Original Announcement

So the theory is this. For all we know, you may be reading the start of what normal people these days are calling a blog. And yes, I suppose technically I will be the one writing it. That might incline some people to argue that I have – in typing this – started writing a blog.
I can see merit in this argument, but it still seems silly and misguided. On some important level, I seem to value an unshakeable premise that in writing a blog, one has to assume an audience. I’m not sure I like that idea. Frankly, I have very little interest in sharing my stray thoughts with people. Even the ones I know pretty well. (That sentence is true if you assume I used the pronoun to refer to either “ideas” or to “people.”) That just sounds like poor planning.

Besides, I already know what a smash hit it would be. I am perfectly well aware that most people on Earth find my writing obtuse, unwieldy, and so full of sarcasm and unannounced metaphors that it’s more relaxing to actively flee from it, and thus avoid the stress of questions about my intent or meaning altogether. For years – despite frequent requests to do otherwise – that knowledge has kept me quite secure in the idea that I have no business writing a blog.

But recently, something happened that made me reevaluate that position. Not surprisingly, it will be regarded as selfish, confusing, and mildly alarming to others. I wrote a lengthy note to a friend of a friend on a public forum. I know the person, have met him a few times, but really have no relevant connection to him aside from some shared friends. But something I had seen registered as a really, really funny joke in my head, and he had unintentionally been the catalyst. Notice that I said it was a really funny joke in my head. That’s different than a really funny joke in general, to pretty much everyone. That’s where the problem started. See, I thought it was really funny. So I wrote it down, and had a riotous time doing it. I was grinning to myself for a good five minutes as I typed. I savored the verbal humor by rehashing the subtle nuances of the grammatical construction of what I was thinking, explaining it to the person who had inspired the thought in my head. And since – coincidentally – I had chosen as my tablet a message form to that very same person, I got a bonus 5% amusement by hitting the “Send” button, which, given my media choice, more or less equated a “Save” button, but with less privacy.

Naturally, the message received no reply. It was not offensive, aggressive, or even subliminally pointed. In fact, I had made an effort to give the person to whom I was writing credit for the joke in my mind as a safeguard to make sure my tone was obviously amused and cheerful. “Whimsical” would be high on the list of adjectives that could apply. But that does not mean that my joke thrived and spread great joy in the world. Next time I see the person involved, my note may be mentioned, but most likely has already been forgotten with a raised eyebrow and a, “What?” Since that’s pretty much in line with our established interactions with each other anyway, nothing has changed.

So if you think about it, we can reduce the long, vague story above by cutting out all the parts that didn’t have any effect on anything. If we do that, all we have left is “I spent a lot of time laughing to myself as I wrote and saved a private joke in a conspicuous manner.”

Since I’m being selfish, I can reduce that even further to the important part: “I spent a lot of time laughing.”

When I bothered to think about that story as I came across the saved (sent) message while looking for something else, I had the joy of reliving the amusement I had while first writing it. Then I got that same bonus 5% smile at the end by realizing that someone had read my joke and presumably found it inexplicable. But the joy did not end there. In a flash, I took it to the next level and thought about how often I do stuff like that. The answer, “all the damn time,” is also amusing.

It was then that I realized I devote a significant portion of my time to writing inexplicable messages to essentially anonymous personas who (frankly) have better things to do than figure out what I mean when writing. Not only that, but I take great pleasure in doing so. In a flash, I realized that by my own cynical definition of the term, I am already a “blogger” – just an outstandingly disorganized one.

That joke (I just finished it with my last sentence) inspired this block of text. I enjoyed writing it. I grinned and laughed nearly the whole time. But in this case, the joke seemed fated for anonymity. No one inspired it, save me. It’s true that the person who inspired the story I told to make my joke could be considered connected, but I already confused him enough with my last joke. It’s best not to overdo that sort of thing.

But there’s a catch to this idea. In writing a joke in which I mock myself for being an accidental blogger, I was forced to venture into the topic of mode of expression. (The private messages I email/post/mail/say/etc.) The logical conclusion to this premise is that the nicest place to “blog” would be in a forum where no one would ever find it.

That’s where all the current trouble started. For years, I have had a personal website. It – notice the pattern here – is completely inexplicable to almost everyone but me. But it pleases me on many levels, and it’s pretty if you ever set your computer resolution high enough to navigate it properly. The website is sort of an unusual way to tell a complicated story, but is mostly a labyrinth of sorts, in which many things are hidden. To the best of my knowledge, there is no reason for anyone to go in there to find any of those things. Or to go in there at all.

And that’s what so charming here. If I hide a link to a blog in a place where only inexplicable people will ever go (let alone spend time searching), I will have satisfied my thirst for irony to the point where I will actually start being practical. I will be able to write a blog confident that only people whimsical enough to enjoy it will ever find it. Anyone else will most likely lose interest long before encountering anything they find interesting.

It’s the most compelling reason to write a blog I’ve ever seen. Writing a document where the audience sorts itself? Priceless.