A gift to gie us

I have friends who blog. I have mere acquaintances who do, also, when it comes to that. People send me links to their most recent work, or to their blogs in general, or to something they posted that has relevance (they hope) to me. I will usually read these linked posts. I am not, however, a good citizen of the blogosphere.

First of all, most of us, (and I certainly include myself, here) have very little to say even on matters of crucial importance to us. Lengthy discussions of things which do not concern us at all do not make for good writing, but other people’s business is the number two reason for the invention of speech, number one being bragging and complaining about oneself. Blogging draws on the worst of both worlds. So I like to be sure that the angels of my better nature are on full alert when I open a page of someone’s ramblings. Unfortunately, my angels, like most people’s, are pretty much at full tilt monitoring my reactions to annoying neighbors, incompetent members of Congress, and the new front end manager at my grocery, so taking them for a brisk trot through the random jottings of someone I knew 20 years ago is not often a reasonable use of their strength.

It is sometimes interesting to, as the poet said, see ourselves as other’s see us, although the version one gets may not be flattering. However, since good story doesn’t require accuracy, I come down firmly on the side of ‘good story’, even at my expense, barring things actionable. It concerns me somewhat that blogging seems to be replacing actual journalism, as opposed to actual journals, but since my personal newsworthiness is limited, that’s another topic.

I am left wondering why people blog.

One bipolar friend blogs because he cannot find any object in his environment except his computer. His blog is the most consistently interesting of the ones I skim, because it is so patently a quest for order in an increasingly disordered universe. It is Entropy at play. It’s also sad for me, personally, especially since I can contrast it to his pre-illness condition.

But my friends whose issues are perhaps more subtle are no less on display.

One’s blog is characterized by the infrequency of its posts. It’s as if he, too, is not sure why one does it, and cannot stay on task long enough to find out. His posts are like bottles resolutely washing up on the same littered beach, having lost their notes on the way.

One friend has a blog ‘community’ of sorts. His readers chat and link back and forth, and are occasionally chastised or banned. Given that banned ones are wiped from their electronic records for whatever their transgression, I try to imagine how his Old Testament wrath was triggered. It would be interesting to visit the alternate universe where pillars of salt can give their version.

I know a woman who, in a compulsive Munchausens by proxy frenzy, writes endlessly about her daughter’s “difference”. It’s a miserable experience to read her reams and floods of pain, all ostensibly in the service of how truly blessed they are. Please do not misunderstand me. I actually believe she is neither more nor less blessed than any parent. But that’s the difficulty. She wants her experience to be MORE significant than any other experience. The world is a cruel place that cannot be twisted to a perfect solipsism for her, much as she tries.

Perhaps that is the common thread. We storm Heaven for an external reality to verify our own, and failing that, try again. A journal would be internal. A faith would be eternal. A blog replaces them as an activity which is meritorious (particularly if you’re good at it) without being significant.

It seems like selling reality short, put that way.