One of Those Posts

Well, it's been probably about a week and a half since I've posted on this blog and I'm feeling like I ought to post on it again. And you know how that goes. The moment you ought to do something you automatically resent it and try to covertly sabotage it. And granted, there are reasons for posting on the blog. Draw legions of knee-padded fans. Poison the water of life and spread the peaceful night of death over the face of the land. Extract value. Et cetera. But you know how that goes. The moment you have reasons to do something you automatically resent it and try to sabotage it. (This is gonna be one of those posts, in case you're wondering. You're welcome.) Just like with Twitter. The thing about the blog is that every moment I work on the blog it feels like I'm stealing time from the novel. The real thing. And of course the novel's a disgusting mess, but at least it's mine. At least it's something I can grow within myself for nine months and love and cherish before casting it out into the cold, harsh world. My own little mutant made out of paper and ink since I'll probably never have one made out of blood, bile, and skin. But these blog posts? Think of the audience. Please the other. Pursue mass appeal. I'm reminded of the way Kafka told Max Brod to burn all his (Kafka's) novels when he died. Brod didn't burn them, obviously, which he explained by saying Kafka only asked him to burn them because he knew he wouldn't do it. And naturally we're all very grateful to Brod because he preserved these artworks that would have been lost to the fires otherwise. But when you think about it, you have to wonder if Kafka really meant it. There's something incredibly satisfying about creating something beautiful only to deprive the world of it. We really don't deserve Kafka, anyway. And granted, it's an idealistic vision of art to think it's pure self-expression. You have to consider what's popular if you're going to sell, and you have to sell if you're going to have the capitalist system devour your productive capacity in the way you'd most like to have it devoured. (I'm sorry? You actually thought not being devoured was an option? Go to gulag.) And it's not like disgust with what we have to do to earn a living isn't a relatable theme… Although granted, most people prefer to distract themselves from their disgust in their leisure time. It's easier to sell romance and fantasy than it is to sell an examination of the really bone-level disgust our own existence evokes from us. Be positive! Don't be so depressing! But there's always a minority out there who can't bring themselves to flee from the disgust. And even though they may be others, with all that implies, they're at least not quite as disgustingly Other as the ones who tell you not to be a downer. And speaking of things that are less disgustingly Other than other things, just a few days ago I discovered a book called Sadly, Porn. Came out at the tail end of last year and it's written by a guy under the (presumable) pseudonym Edward Teach. As I've said before, anybody with anything to lose can't write anything real these days unless it's under a pseudonym. Anyway, I haven't enjoyed a book so much since I discovered Houellebecq. It's probably telling that a book that examines porn use (and media use more generally) through the lens of Freud and Lacan is the kind of reading material that keeps me up reading after I meant to go to bed. Anyway, it's great. Reminds me of Zizek in some ways. Lots of little asides to examine and reinterpret various movies and novels. Plus the author is wantonly insulting to his reader, which always makes my little heart go pitter patter. I don't think you'd like the book. But personally I'm enjoying it so much I can almost forgive the writer for still being alive. Will probably post a review on this blog when and if I can be bothered to do so. Anyway. In conclusion, I hope you enjoyed reading this essay as much as I enjoyed writing it.