Existangential (adj.) - A thought that begins on an existential note, but soon goes off on a tangent.
"Hey"
"Hey"
"Are you alright? You look like crap"
(beat) "Seriously? That's what you're leading with?"
"What? I cant make one self referential joke now?"
"oh by all means. I'm your blog. Make as many as you like. In fact, I bet you will."
"oh, I also bet I will. Anyhow, why so serious?"
"I dont know, dude. I just ... I'm not sure if I should continue or not"
"What? Where is this coming from?"
"I dont know man. Blogs are ended / stopped all the time. Haven't really published anything in a while. I'm starting to doubt why I exist in the first place."
Walter Sparrow: I once read that the only philosophical question that matters is whether or not to commit suicide. I guess that makes me a philosopher.
"Why did you start, ..er.. existing?"
"It was just one of those things. Hark! 'twas done on a lark. It was done because a status message wasn't enough. Because nobody on my friends list would understand (or be interested in) my obscure references, and I wanted to see if anyone out there would. For example, if anyone would google the following and land up here to revel in our mutual Kaufman obsession -
.... of events can be approached either from behind or above. In other words, all pluralities must be tethered to a consequence or the "rotation" of the event sequence will be uninflected and the locator axis (a, ab, abx...) will be an unapproachable phenomenology. Furthermore each sequential variable will be prohibited from interacting, creating a casual decimation and resulting in the profligation of at least three unendurable practicalities.
... beyond that I dont know. Why do you exist?"
"Me? Mesa 'man', yousa 'blog', and a lame-ass one at that."
"You and I aren't that different, you know."
"oh?"
"yes, oh. See, I stop writing, I cease to exist. You stop living, you cease to exist. I write drafts , and dont publish them. You live with yourself, and don't interact much with others. Most of the time I sedately consume instead of restlessly producing; and you live your life on auto pilot, going through the motions. You live for the self (rather than for God and others) and I write for myself rather than anyone who might venture here. Just as it is stupid of me to want to write (not funny, but rather) funnier than other blogs, its stupid of you to want to earn more than some random moron. You hate yourself, I hate all that I write. So the real question isn't why I want to stop. It is, why don't you?"
"Well, I love my sedate consuming, thank you very much"
"Bah"
"Look. Frankl said -
We can discover meaning in life in three different ways: (1) by creating a work or doing a deed; (2) by experiencing something or encountering someone; and (3) by the attitude we take toward unavoidable suffering.
..And all three are perfectly applicable. "
"Yeah, but what if I hate all the works I create?"
"..."
"..."
"(vocal turntable) oh I hate / all the works / I create / all the jerks / ideate / call the ..."
"what the ... what in pluperfect hell are you doing?"
"you know ... i... i'm just ... quick ... give me something that rhymes with 'tangent' "
"dear lord"
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
15 comments:
:D
Hit publish on those drafts if nothing else. Ending a blog is pointless, write when you feel like.
Start feeling like it a bit more na.
yeah.
and now for more nonsense; is it me, or does the 'na' at the end of that sentence make it, just like the 'kid' at the end of 'here's looking at you, kid' makes it.
both your blog and your self are a good deal cleverer than i is. :(
ah, but both my (clever) self and all your blog posts that get shared on my google reader would (very strongly) beg to differ.
nonetheless, my self, which walked springy-er today, would thank you.
I just Googled the text from Synecdoche (trying to figure out the source of the first paragraph) and ended up here. Now you know.
Also googled the Synecdoche paragraph.
=\ i googled it, meaning i'm a weird person \=
I googled the paragraph from the book in 'Synecdoche New York' too, and I am sorry to see you last posted in 2010. Did we get to you? Have you stopped writing entirely? Why? Who are you?
Will you ever read this? Are you alive?
Questions. Questions.
I'll answer the last one first. I'm alive, I think. I read all of the trickle of comments that appear on the blog, and then some more which I just imagine.
I'm just this guy, you know?
I had initially planned to delete the blog, but then events of great mystery, intrigue, tragedy, and more intrigue happened, and I couldn't do it.
Nothing got to me; I just stopped finding anything I wrote, worthy.
Who are you?
I am a commenter, a student, an NZ citizen, a consumer, a noise, a quiet, a tinkerer, an opinion, a reader, looking out the window over at a city, an extra.
It's not an inconsiderable question, or, it is.
I understand your editorial issue, it is a pity. I realise I am just a random internet stranger, but I urge you to get naked once more and post again. You should become happier with your writing over time.
Additionally, what are these imagined comments? I would be interested in hearing (reading) some of them.
Can't say that I didn't imagine starkly different circumstances when I imagined a random stranger would urge me to get naked. But, oh well.
Do you have a blog, or something?
The imagined comments are usually from someone who looks like Heather Graham. And her conversation with me goes something like the conversation from the dinner date scene in 'Bowfinger'. Without any humility whatsoever, I would be Steve Martin in this analogy.
That does sound seedy upon re-reading it.
I can't say I have seen 'Bowfinger', so this rings a bit dull for me - however I can make a guess.
No, I don't have a blog myself. It is an idea that I have batted around a bit, but ultimately I would have to be writing it for myself, which is not something I am sure I can do, at least now.
I am glad you didn't delete the blog.
This is quite a curious place I have landed up this evening- like the others I googled Synecdoche, New York.
It’s strange to see proof that your thoughts, no matter how obscure- aren't particularly individual.
Your name,
'Because he's John Doe by choice'?
I like some of your thoughts in this post
good stuff.
i googled that paragraph and wound up here. Nice to know someone else appreciates this film for what it is. cheers
Seeing that this blog post was written eleven years ago and that its author last replied nearly nine years ago and that the last commenter commented seven years ago, then thinking about myself in 2009 and 2012 and 2014, makes me very distressed and sad. But it does fit with the theme of the film that contains the text which I (like others) Googled before arriving here, so that makes some horrifying sense.
I feel I should keep writing for some reason. I have nothing to say at all, but I still keep writing. What a terrible curse, to compulsively write with nothing to say. Nobody else has anything to say, though. And they make "content," don't they? But we shouldn't be this way. Nothing should be made.
1155141140149781991471125
Post a Comment