Staying On Message

The nice part about writing a blog that nobody reads is being able to speak my mind in any form I please. And making corny rhymes. And writing for writing's sake. Writing for my sake. Me, a person, a member of the species in its general current form.

Most importantly, I can carve away the layers of clay to reveal a specific person who is made of all the people that person encounters.

I can believe I don't have to stay on message, as corporations and governments say, but in point of fact I am the message. A recent study showed that we are now our own media portals, creating the Escherian Internet in my adult lifetime. I am the hand that draws itself and the hand that draws itself is me. How cool is that?

How cool is that? I'll tell myself. It's so cool that my feet are skiing on carpet, so cool I can say something totally meaningless, so cool I can say something that is not cool (or at least so-so, tepid, lukewarm).

I don't know how many people feel like me, a person who once yearned to have his own cabin in the woods where he could communicate with nature and not worry about human interaction, even if I have fun with other humans of my ilk. Or any humans, for that matter, except for ones screaming in my face and pointing weapons at me.

Am I a pacifist? No. I am willing to use weapons, including these words, to combat others. After all, I am a human, aware of what humans can do to one another. I may turn my cheek in polite conversation but you fuck with me and you find out why redheads have a reputation for tempers. Berserker is a word rarely used but I have used it. I have put down my enemies, even though I loved them while I did so.

However, that is not my way. My way is an infinitely long line of patience. My way is the way of brothers and sisters uniting in peace to quell the opposition. You have the opportunity to join us or get out of the way. If you resist, then you have the people you see facing you, including me, as well as those you can't see, urging you to give up your resistance and move aside. Or join. The choice is yours to make. I have a policy of live and let live but I also know how to starve you if you try to get in my way. My brothers and sisters can decide how to deal with you in their own way. We are not of the same mind. We are of the same goal.

Staying on message? Fuck that shit. I have no message. I have a purpose. I don't need a message to give you or convince you to recite with me. It's my way or the highway. You want the highway? Here, we'll drop you off in Death Valley. Temperatures at night are somewhere around 44 deg C (that's 111 deg F). They say in the daytime you lose so much water you'll mummify in a week and a half.

So forget about any kind of message. I don't give a rat's ass whether you live or die. Your life is your own, not mine. Take it or leave it, for all I care. I've got a mission to complete. It's my only mission and we take no prisoners along the way.

I am an oscillation. That's all I am. One day, I'm the dove. One day, I'm the hawk. In between, I'm neutral and looking at nothingness. What you encounter is what you encounter. You have no metronome to measure my pace up-and-down. I swing with the wind, wave with the media pushes, bounce around from person to person. I may scare you into submission or plead you my case. I may smile uncontrollably or snarl with passion. I will not say. I cannot say. I am a human who absorbs all, internalizing only enough to write more words. You can be a goddamn piece of shit, for all I care. Or a helpless idiot who needs constant care. Either way, I'm here with you (but not always for you). I slash with verbs and spread salves with adjectives. Kill and be eaten, the cycle's complete.

I am an Eagle Scout. I am a college graduate. I also bash who I am because not everyone is cut out to be what anyone else has been or will be. That is all there is. Deal with it. Somebody out there thinks you're a worthless waste of breath. Somebody else out there can't live without you, loving you unconditionally. Someone out there is both.

These are the terms of the contract you signed when you took your first breath. You'll fulfill the fine print when you die. In the meantime, you're at the mercy of seven billion humans. Think you know which ones want to be around you? Think they know what you think about them? This is my space. This is my land. The thoughts of you and everyone else around you is what I write about.

Think you're pretty? To somebody. Happy? Relatively speaking.

My roving eye sees much but not all. I have no need for many of you. One copy's just as good as the next. And I'm talking about myself here, too, you know. Everything I say about someone I have to agree to say about myself. Else, it's not fair. Not fair? What kind of crap is that? Fair has nothing to do with any of this. I just want to try on your persona before I write it down. Then it's off to the next person to describe and forget about.

Is this an easy life? In some ways, yes. In most ways, no. I meet some of you and thank my lucky stars there are people like you in the world who are sane and keep the place neat, tidy and running smoothly. Then, I step into some sort of bizarre carnival and meet people who are two-dimensional caricatures of themselves, sliced so thin and fragile I'm surprised you can even exist in reality. But I write about you, anyway, because you represent our species just as much as the next person.

I'm two-dimensional myself. I'm trapped on this page, a caricature of myself, an image made of black streaks and pixels. I don't mind. It's who I decided to become when I grew up, a hermit in the woods full of people, unable to see the forest for the trees, believing I'm alone when I'm in a crowd, memorizing every one of you for later characterization.

I know who you are and what motivates you. We're humans, you and I, sharing what every other human is capable of, from sending probes outside our solar system to sending people to an early grave. Abortion clinics and premature infant care units in the same community. Kevlar vests and armor-piercing bullets. Doggie daycare and animal euthanasia. This is the stuff that writers dream about - an infinite pallet of human conditions with which to create their masterpieces. Some writers, anyway. Ones who don't need to stay on message. Ones without a vested interest such as a fan base or impatient agent/producer network to support.

I have no message. My books might have a theme, some of them lofty in the extreme, but don't confuse the writer and the writing. I am entertaining myself. Sure, I have my dreams but my characters and their motivations reflect many people besides ones like me. I want characters who hate my guts. I want characters who adore me. I want characters who know nothing about me and if they found out about me, they'd want nothing to do with me. Why else be human? I don't want a canvas of one color. I want life.

You want me to stay on message? Take a flying leap off the Empire State Building wearing a gorilla suit and see how many Fay Wrays are waiting for you at the bottom. I don't give a damn. You have your network of friends and if you don't, I'm not your father, your brother, your uncle, your nephew, your neighbour or your friend. I'm just this guy wearing out his fingertips on some plastic keys, not a self-help guru or a feel-good dealer. You can find that kind of crud on the promotional speaking tours sponsored in your local community. I'm not here to save humanity from itself or even to save me from myself. I simply entertain me. I am my own Internet. Anything else is happenchance. We may bump into each other and like each other enough to stay in contact despite my turning you into an evil nemesis of a comic book character.

That's what this Internet gets you. You pay your entry fee and the rest of this amusement park is at your own risk. My blog is free, no ads attached. You get what you pay for, no money back. Satire guaranteed, with an ironic slap in your face now and then, no hidden shipping and handling charge included. See you around, you piece of dust that I just happily trampled underfoot. Don't like it? Make your own blog and see if I or anyone else bother to read it. That's the way it goes in this place. Futureworld unleashed.