It is strange, all of this. Blogging to an empty room. Talking through silence, like an actor with a blank piece of paper. How many revolutions could I have initiated with a couple of clicks of my pen? When my first diary entry was written, on New Year’s Eve 1999, nothing could have prepared me for the pages ahead. Pages on love, loss, hope, sadness, coursework, divorce, countless election campaign leaflet drops, coffee, work, interviews for work, interviews for agencies, MSN conversations, holidays, sicknesses, going to the pub, going to the football, watching films, having a quick wank before bed, walking to work in the rain, shopping, falling into and out of love with people I should not have performed either act, writing diary entries….
Questions, and few answers. There are pages I cannot read back easily. Quotes from friends. Brutally honest, and I know all about brutal honesty. There are pages I cannot read simply because my handwriting took on the characteristics of an epiletic spider. Questions and no answers. Silence from history. Acres of bad poetry. How many bloggers…no, actually, how many people who sit in their rooms and, like me, jot away in diaries and journals are bleeding gallons of ink down the gutter? Unless the end of the world is given a concrete date, what is the exact point?
I am very fond of blogging. Fell in love with it, and see the promise more and more. Stories broken, reactions sought…At election time, I can see the blogosphere being of vital importance, to a degree unthinkable even now. Even today, we cannot see how important this all could be…But until the end of the world, there is no ultimate test. When the Earth catches fire, then we’ll see.
From the tatty pages of my 2000 diary, I hear voices, but also silence. All the aborted plans. Daft concerns…the usual. “Giddy” is a great little word for it. And there is a problem with recognition, too. It is like going to a theatre, sitting down, and seeing someone on stage impersonating you. They are not doing it very well, the voice is too staged, the clothes not quite accurate, but you know who it is they are trying to copy. Re-reading a diary from so long ago is like hearing a dead relative whisper to you from a telephone line. Until the end of the world, there is no context for all this…
Maybe the blogosphere has it right. We will download the news, listen again to a show we’d forgotten, nostalgise cartoon programmes of dubious quality, and then place the gun to the roof of the mouth. And blow.