Most blogs are narcissists, reflections of whatever selves their author chooses to reveal. Its a well-accepted fact, and if you’re raising your eyebrows right about now, I suggest you well-accept this fact. Most blogs are narcissists. Not all are as vain as teenage girls gushing over the new boy in school, but well, vanity is an inherent part of blogging. Its the same reason most authors or creators, for that matter, aren’t known to be great conversationalists or very popular for that matter. They spend too much time inside their own head, and everything they see or hear, even when they’re trying to be social, is just fodder for material. Everything they see or hear, is personal, is material, is art, is usable. Everything can be made real, can be made into a story.
I, myself, on many a occasion, have used an intense social interaction for a blog or essay or haiku or whatever it is that I am writing at the moment: composing a sentence in my head, instead of actually living; “His fingertips caressed mine amidst flutes of cranberry champagne”, and while I’m sighing in joy at his fingertips caressing mine, I also (quietly) sigh in joy at how pretty the sentence would look on paper, because I’ve quickly composed it in my head, while caressing his fingertips back. It is my guilty little secret, this swift and sneaky composition of sentences about my life while I’m actually living my life. It is my tick, my quirk, and I’ve doing it since I was about 12. Sorry, people-I-have-had-intense-or-interesting-social-interactions-with.
So when people say that I have an honest blog, or a personal blog, I say…”Um yes. Thank you?” and in my head, I think, “I really need to find an appropriate way to react to this” Aren’t blogs meant to be personal? And if the things we love doing, aren’t personal, most of all, to us, is there any point to doing them? I’d hate to see an indifferent painting by a painter who loves to paint, because he didn’t want to put himself into his work, and weave his experiences into it. I’d hate to see a drab dress by a designer who loves to sew because she wanted to be impersonal and not put a defining stamp of whom she is into her design. If the work we do, the things and people we love, the books we choose to buy, the music we decide to sync onto iPods, don’t begin and end with being personal to us, is there any point to it? To any of it?
Indifference annoys me. I don’t understand it, and I don’t really know how to react to it, except in kind. I think its a pointless emotion, and a pointless way to live. Living indifferently. Pointless. Same goes for nonchalance. And aloofness, and all those beautiful sounding words, that look great on paper, but are enemies to any writer, artist or creator who would like to be worth anything in the world. Especially to themselves.
For me baby, bring on the personal.
“And what is so wrong with being personal anyway? Because whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal” – Kathleen Kelly.