17 January 2007

If Hemingway Wrote a Blog

Bush spoke nonsense as he looked on, feeling oddly detached from what George was saying. “Is this what it means to be un-American?” he quietly wondered. Because of the nonsense George spoke, real people died. Now, to protect himself from a guilty conscience George chooses to continue believing nonsense. I have had my fill of nonsense, he thought. I am ready for something of substance, something that does not leave the taste of fear in my mouth.

The country is divided. Some care and some do not. Many are past anger and have, in disgust, begun to write. Their words change google search results and technorati ratings but do not change policy. This too divides them. Some are distracted by the stats and rankings. Some are made angry anew. Odd that economic abundance should ultimately produce so much anger, he thought. Very odd.

Blogging is a verb that makes it sound as if the writer’s soul is dribbling down his pant leg, to form a pool on the floor between the computer and the dog. Blog. That does not sound like a tool for social change. Blog. It sits in his mouth uneasily, like a drink from a foreign country. How could so many expect so much of such an oddly constructed word? Such a vague concept? What is the point of a public diary, he wondered. Is it simply a capitulation to the collusion of technology and government to rob us of our privacy? Bloggers become distracted by stats and rankings and adsense revenues. Adsense. Rhymes with nonsense. Adsense. Nonsense. It is no wonder that souls were so quick to flee the body in this time. The steady diet of fear, anger, and greed makes souls shrink so much that they could be lost in a single cough, like a particle dislodged from the back of the throat.

Bush spoke nonsense but then again, it was one of those days when everything sounded nonsensical. Humanity faces an unknown world, strangely convinced that words can change it. They desperately cling to the notion that their talk and typing can actually improve this world. It is a naïve and childish notion, one he finds oddly endearing. As he thought about this he gradually slumped forward. Later, much later, his wife found him lying face down on his computer keyboard, the screen filled with ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh for pages.


Dave said...

You got the rhythm, the angst and the low level depression, and you said something. Faulkner is turning over in his grave.

David said...

I'd comment on Dave's comment but I've never read Faulkner either. Will you do one as J. K. Rowling or even Dr. Phil?

Ron Davison said...

You know, I'm not entirely sure that I was channeling Hemingway. Likely I was channeling some poor sot of an undergrad from the 1930s who confused Hemingway, Faulkner, and the local beat poet with his own tortured prose. I did know that I had written something different from my normal voice and I just couldn't resist the notion of Hemingway having a blog.