Archive for January, 2017

…when I would wake up on a Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and just so excited to surf the Internet for the first two or three hours of the day. That’s what they called it back then, “surfing.” Even on 56k modems they likened it to Cheyne Horan shredding swells on mushrooms. I loved it. I could look up every movie I ever watched and read the entire cast and crew. I could listen to MIDI version to the Knightrider theme. I could Instant Message people for hours or even talk to a whole “room” of people about Watership Down. I can even act like I am having sex with one of these Watership Down loving people in a private room that they or I created and then they or I had to search to find so we could both masturbate together. Sure, it probably wasn’t really a girl on the other end but that really didn’t matter. This was a brave new world and it was great.

And it was a bit exclusive too. A lot of people didn’t even know how to use the damn thing. Still others refused to. So it was basically for people who really wanted information or to explore new technology. And that was nice. This sounds elitist and I guess it truly is.

But look at this shit now. The Internet, technologically, is far more superior, faster and vaster, but the way it is used both with that technology and by the users is actually terribly wasteful of time and resources. It attempts to function as an alternative to clerks and reps but lacks much of the agility they provide, when it even works.

Content that should be three to four sentences long is buried under paragraphs of exposition and verbose poor writing. Data that should be at our fingertips is pushed down in search engine results for punditry and commentary. (Somewhat) legitimate news sites have links to tabloid, pop, clickbait sites curiously disguised as headlines.

Pop-up ads, which everybody sort of agreed sucked in like 2003 and browser have built-in controls for them and have, I am pretty sure, never generated a single sale for their advertisers. None that I can prove anyways. I’ve never said, hey Vinnie, that’s a nice pair of boots you got there, where ya get those?” and had him say, “Clicked a pop up ad!” Seriously, that exchange or anything similar has never happened.

And the ads don’t even fucking work. I looked briefly for a set of tires for my truck on the Internet, bought some locally and for the next six months had the Internet trying to sell me tires that it couldn’t figure out I already bought.

Shaming, keyboard courage, doxing, ugh.

The Internet kinda sucks now. Make the Internet great again.

I just want to listen to this…

As I’ve grown older, it became at first difficult and now impossible to save myself from abstractions. I spend a lot of my private thought searching for truths as a point of fixity to grasp what the fuck is going on and often coming up short. Because there is so much that is so hard to truly prove, even to myself, much less others.

But in speaking to others, it appears many don’t think too much of the abstractions. Everyone is always so sure. And not only sure but assuming all others must have the precise philosophy with no coaching whatsoever. Many don’t even like to be questioned. Perhaps it is out of desperation? We look at our world and Universe and to keep from screaming or going crazy at it all we instead just put it into as many straight lines, squares and rectangle as we can? Good and evil. Right and wrong. Just and unjust. Don’t these only work in microcosms and, if the entire abstraction of existence is considered, aren’t none of them really correctly applied.

And really, someone’s microcosm is really someone else’s macrocosm anyway. Because even time and space is abstract. They both theoretically go on forever so how do you arrive at any point in either and say this IS this.

Infinite years and infinite miles and here we are all so certain of ourselves. Here on Earth, our morality should be the most abstract of all but it isn’t. We are judged on moments not lifespans, hypocrisies not complexities, results not intentions.

But it is hard. Impossible even. To take it all in.

Humanity would never have advanced if the ape sat there contemplating every possible outcome and acting on none.

The introduction to an unfinished short story…

——————

Callie played the Calliope atop of the steamboat Queenie seven days a week and she was the considered by all to be the finest woman in town. In every way, to everyone.

She was wealthy. Her family was old money and owned properties all over St. Anna Louise and there were statues to her great, great grandfather and great her Uncles. Her grandmother was an activist and her cousins were lawyers and doctors and politicians. She made plenty of her own money through various consulting gigs and smart real estate investing and some modeling and, being an only child, had a large sum coming her way after her folks passed. After she achieved a comfortable wealth, she built a modest house outside St. Anna Louise and took in pets no one wanted anymore. Then she hit it quite big in the lottery one week too.

She was fit. Born with a naturally comely and strong frame of bones, she went on to first become a black belt in karate, then a survivalist, then a yogi, then a marathon runner. It was rumored around St. Anna Louise that she spent two years in a remote mountain temple learning rare fighting techniques from monks of an unknown order.

She was smart. She was only 32 but had a law degree, a PhD in philosophy and was a Rhodes Scholar. She had three volumes of poetry published, two short stories accepted by the New Yorker and two patents. She had published papers in numerous journals on subjects of ethical law. She was an accomplished dancer, ballet, modern and interpretive. And of course, she was a concert pianist, her first and true love.

And, she was beautiful. 5’10″ with perfect pale skin, arching feet, calves with a golden ratio, sculpted thighs, a chiseled tummy, firm d cup breasts with nipples that pointed straight out through three layers of garment, straight thrown back shoulders, sky high cheekbones, ice blue eyes and curly red hair that fell in ringlets down to her ass.

She also volunteered one day a week at the SPCA.

No blog revival lasts. It’s always a moment’s inspiration. A failed reboot. An attempt at a reconciliation between someone and their muse to revive a relationship that perished for a proper reason. As all things do, right or wrong. Everything dies for the right reason.

So I’m not going to revive The Chicory blog, which I still and likely always will consider my greatest creation (mostly because, as selfish as it was, it was the most unselfish thing I ever did). It’s rather an expansion of an aspect of The Chicory I entirely overlooked while I was blogging after Katrina, blog as journal, the chronicling of my life at the time. This,this, this, this and this.

I do what’s in front of my face these days. In doing so, I lose a lot of what is behind me and find what’s ahead so uncertain that, when not terrified of it, I don’t think about it at all. And I am hoping that by journaling here, I can reconcile my future self (and the past self my present one will become) with these posts.

Of course as I look back there won’t be any moments of clarity but perhaps maybe just some intimacy with who I was. Probably some scorn of course. That’s what we do to ourselves (and our relationships) and it’s not dishonest. It’s necessary to dismantle the past sometimes. This will hopefully leave a foundation instead of ruins.

What’s most important is that few thoughts are constant. All things, thought especially, are abstract and weave in and out of their relevance and importance to the self. So I must, as I look back, realize that.

That’s the extent of the structure I am going to give myself. Often the reasons for the blogs don’t become the blogs themselves. See Library Chronicles which doesn’t really chronicle the library much.

I am going to open the browser and write. Because, like Dorothy Parker, “I hate writing. I love having written.” There will certainly be art, sermons, prose and poetry of course. Fuck, I don’t know. This may be the only new post. It may be like so many of the other blog revivals, or exercising, or eating write or spending more time with loved ones, the quiet desperation of Americans these days where we have so much motivation but so little energy and time. I hope not. But I am going to recognize that possibility right here and now, so it can become a “thing.”

Maybe I’ll start with something tonight.

This took 45 minutes. No wonder I stopped the first time.