rochelle.mazar.ca

Isilya: I don’t feel like I know a person unless I’ve read their lj now… how did relationships ever exist pre lj?

Well. Yeah. I mean, now you can go through someone’s dayplanner/diary/personal correspondence before you even hook up with them. Before you even consider, seriously or otherwise, hooking up with them. Someone you meet in real life or across distances. Now, here’s the question: for a blogger, for someone who’s used to blogging, and reading blogs, and getting to know people who blog, and all of that…for those of us who do, do you ever really trust a person who’s unwilling to blog? Someone who won’t, for some reason? And I know we understand that some things are too personal to blog, but is there a part of you that wonders about it? A part of you that says, well. So what is it, then? Who are you, really? I mean, where would we be without details like this:

When I was two, I renamed myself Little Bunny Chicken Feather, and refused to answer to anything else for the next six months.

Otherwise, the only way you learn about the Little Bunny Chicken Feather story is at Thanksgiving five years later when your honey’s mother makes a sly comment about it, and everyone but you laughs. Yes, that’s a traditional way to find out about these little stories. But isn’t there something nice about the idea that you would also be laughing with the family? And then on the way home in the car you can casually drape your arm over the back of the seat and say, “Well, Little Bunny Chicken Feather. That was quite an evening, wasn’t it.”

Or the things that the family doesn’t usually know about:

Last night, I dreamed that I had a tricycle. It was big, and red, and newly old-fashioned. It was shiny and beautiful, but it was too small for me. When I would ride it around town, my knees would knock against the handlebars.

I didn’t want to let it go, but what I really needed was a bike.
I rode my tricycle to a trike and bike exchange. They had one bike there, older and blue and a bit rusty. I offered to trade my tricycle for it.

The shop owner said no, that she needed no tricycles. She said that she would sell me the bike.

I was upset. I emphasised how nice and new my tricycle was. I demonstrated how it changed into a milk truck in only a few easy steps.

She was not impressed. The bicycle could be converted into a fire truck.

Do you feel better knowing these things? Do you gain something from it? I love dreams. I know lots of people who hate to hear about them. I’ll never understand that. I think dreaming is very interesting. This may because a) I am a lucid dreamer, and b) I dream in plot. I think dreams say quite a lot about us, but I’m not sure what they’re saying. Granted. But I still like to know about them. If nothing else, they are filled with massive amounts of detail. Dreams ARE detail. And I am fetishistic about details.

I have friends who rant best on their blogs. Well, they rant best everywhere, most of the time, but their blog rants are wonderful and logged/preserved/noted down and handoutable as a url.

Listen, I’m not a passive observer. I read the writing on the fucking walls. I spend most of my time watching, analysing. Many years of internet addiction means that I even conceptualise in text.

So I notice the tags, I notice the signs.

The city is talking. It tells me to “Keep (my mind) Clear”, it tells me to “Shut up and Shop” and it tells me in tiny letters on the back of the underground toilets that “Meat is Murder” and “Hell is a state in America.”

This *is* dialogue…

…Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps my tutors are right. Perhaps the city is some infernal monologuist, and every dawn is herald to open mic day on the old concrete soap box. It’s a cohesive, many-authored monologue, though. There’s a thousand script writers standing behind the scenes, awaiting a pedestrian applause.

Is this good to know? Yes. Yes, it’s good to know that a blog is a place to get a point a across and show me, yet again, why I’m choosing to co-write with you. Indeed. And I’m a believer in the dialogue. Did I mention that I saw a perfectly dressed, rational-looking woman having a terribly amusing conversation with a concrete wall while waiting for the streetcar? Yes, I think it’s a dialogue, Lib.

How does one look rational, anyway?

have been ripped up from the inside out. have been sewn back together wrong. cannot find elements within me that used to be there. cannot rid my head of one verse of a song. sleep crawls ever further away on bruised knees.

Is blogging just a form of accidental poetry?