Out building

There is the story of the man whose job in the factory was to turn a tap on and off at designated times each day. He did his job faithfully, didn’t call in sick, took his breaks according to the regulations. On his retirement, he was presented with the usual recognition for his labour and loyalty to the company. A short time afterwards it was discovered that the pipe had silted up – and this had been the case for many years.

An allegory, perhaps, for the Blogger? Composing daily entries in the fond belief they have a purpose and/or audience, only to discover that they are without reader, flat on the page.

So why Blog? One reason is to discover this first hand. I don’t know. I will Blog to find out. I already keep a notebook (and why do this … we can play the game ad infinitum) which does the job pretty well.

A Calvinist haunting? Justifying one’s days? Proving one’s deserving since - if you are one of the ‘chosen’ - you would be doing this anyway?

Emily Dickinson’s fascination with bees, the “humble” worker. The bee who works away regardless of fame or fortune distilling his labours into honey. A poetic conceit (free of conceitedness) and a religious expression of Faith and Belief. And Dickinson’s vast output of over 1,700 poems hardly any of which were published during her lifetime. Writing for a rainy day? A devout projection into the future? A bid for Eternity?

Might the Blogger’s time be better spent? Do something concrete!

Notebook keeping is – as such – private. You write without thought that anyone will read it. It is a way of drawing materials together, a gathering, how materials rub against each other, one thing leads to another. Or, simply, an aid to memory. Or, a workshop – a place to dissect and experiment.

Blogging is going ‘public’ – at least it presupposes an ‘Other’ who is or might be reading. Yet for the Blogger it is also an experience of ‘Othering’. The “I” tapping the keys is distinct from the “I” being composed in – where? – this ‘atopia’of Server, Web, digital media. In a sense you ‘hear’ yourself coming back at yourself. An echo of sorts. Rimbaud’s “Je est un autre” as the basic formula of writing. These are well-established ideas but is quite another thing to feel them as you hit the publish button. These words - 'here' - are now ‘out there’.

Maybe this is what is being constructed: a kind of ‘out building’. Not part of the main house but attached in some ways. It has windows through which the passerby can peer. Something’s going on in there but no one is quite sure what.