Blogdict (or, writing and ferocity)

It's official, in the past day and a half, I have become a blogdict. Despite the vast amounts of work I have to plow through before the night is done, and sleep greets me like an old lover, I am here typing away on blogger.

Part of it is because I am procrastinating the piles of work (both physical and intellectual) that I need to mow through. Part of it is that being online keeps me connected to communities across the world, via newspapers and blogs. It gives me a voice and a means of sorting through my turbulent thoughts, even if I'm just posting about some stupid political gaffe.

I remember going through cycles of being outgoing and shy as a kid. Usually the quiet interludes were due to some school-induced trauma. In those voids, my voice was carried through my writings. Whether angst-filled love poems referencing Greek myths of yore or quotidian musings upon the bus ride home, I honed and developed my life philosophy through my writing. I could make everything whole in my stories, or more frequently, provide context and nuance to my understanding of events past.

Some observations: I tend to write when I'm lonely, trying to resolve conflict (internal or external), seeking to excise some demon or fixation, or trying to make sense of somethinig bigger than me that I can't explain logically. Right now I'm attempting to work through some ideological and personal conflicts that are sadly intertwined.

The ferocity lies under the surface mostly, under a placid smile and burnished words. But sometimes it surprises even me and pours forth like a hard-charging knight to save the day. It comes from times that I kept my mouth shut, then spent the whole time home thinking of clever rebuttals and whipsmart comebacks. It comes from all the times that I held my tongue and my hands back, not wanting to create a public commotion. The ferocity comes from the frustration of seeing the world in its fragile, fucked up state, and only being able to change so much at any one time. To reach so few people in a given week. And it comes from the instances that I actually said what I felt, and then blamed and guilted myself for weeks afterwards. Sometimes the gatekeeper's watchful gaze slips. . ."Quis custodiet ipsos custodes," indeed.

Lastly, the ferocity resides inside, always. Like I have an unlimited amount of opaque oratory with only my computer to understand me. To justify my actions in the daily, waking world. The ferocity is also my clarion call to arms - my harder than granite stare upon an urban maelstorm.

And so begins the parting of the seas under pressure, as if I could force these towering obelisks of Babel to move.