The Weirdness of Blogging

"I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, and defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants of God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty… what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off-key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse."

- Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

Blogging is an odd thing. It's an act prone to ego stroking, pointless, boring, meandering, pompous navel gazing. Yet, when done well, it can be as interesting, engaging and as deep as any other quality writing. Who would want to read someone's boring diary online? However, who would resist reading the diaries of Anais Nin? I've tried (and failed) keeping a journal but I have found that when rereading what I've written, I am left thinking, "How naive I was back then!" I had more success using the journal to jot down lyrical ideas.

So, as I look down into the abyss of possible horrendous writing and/or inspired words, I feel very much like Henry Miller did prior to finding his voice as an author. I believe that Miller never lost his voice but just was not able to voice it freely with confidence and the bravado he is known for.

In the Rosy Crucifixion, he spoke of how he could dream the words and say the words to a close friends, but once he sat down in front of a type writer, the muse was gone. For anyone who has read Crazy Cock and Nexus from the Rosy Crucifixion trilogy, it appears that previous to finding his voice, he was still able to write, just not as well. Both books are essentially the same story with one told in the third person and the other told in the first person. Nexus, told in what became Miller's trade mark blazen and brilliant autobiographical tone, is by far the seperior of the two. Crazy Cock comes across as overly restrained, stifled, trite and boring, while Nexus is like getting a direct connection to the confessional thoughts a great story teller's mind.

Although Miller often described himself as a being a coward, the word that comes to my mind to describe him is brave. His bravery to perservere as an artist well into his forties while living an adventurous life to the fullest gives hope to those meaker artists trapped in a hum drum world. His writing is "a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants of God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty..." He does as he says singing off key as he dances over our "dirty corpses". Put in less eloquent words, it's giant F you to God, the world and that cowardly voice in our minds saying, "Don't do it! Don't say that! Someone might get offended! Someone might think that you're the crazed mad man you are! You may live to regret it!" In describing Miller's courage, it gives me a small sense of bravery to brazenly blog on, until that nagging voice comes back into my mind and I am left silenced, singing with a scared voice, shyly dancing, looking at the awkward face staring back in the mirror.