Written May 1, 2005 for my deceased blog IdiotSyncharcies. Resurrected here because I just read it again as copied on my daughter's blog , and I was (pardon me for saying so) impressed with my own writing. Somehow, it never got transfered here. Makes me wonder how much other stuff got lost in the move…
My mental tides are ebbing, and I’m feeling wonky about this blogging stuff - again. I wonder if Andrew Sullivan and his ilk ever had doubts.
This thought sets off my inner dialogue. One voice says “Of course they do. They’re just as human as you are.” The other voice just snickers. Damn him. The snickers are getting louder in my mind today. My Inner Brat is on the ascendancy:
“Here you go again,” he sneers, “parading your ignorance for the masses. Or should I say for the four people a day who stumble on your weblog. Nobody is so masochistic as to read your drivel more than once. Anyone with any sense would sprain their carpels trying to click back as fast as possible.”
“Of course,” he adds, “sensible people would not waste their time reading blogs.”
I haven’t introduced my voices yet. Inner Brat speaks my fears and insecurities, as is obvious, what isn’t apparent is he like to use the tone and the cadence of my father’s voice. My other inner voice, whom I’ve never bothered to name, is fairly young. He likes to emulate the calm reasoning tone of the Buddhist books I like to read. His voice is soft, flowing like a breeze, and is all-too-easily overcome by the Brat’s brash delivery of scorn.
The young voice speaks: “One cannot speak for the value others will find in the most mundane things…”
“Yeah, and your voice is the most mundane…”
“…like the cherry blossoms you saw today on your walk. Although it was hailing, the trees were ripe with countless perfect blossoms.”
“Oh, shut up!” Brat starts to squirm; He hates stupid trees. And flowers…sheesh!
Continuing unperturbed, Voice holds my gaze. “You felt the beauty of the blossoms to be more striking because of the hail and the dark clouds, didn’t you? It was the juxtaposition of springtime elements - the blooms and the storms - that spoke to you.”
Brat mutters something about “talking trees,” which I try to ignore. “Yeah,” I say, “I wished I had a camera.”
Voice smiles his older-than-all-of-us smile. “The value of the moment is intrinsic in the knowledge that it cannot be captured. What worth has a flower if it remains always in bloom?”
Brat, having heard enough, shouts. “We were talking about Tannish’s crappy blogging, about his pathetic attempt at journalism.” Fists on hips, he strikes a defiant stance, awaiting my response.
“Your right,” I relent. “I’m fooling myself.” Already I begin to rehearse my official exit from the blogging world. Should I write an entry for each of my two blogs, or should I just write one and a quick link from the other?
“Make it short, nobody loves long, pitiful good-byes,” Brat snarled as if he can read my mind - which, as a figment of my imagination, he can. Then, so can Voice.
“Every single artist is just as human as you,” Voice gently states. “Humans doubt themselves from time to time. This is natural. Every artist has a side of them that needs to be appreciated. Your work has merit.”
“So does toilet paper…”
“Stick with it and you will make new friends,” Voice finishes. My scepticism showed, while Voice smiles his warmest smile and pats my hand.
As Brat storms off, muttering in the distance, Voice fades like a Cheshire cat, and I’m left to the ebb and flow of my mental tides alone. “Patience,” I can hear as I attempt to row my metaphorical self to the safety of self-assuredness, bolstered for another week of blogging.