, or that you're touching it.
You are dreams of light to me.
When we met, a city was conquered, and somehow, nobody was injured -- everyone agreed, it just worked that way. |
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| My Birthday This Year |
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| 10:46pm 26/01/2007 |
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mood:  enthralled music: Michael Bublé - You And I
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So. As some readers may know, this May 3 heralds the first days of my life that I am a full year older than 18; that is, I will be 19. This will call for a Birthday Party, capitals fully valid. I know some people like to go out and drink and do drunken karaoke or have strippers and cake, or buy smokes, or whatever legal adults do.
This is not, however, what my party will be about. There will not be bars, nor strippers, nor smoking -- although there may be moderate amounts of alcohol, there must be singing, there will definitely be cake, and things will be pretty smokin' (HA PUN). No strippers, though. I'd just feel really seedy and disgusting.
So I know all of you LiveJournal friends of mine are just dying to know what this party will be all about! Where will it be? Who will be coming? What is the point? Well, allow me to answer the last question first:
NO PANTS PARTY.
Hold your questions, please. I don't know where this will happen, and I don't know how it'll come together. I'll need some close friends to help me out. All I know is that I will be at home by then from university, and I know that it may help to have it the weekend after -- that's fine. BUT THERE MUST BE CELEBRATION AND THERE MUST BE NO PANTS AT ALL.
OK: Let's discuss. |
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| Trippage, as the French might say, if they spoke English, but like French |
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| 12:24am 25/11/2006 |
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I'm tired and bumpy and dirty and twitchy and if stomachs could speak, mine would sound like the detuning of a hundred violins.
It's been a bit of a disappointing night, comfortwise. One of those "Is this it? Is this it? It can't be, is it?" for about 24 hours, then "...no." Those situations. I need some sleep and tomorrow I need to cheer up.
JUST LETTIN U KNO JOURNAL K BYE |
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| Here goes, get the rice out, get the trip to Paradise out |
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| 01:23am 22/10/2006 |
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mood:  artistic music: Barenaked Ladies, until a little while ago
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Reasons why life is good:
I have a laptop computer, clothes, and many other nice things
I'm involved in residence, which means I get to help plan events that take place here
I'm a porter in first-year, which means I get paid for sitting and doing homework
I know so much about music that I can arrange songs for a choir I'm in.
I'm in a choir where we sing songs a cappella and we sound amazing and energetic.
I'm learning; I don't realize it sometimes, but I'm learning a lot about theatre, music, getting along, economics, and various other subjects, and slowly I'm becoming better.
I'm friendly and neat and generally inobtrusive and more or less a decent guy to get along with.
I can live without drugs or alcohol, for my whole life. That includes caffeine.
I'm creative and interesting.
I'm in good health and decent athletic shape, and I have the option of bettering that whenever I want.
I can love whoever I want whenever I want.
I can taste, touch, feel, see, smell, hear, and experience years upon years upon years of life.
I have my secret special places and memories; I have claimed them and they are mine, and I can enjoy owning them.
Every so often, something really wakes me up and makes me feel alive.
I look good a lot of the time, and I know it.
I know what I want and why I want it for some things, and if I don't, I'll figure it out.
I can write songs and poetry and use English beautifully.
I'm gaining respect and learning how to hold it and use it.
I'm intelligent and I know how to think (I think).
I have friends and acquaintances who don't mind and even enjoy my company.
I am capable of doing everything I am involved with.
I am soon going to be an independent man living his own independent life.
I'm getting to know and love my family better, slowly but surely.
I plan on doing exciting and unpredictable things with my life.
I just might know beautiful people who might be interested in the same sort of exciting, wonderful things.
Life is very good indeed. |
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| INSPIRED BY ONE NATALIE COOPER |
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| 05:35am 24/09/2006 |
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mood: artistic music: none
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Not that I expect you to remember this, Nat, but I was looking through the past on a whim, and I found something that inspired this...
My girl is fascinating.
My girl is eternally fascinated.
My girl is all different colours.
My girl likes to be held.
My girl digs.
My girl is a secret agent.
My girl dreams in sepiatone.
My girl lies about her dreams, just to see if I'll call her on it.
My girl laughs.
My girl doesn't just laugh. She laughs long, loud and hard.
My girl regularly breaks her habits.
My girl never shows up quite on time.
My girl has an irrational aversion.
My girl has enthralling eyes.
My girl can say my name in a way that no-one else does.
My girl has magic fingertips.
My girl runs and jumps and climbs and races me.
My girl is dashing and handsome.
My girl will call me at 4 in the morning just to tell me something sweet.
My girl will have as many words as I do. At least that.
My girl doesn't need drugs or alcohol.
My girl has high standards.
My girl sings and dances and acts.
My girl doesn't need money to have a good time.
My girl gets bored of sex.
My girl is a master of the seductive arts.
My girl is never awkward.
My girl sends chills down my backbone.
My girl keeps me up nights electrified about her.
My girl has purpose.
My girl is a superstar.
My girl is modest.
My girl does things to the maximum value of 'done'.
My girl makes math jokes.
My girl is so scared of drowning some nights that she never wants me to let her go, and I don't, not even when we both get hungry and make 3 AM peanut butter and jam banana brown white sugar sandwiches.
My girl yells and screams and hollers.
My girl whispers the most incredible words.
My girl is on the trolley.
My girl was a landscape in my dreams, and all her mountains were on fire.
My girl sometimes turns all the lights off and breathes the outside.
My girl loves wind chimes.
My girl writes me secret notes, and I might never read most of them.
My girl tosses back the last line over her shoulder so I have to catch up to argue.
My girl is short-haired, but she sometimes wears it twice as long.
My girl grins unashamedly.
My girl is never callous.
My girl has a strong conscience.
My girl knows it's bad for her, and sometimes she doesn't eat it, and sometimes she does; it's a momentary whim.
My girl appreciates.
My girl thinks it sounds a little weird, but will try it anyway.
My girl wants to try it because it sounds weird.
My girl has drawn some lines that Thou Shalt Not Cross.
My girl is ice cream pie with a little piece left over.
My girl shivers to music.
My girl carries an umbrella on a sunny day and gets soaked on a rainy one.
My girl drums on things.
My girl wasn't who she is once, but she got better for herself.
My girl does pushups.
My girl has a perfect snooty French accent.
My girl speaks gorgeous French.
My girl writes little notes that say YES! and sticks them around her room.
My girl sticks little notes all over my room, not out of boredom, but because she really wants to.
My girl wears all sorts of clothes.
My girl listens when I have something I need to say.
My girl speaks when she has something she needs to say, even if I want to say something.
My girl is one of the most intelligent women I know.
My girl ties me up and makes me walk the plank in celebration of something wildly inappropriate.
My girl even writes it on my calendar in advance.
My girl is strong for everyone but me.
My girl lets me know what's really going on below.
My girl speaks in accents to strangers.
My girl corrects spelling and grammar on posters.
My girl makes me keep her secrets so she can help keep mine.
My girl is very, completely, totally serious.
My girl just knows sometimes.
My girl will explain it to you if you make her.
My girl will lie if she doesn't actually know.
My girl writes beautiful things.
My girl might see this someday.
My girl won't fit half of these points in her opinion.
My girl will give me a shot anyway.
My girl hates to be boring.
My girl has refused things just because she doesn't want to become extravagant in ways she didn't choose.
My girl is not afraid to carry me.
My girl is not afraid to fight me.
My girl draws ridiculous yet appropriate conclusions.
My girl is not childish or sexual.
My girl is innocent and childlike.
My girl is experienced and verysexual.
My girl knows herself.
My girl will say things not because they are what's expected, but because she means them and can't express it in any other way.
My girl has plans for tonight... for both of us.
My girl was caught coming home at five AM; she was out exploring.
My girl knows back massage.
My girl never lies to me about the important things.
My girl can make me cry. And I'll like it.
My girl will be there beside me one morning, perfect in her ways, sleeping close to me, and I will notice her and think: what do I do? how can I handle this situation? And then I'll realize that, no matter whether I stay in bed, or get up and start making coffee and breakfast, or play loud music and wake *her* up so she can dance with me first thing in the morning, or cover her in facial tissues, or tuck her in and just watch her sleep for awhile and think, she will understand, and it will make her happy, and that will make me happy.
My girl knows kung fu, and she's not afraid to use it.
That's why I love her. |
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| This is a Livejournal post |
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| 05:51pm 12/09/2006 |
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Lately I have been rather uncertain. I have had my confident competent moments, and I have absorbed some information, and I have resolved to do this information and to get organized. Maybe that will fix things; maybe I need some alone time. The fact is that recently, with all the opportunities I've been given, I've been changing. I've heard that this can be a good thing, and I'm certain it can; I'm not perfect. However, it feels like I'm becoming what I don't want to be: less friendly, more reserved, less witty, more frustrated, more egotistical, less in shape, less in-control. I might feel better about this in future, when I'm organized and involved and my homework is done. I hope I do. All I know at current is that my brain is freaking out a wee bit, and I'd sure appreciate it if it stopped that right away.
( This is something I just decided to write, and I don't know what it is going to be about. )
I have no idea why that came out. |
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| 01:56am 06/09/2006 |
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I'm up far later than I should be, but I feel accomplished. I haven't been playing video games. I wrote a cover letter to apply for a job, managed to get that printed and stapled together, and shoved it under the Residence Life Coordinator's door. I probably won't even get the job -- I'm a first year student, and they don't generally give Porter jobs to first years. Boring, right?
Well, I'm damn proud of that cover letter. And you can take that to the bank. The cover letter bank. |
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| University |
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| 05:01am 04/09/2006 |
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So I'm here, I've danced, I've met people male and female with talent and charm and sometimes copious amounts of drink in them, I've stayed up late and gotten up early, I've learned the chants, I've thrusted my pelvis, I've gotten good looks and bad looks, I've found myself insufficient and I've done amazing things. I played guitar to put three people to sleep and another to tears. I have 10 bagels and some cream cheese in my fridge and another 2 in my body. I wore the snazziest suits and the nastiest t-shirts. I am owed massage. I have tried to create. I have felt miserable, I have felt superb.
I haven't cried.
I'm here, though, and I'm doing fine; I guess I'm all right. In fact, I think I will make a lot of friends, and I think I will end up loving the people here.
If you want to contact me, my phone is 416-650-3827. Email is same as usual. Mailing address is apt 414x, Winters Residence, Complex 1, York University, 4700 Keele St, M3J 1P3 -- that's my postal code...
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
(don't worry about that last bit. non-Winters just don't get it.) |
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| 12:26am 23/07/2006 |
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Here is something that makes me happy to say:
I am not going to justify myself. Ever. Unless I really, really want to.
Here is something else:
Today I filled a page with pen in aimless wordless thought, talked, danced, improvised, obeyed, paid, was accepted, and generally enjoyed myself.
All my thoughts are used up; now I rest. |
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| 05:34pm 21/07/2006 |
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A Livejournal is not just a Journal that is Live. Every journal is, anything used to keep track of word and thought in that way can be said to be alive. "Onlinejournal" might be more accurate; that's certainly the only distinction. Instead of writing, you type; instead of doodling or clipping or stabbing the page with your pen, you scan, post, link, and refer. Certainly each of these has its appealing side, its objective positives and negatives, and I'm not here to debate sentimentality, at least not now. What I'm wondering about is the reason why.
The point of an online journal is that it is online. Some people use these things to recount the every event of their day, and occasionally congratulate their faithful friends, with irony, for completing the otherwise thankless work of slogging through a daily list like this; at these points, they are breaking the fourth wall and acknowledging an audience, people they communicate with obliquely by their simple mention in a post. Certainly this communication is viewed as a benefit, being at once complex and subtle in taking its full route, yet simple in the message carried and lazily effective. Replies are asked for and written, people reminisce about "good times lol", love lives are coyly revealed in the folds of social lives, whether overnourished or emaciated. People are cheery or depressed, but not looking for dependency; nevertheless, they want people to know all this.
An online journal can never be a way to be completely honest, for fear of offending some reader somewhere, for the preservation of self and self's precious secrets, saved for someone deserving. It is not a true "journal" of the most important things in life; it's a journal of the socially acceptable things in one's life. Occasionally, one will rhapsodize over love, valse to the value of friendship, or grab the nearest keyboard and lash out darkly against treachery or heartbreak or simple frustration, always aware that one will be heard by someone. It's a type of makeup for all genders and ages, a chance to look good for the friends. And yet, don't we want this, at some point in life, desperately? Some nonspecific person to whom to rage, to cry, to dazedly or guardedly tell all we dare?
That's another reason to use these journals: Someone cares about us, in our deepest emotional moments; someone knows how we feel, because we've told them. Even if specific repliers don't "get it", someone must have heard. Someone has understood.
Back, away from the deepest recesses of chemicals and glands and supreme arches of feeling, into the social aspect of things, there is another reason I am certain of: to create community, we write. It is a powerful position, that of teacher and owner, and to assume it by inspiring discussion or giving advice via the handy "Reply" function is heady. It has some of the desire for attention, to matter in others' lives, in it, but the rulemaker's role -- or at least, that of one who knows the rules enough to play by them -- carries a responsible feeling to it. Others depend on you, for thought, for inspiration, and this feeling of importance, of meaning through this creation, is delicious. Spark controversy! That's almost better, because now you have opened discussion, the truth will out to someone.
It's all for the greater good, you see; the exposition of truth.
Of course, when you get to journals that are made for discussion and not just dictation of recent history, they become less journals and more diaries. I make the distinction myself, irreverent of dictionary definition, and it is this: Journals are chronicles full of doings; diaries are books full of thoughts. These diary-journals frequently include some daily happenings, but usually branch off from those to a greater issue -- poverty, religion, government, war -- to express an opinion and frequently ask questions of the devoted readers. Not really for their input on the issue, but for the fact that they have read, took instruction by answering, and put the writer in a superior position.
I myself use my journal not often, as a sort of confidant for strong feelings that need to be told somewhere, when I am without a where. I also use it to say things that I think someone should hear. Occasionally, in weaker moments, I bemoan myself.
I can't help feeling that a lot of people misuse these journals, in my eyes; use them to seem clever, or to feel important, or even as an unenjoyed routine, a resolution, as if The People would ever need to know where I went today. For that matter, as if I should need people to chime in to agree, or to awe at what they perceive as wisdom and clarity.
Here is what an Online Journal is for:
Telling a lot of people at once something that you think is important.
Use it as a soapbox. Don't embarass yourself, don't bore people. You are on a stage here and you should know it; if you have nothing interesting to say, why are you here?
These are my feelings. If you have a response, first make sure it's important. If nobody else will care about it, email it to me; my address is in my profile, and anyone reading should already know it. If you have a valid point, then you're adding to what I've written. If you've got a joke to make or graffiti to scrawl, go find a blank wall. I am not your billboard.
Lastly, for all those who feel as if I'm accusing you personally of something:
What are you going to do about it? |
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| 01:38am 19/07/2006 |
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I believe I'm entering one of those periods of my life where I don't want to take the time and effort to care about anything. "Content where I am" is about the highest I can muster, and even that's shaky. All I've been doing is playing video games and calling people up to see if they're not busy (often they are). It's a little pathetic, but apparently not so pathetic that I need to do something about it just now.
It's entirely possible I just need to go to sleep and face this tomorrow, so I think I will. It's also entirely possible that I need/want a change of social environment. It's amazing what people will do for you by existing.
I'm concerned about a friend of mine, but I'm told it'll fix between us with time. That's kinda kept me on edge too.
Well, if I go on this is going to get boring or depressing. |
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dapikkel's journal