I’m going to lay blame for my malaise squarely where it belongs. Granted, I have issues, lots of issues. But the malaise is a way for me to accept my own laziness, and the scorn I put on myself for it. It’s not physical laziness but intellectual laziness.

Who, after all, really wants to spend the time writing “literature” when so many literaturists are such boobs? On the other hand, 99 percent of the the blogosphog is really awful writing by people who don’t really want to be writers. They want voices but refuse to do the work to make their voices heard.

This blog, for instance, is exercise. A way to look at self through the vision of self, the lens of self, and through the exsposure of self. Nothing more. No grand statements. No sensational news. Just self.

That is, after all, what the blogosphog really is. It’s the expression of an age, not an aggregation of individuals. The illusion is that it is personal and individual expression. But it’s outright despair. Grasping for meaning in an age when every aspect of our lives has meaning in commodity. It’s tough being a cipher. Many people don’t want to be ciphers. American and western mythos and ideology stack up against being ciphers. “I am me!”

You are not you. You are a social and cultural creation. There is no you in you.

That is the grand contradiction. Focus on the self creates the self in a Soren Kierkegaard way. Self awareness creates more self. Self gains control of priorities, becomes an engine for satisfaction of self. Capitalism, which is a creation of self, finds profit in the commodification of self. Self eats self. It becomes the monster from which we all need escape, from which we flee into the realms of writing that lets us believe that everyone else cares about my self.

To me, it’s all very interesting and disgusting. The blogosphog allows everyone a voice. Good. Use that voice. But I tread cautiously because, voice or no voice, when everyone has a voice there is no voice at all.