Pathetic Punks

I do like to write. I did, however, recently read that "blogging" is not "writing". Rather, it is masturbation. I cannot remember where I read this. But it rings true. Everybody seems to have a blog. And why not? Everybody has an opinion. To the internet! I must tell the world. No longer will I have to resort to filming my reflection with a Super 8 for hours on end. No, now, if there's something on my chest, here we are! Better than scribbling furiously into some dog-eared diary, foetal position at 3AM in the dim light, whatever comes to mind first goes down, doesn't matter in what order, doesn't matter if it makes no sense at all, it's all being thought so therefore it's all important, so here we go -

- such has been the case, surely, for as long as it's been possible to articulate thoughts. Everybody has a right to think and to express these thoughts, but this medium still feels like it's in its infancy. So many people do it, and yet, there still seems to be a stigma. Writing really does feel different when the writer knows that there is potential for somebody - anybody - to read that which spills over the rim. Suddenly, you're writing with an audience in mind! We used to head our thoughts with "dear diary". Made it easier to think of your diary as somebody to whom you were writing. Made you feel less introverted, sociable, as if, perhaps, you had a friend. With the internet, this isn't necessary. Just think! Anybody could read this! Possibly by accident, oh my, best behave -

- such does appear to be the problem with blogging. Anybody could read this. I am, therefore, writing with an audience in mind. What is more, my audience, such as it might be, can go anywhere. Why bother reading mine when anybody else could tell you exactly the same using a quarter of the word count? And what have I got to say that hasn't been said before? Nothing. And what gives me the right anyway to assume that people would actually want to read that which I rattle off at a despicable rate? Well -

- if one blogs, there is the potential to conclude that they think of themselves as worthy. It would be WORTH YOUR WHILE to read my rantings! I speak the truth! And that what I have to say is somehow MORE REAL and, dare I say it, MORE DANGEROUS than ANYTHING radiating from yonder SHEEP ENCLOSURES. It's no wonder blogging was likened to masturbation. To write in such a way, no matter how self-depreciating you are, and no matter to what extent you allow comments, is disturbingly self-congratulatory. Hence the stigma. The truth is -

- the truth. I used to maintain a diatribe on a site of ill-repute - quite religiously, at times - and I had the nerve to label it as the truth. How dare I. A Google search for absolutely everything with the billions upon billions of results reaped for anything you could care to mention is an experience humbling enough to convince everyone and anyone that it matters not how large a fish you happen to be, this is a really big pond. Deep enough to drown anyone. Even The Pope -

- I left the truth to die the unceremonious death it deserved. I neglected to tell anyone. Nobody would have cared, but the two or three people who read it might have voiced some kind of mild disappointment which would have given me a thrill which, small as it might have been, would have undermined my initial reasoning for throwing in that crusty old towel, it was writing as onanism with no consequence at all -

- such can be said, though, of all writing. Even to write copy! Think about it. And, of course, everyone has an opinion, me too, even The Pope -

- I like to write. Look, I really like to write. I need an outlet as much as the next person and it is nice, it really is, to consider that someone might read something I have to say about something. I have a solution. What right have I, oh shut up, you hear of those pathetic punks who would disband their collectives (more often than not called something like The Acid Bile Bible Basher Twat or The Death Bed Sweat Lake) having received some two and a half minutes of airplay. Yeah, to be played on the radio, that's selling out. Which implies, of course, that nobody listens to punk -

- so as little publicity as possible and I'm safe. Not as onanistic, pure writing, the truth? No, not the truth, no, but it certainly makes me feel better about myself. A punk rock blog, in that I care perhaps too much about that which people think about me. Better that, surely, than for me to assume that whatever I have to say is in any way more relevant than that which can be found anywhere else, everywhere, written by those wittier, more eloquent and better able to write with biting incision than I -

- soup heated in a pan, too much of it and too hot, too agitated, it boils over and spills over the edge with a spitting sizzle which no amount of  sodium crystals and elbow grease will ever remove. Who am I to judge beauty? Well, I have to think of this soup as beautiful. To do think of it in any other way -

- that way madness lies.