Ubuntu dreams

I have come around and in some special, ordinary as bread kind of way, began to enjoy this blogging thing.

Words do not come easily to me. Private thoughts ramble and hiss beneath the skull, short-circutting sentences and expression. Sometimes, blinded by my own daydreams, the tongue drifts off into obscure idiom, up and further up mount garble without pencil or page.

My argument was that blogging can easily lead you down the road into hideously manicured neighbourhoods of narcissism. A spermy, animal urine puddle doubling as Jacuzzi where insignificant words and ideas serve as bath salts.

Between thinking, reading and writing (longer pieces and private pieces), where do you find the time to clog the webisphere with unconsidered epithets. Playing too close to the “drivel” line.

I have to admit, caveats being du jour, this sense was not based on any extensive or deliberate blog reading in search of blogs that would disprove this sense. Why would I? Where would one, or two or three, find the time to perform this chore?

In a lucky packet?

But one, and possibly two or three, can grow in a matter of days and weeks. In minutes a strong opinion can dissolve and dark skies burst like dawn’s egg yolk.

Here’s the new sense, or at least as much as I’ve been able to see so far:

Terminal irony, fashionable cynicism, curiosity deficiency, under complication, ennui. Cognitive diseases of our time. Sometimes, as a palliative measure, it is necessary to give a stranger a peak into your soul.

Bill Evans, in the linear notes to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, describes a Japanese visual art in which “the artist is forced to be spontaneous”.

“Erasures or changes are impossible,” he says of the art practiced on parchment wood.

This improvisation, he says is a discipline the artist must teach himself through constant practice.

The practice, is “that of allowing the idea to express itself in communication with their hands in such a direct way that deliberation cannot interfere”, Evans explains, before drawing out how this practice came across in the gargantuan trumpeters 1959 release.

This is, in a little way, my manifesto of blogging.

In the poem below, Amiri Baraka declares: “Poems are bullshit, unless they are teeth, or trees, or lemons piled on a step”.


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