Ok, ok, ok, so you want to be appreciated. You say your writing means something and that it is a true expression of yourself. Probably painstaking in your methods to perfection.
The fallacy is that writing begins with the reader. Readers usually aren’t concerned with questions of structure, and style. They either read the book or they don’t, maybe enjoy it or not, and might be affected by it. If the reader is affected by it he/she feels emotionally attached to both the writer and the work.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Chrono Trigger
About a week ago I started using this Super Nintendo Emulator for my mac. Couldn’t believe what I had discovered, the chance to play all those games a grew up with, again. Just when you thought you escaped those damn video games they go and do something like this.
Problem isn’t that it’s so easy to install, rather that its free. All of it. Available on the internet for the low, low price of nothing. And they’re small, Super Nintendo games rarely go beyond a megabyte and to think they were housed in cartridges the size of betamax tapes. Really puts everything in perspective.
Things aren’t what they seem.
Problem isn’t that it’s so easy to install, rather that its free. All of it. Available on the internet for the low, low price of nothing. And they’re small, Super Nintendo games rarely go beyond a megabyte and to think they were housed in cartridges the size of betamax tapes. Really puts everything in perspective.
Things aren’t what they seem.
Kambas ng Lipunan
The video reminded me of something I wrote awhile back.
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The Children
At night, or even only during the day, you can see them. As you drive by, in your car from wherever, listening to whomever on your radio, you will take notice. And as much as you wish it weren’t true, they exist, and they’re right next to you. They knock on your window, and you keep your hands at ten and two, or on the shift, and you pretend they’re not there with their necklaces of flowers. These children, you say to yourself, they aren’t real.
Though you wish it was a different story, economically, the Sampaguita doesn’t bring in much revenue. Those rings, the necklaces, that they sell on the street, those are usually their only source of livelihood. These children they have no real home. Those kids smiling at each other, they do not even know how much money you’ve given them. The children, they’re lucky enough not to be sold off to some pimp and put up for child prostitution. And so there they are, selling a different sort of flower, worn on a different sort of neck.
Inside your car, you’re warm, or you’re cool. Inside your car, you are anything they are not. They aren’t cool, they aren’t clean. Not warm, not able to eat, they are. They are not literate. They are not clothed properly. They are not worrying about their homework, or office work. Even bills they aren’t thinking about. What they are is probably innocent. What they are is probably content, and you aren’t.
It’s a custom, when you arrive, they all come and greet you. With smiles and waving arms, they call you out. They say in unison: Mabuhay. Give you hugs. Give you shakes in hand. They may even give you fruit. But, usually they give you a white flower necklace. They give you this small wreathe of Sampaguitas, rope it around your neck, chanting Mabuhay.
And there they are, in groups, in packs. Always more than just one of them they wait for your light to turn red, they attack. They’ll howl, please sir, buy these from me. They’ll growl, have some mercy, please, even just one. And they’ll bark, I haven’t eaten in days, please have mercy on me. And usually you just turn away, let them go on with their lives. Hoping they will live long.
What Mabuhay means is a number of different things. It means, hello, or greetings. Goodbye, see you soon, it could mean. But what it really means, the true root of the word is life. Live long, or live now, is what it truly says. Carpe diem.
Outside your window, it could be raining and they’re still there. A storm could be raging, and they’re dancing happy to take a shower. The sky is pouring and they are all smiles, welcoming the rain, celebrating what is being left behind.
Mabuhay.
The Sampaguita, it is the country’s foremost flower. Because of it’s colour, it represents purity. Because of it’s smell, it represents innocence. And its bud isn’t very big. Compared to the enormousness of a rose, probably only a tenth in size. It is small, and it is innocent, and it is pure, like a child. And they who make the necklaces, they string them along, the flowers, the buds, the children, and they have them sold.
Just remember, when these children come to you. When they sell you their necklaces of white flowers. When they try and bargain their sweet scents, with their drooping eyes and their dirty faces. Stand next to you and knock on your window, they will. Just remember, when they look directly in your eyes and chant life, they aren’t chanting for you, they’re chanting for themselves.
************************************************************************************
It's been a long time since I saw that. So many things I could do to make it better. I guess you really do learn in time.
***************************************************************************************
The Children
At night, or even only during the day, you can see them. As you drive by, in your car from wherever, listening to whomever on your radio, you will take notice. And as much as you wish it weren’t true, they exist, and they’re right next to you. They knock on your window, and you keep your hands at ten and two, or on the shift, and you pretend they’re not there with their necklaces of flowers. These children, you say to yourself, they aren’t real.
Though you wish it was a different story, economically, the Sampaguita doesn’t bring in much revenue. Those rings, the necklaces, that they sell on the street, those are usually their only source of livelihood. These children they have no real home. Those kids smiling at each other, they do not even know how much money you’ve given them. The children, they’re lucky enough not to be sold off to some pimp and put up for child prostitution. And so there they are, selling a different sort of flower, worn on a different sort of neck.
Inside your car, you’re warm, or you’re cool. Inside your car, you are anything they are not. They aren’t cool, they aren’t clean. Not warm, not able to eat, they are. They are not literate. They are not clothed properly. They are not worrying about their homework, or office work. Even bills they aren’t thinking about. What they are is probably innocent. What they are is probably content, and you aren’t.
It’s a custom, when you arrive, they all come and greet you. With smiles and waving arms, they call you out. They say in unison: Mabuhay. Give you hugs. Give you shakes in hand. They may even give you fruit. But, usually they give you a white flower necklace. They give you this small wreathe of Sampaguitas, rope it around your neck, chanting Mabuhay.
And there they are, in groups, in packs. Always more than just one of them they wait for your light to turn red, they attack. They’ll howl, please sir, buy these from me. They’ll growl, have some mercy, please, even just one. And they’ll bark, I haven’t eaten in days, please have mercy on me. And usually you just turn away, let them go on with their lives. Hoping they will live long.
What Mabuhay means is a number of different things. It means, hello, or greetings. Goodbye, see you soon, it could mean. But what it really means, the true root of the word is life. Live long, or live now, is what it truly says. Carpe diem.
Outside your window, it could be raining and they’re still there. A storm could be raging, and they’re dancing happy to take a shower. The sky is pouring and they are all smiles, welcoming the rain, celebrating what is being left behind.
Mabuhay.
The Sampaguita, it is the country’s foremost flower. Because of it’s colour, it represents purity. Because of it’s smell, it represents innocence. And its bud isn’t very big. Compared to the enormousness of a rose, probably only a tenth in size. It is small, and it is innocent, and it is pure, like a child. And they who make the necklaces, they string them along, the flowers, the buds, the children, and they have them sold.
Just remember, when these children come to you. When they sell you their necklaces of white flowers. When they try and bargain their sweet scents, with their drooping eyes and their dirty faces. Stand next to you and knock on your window, they will. Just remember, when they look directly in your eyes and chant life, they aren’t chanting for you, they’re chanting for themselves.
************************************************************************************
It's been a long time since I saw that. So many things I could do to make it better. I guess you really do learn in time.
The future.
It’s interesting to look at it and imagine how exactly it would be. For the most part, technology becomes the focal point of the imagery. For one reason or another an association between technology and the future has been made, and its difficult to escape it.
Where did the imagery come from though? The flying cars, robot help, the video phone, and the ever increasing need to have anything in an instant.
You can blame Assimov, you can blame The Jetsons. What becomes a struggle is that in a world where a button does it all, what’s the use of autonomy?
It’s interesting to look at it and imagine how exactly it would be. For the most part, technology becomes the focal point of the imagery. For one reason or another an association between technology and the future has been made, and its difficult to escape it.
Where did the imagery come from though? The flying cars, robot help, the video phone, and the ever increasing need to have anything in an instant.
You can blame Assimov, you can blame The Jetsons. What becomes a struggle is that in a world where a button does it all, what’s the use of autonomy?
Sunday, July 29, 2007
A Lesson in Minimalism
My favorite books from memory are: Rent, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Short Short Stories, No One Writes to the Colonel, Love In a Time of Cholera, Choke, Reasons To Live, At the Gates of the Animal Kingdom, Tumble Home, The Dog of the Marriage, The Importance of Being Ernest, Invisible Monsters, Songlines, The Second Coming of Mavala Shikongo, Esther Stories, Adverbs, How We Are Hungry, The House of the Spirits, Eva Luna, The Stories of Eva Luna, Survivor, Peter Pan, Man and Superman, Pygmalion, Macbeth, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, Othello, The Iliad, The Fuck-Up, Twenty Love sonnets and a Song of Despair, Innocent Erendira, Memoirs of My Melancholy Whores, Death of a Salesman, Cherry Blossoms, Smokes and Mirrors, Fragile Things, The Happy Prince and Other Stories, Leaf Storm, Picture of Dorian Grey, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, Gulliver's Travels, Things Fall Apart, In Evil Hour.
*************************************************************************************
How much did that say?
*************************************************************************************
How much did that say?
The House of the Spirits
On the paper, there’s more and more ink. More and more nurses are filling reports. These are for everyday things he needs. Oxygen tanks. Malto-dextrose. Pain killers. For real, every day they replace the tanks eight times. Whenever it’s time for him to eat, a tube through the respirator.
Not that he notices.
The crowds build gradually. It starts one person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin or two, even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk. The respirator is nine inches into the mouth he can’t close, and oxygen is being pumped into lungs he can’t use.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. That he’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
So we leave him to sleep, not that he could be awoken. The room is silent with incessant chanting. The rosary being read, recited, and rewound and he doesn’t hear a word.
He is asleep.
Neruda asked, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. They are ghosts that waft by, he feels only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
*************************************************************************************
Decided not to add any of the additional notes I took. I’m happy with the little that I have and how it turned out.
Incase you don’t know, “The House of the Spirits” is a novel written by Isabel Allende, under the genre of magical realism. Magical Realism, a genre that was made popular by the Nobel Prize winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, is a style that attempts to make the familiar extravagant and vice versa.
Not that he notices.
The crowds build gradually. It starts one person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin or two, even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk. The respirator is nine inches into the mouth he can’t close, and oxygen is being pumped into lungs he can’t use.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. That he’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
So we leave him to sleep, not that he could be awoken. The room is silent with incessant chanting. The rosary being read, recited, and rewound and he doesn’t hear a word.
He is asleep.
Neruda asked, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. They are ghosts that waft by, he feels only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
*************************************************************************************
Decided not to add any of the additional notes I took. I’m happy with the little that I have and how it turned out.
Incase you don’t know, “The House of the Spirits” is a novel written by Isabel Allende, under the genre of magical realism. Magical Realism, a genre that was made popular by the Nobel Prize winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, is a style that attempts to make the familiar extravagant and vice versa.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
WELCOME TO HERITAGE PARK
Just so you know, this looks breathtaking. It’s a Wednesday, and all the plots are full. The grass, glistening with moisture. The front park is crowded with people, six feet below, headstones up to three feet high.
Welcome, the sign says, to Heritage Park.
Part of what I have to do today is look at land. They offer single and double plots, also they have mausoleums and cremation walls. The service is impeccable. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cheery woman who led us to all the best locations.
On the golf car she pointed out, that’s Henry Cy’s, grinning, he bought two mausoleum plots.
You should see the designs, she tells us, they’re magnificent.
Turns out corporations have bought most of the plots already. On the map of available plots, the unavailable ones read coca cola corp. They own everything, and even this woman is only a real estate broker.
She points outeverything on this street is three million, the one after, two-point-eight.
We decided on a single mausoleum plot two blocks away from the main road. My father doesn’t want to leave it up to them to design. He asks, can we use marble?, when she tells us granite is a must.
She continues on telling us of the service package. Saying, you can contact me immediately postmortem. Smiling she tells us, this is my land line, and here is my cell phone. Once you buy from Heritage you receive the whole package.
Just for reference, the package includes post mortem handlings, with various chemicals to be used that aren’t formaldehyde. We’ll be given full access to the funeral hall complete with buffet and Eucharist sessions. The buffet will be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she says, and if you do not know a Priest, a Priest may be provided for you.
Welcome, the sign says, to Heritage Park.
Part of what I have to do today is look at land. They offer single and double plots, also they have mausoleums and cremation walls. The service is impeccable. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cheery woman who led us to all the best locations.
On the golf car she pointed out, that’s Henry Cy’s, grinning, he bought two mausoleum plots.
You should see the designs, she tells us, they’re magnificent.
Turns out corporations have bought most of the plots already. On the map of available plots, the unavailable ones read coca cola corp. They own everything, and even this woman is only a real estate broker.
She points outeverything on this street is three million, the one after, two-point-eight.
We decided on a single mausoleum plot two blocks away from the main road. My father doesn’t want to leave it up to them to design. He asks, can we use marble?, when she tells us granite is a must.
She continues on telling us of the service package. Saying, you can contact me immediately postmortem. Smiling she tells us, this is my land line, and here is my cell phone. Once you buy from Heritage you receive the whole package.
Just for reference, the package includes post mortem handlings, with various chemicals to be used that aren’t formaldehyde. We’ll be given full access to the funeral hall complete with buffet and Eucharist sessions. The buffet will be for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she says, and if you do not know a Priest, a Priest may be provided for you.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
*Notes on an entry*
On the paper, there’s more and more ink. More and more nurses are filling reports. These are everyday things he needs. Oxygen tanks. Malto-dextrose. Pain killers. For real, every day they replace the tanks eight times. And when it’s time for him to eat, a tube through the respirator.
Not that he notices.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. He’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
The crowds build gradually. One person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a few cousins. Even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk.
Neruda posed the question, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. Like ghosts that waft by feeling only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
(notes for an entry "The House of the Spirits")
Not that he notices.
The question is always: Can he hear us?
The doctors say he can’t. He’s all groggy from the dopamine. They do this so he doesn’t feel the respirator, he’ll choke otherwise. The moment he wakes up, if he wakes up, he’ll gag himself to death.
The crowds build gradually. One person at a time, an aunt, an uncle, a few cousins. Even only old friends, and the room is full in a way that would warrant another room. Everyone wants to pay their respect, visiting when really they mean condolences.
He can’t talk.
Neruda posed the question, How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say “for ever”?
He doesn’t know they’re there. He can’t hear them, or see them, barely even feel them. The people inside the room are dead to him. Like ghosts that waft by feeling only the lightest of sensations.
They spend every free moment in there, unable to go on with their lives. Some of them before work or school, some of them after. They go there and they sit, staring at the man laying in front of them and ask: Can he hear us?
The hospital has become a house of the spirits.
(notes for an entry "The House of the Spirits")
Monday, July 9, 2007
Finish
“Explain the difference between experiencial and agreement reality,” is one of the questions. I took a test to find out how much I’ve retained from my Communication Research class. The way to do well in this is to read prior to taking it. This is not obvious, the way it sounds.
It’s always an attempt, everything done or unfinished. An intention to do things the way it is supposed to be done, always how it is. Problem is just doing things as intended is not obvious. And of course there are the distractions, your friends, your computers, your whatever and filtering through them is far more difficult than initially thought.
It becomes obtrusive to the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to when you decide to finish something. It has to take over it just won’t get done. It may be a week of your life gone, or a month, even only a hour, but it is a hour spent finishing something when you would much rather be doing something else.
At the start of things intention is always there, but follow through rarely exists. One day I’ll finish this entry and be able to look back at it and say I accomplished something, however small or insignificant, I finished something.
It’s always an attempt, everything done or unfinished. An intention to do things the way it is supposed to be done, always how it is. Problem is just doing things as intended is not obvious. And of course there are the distractions, your friends, your computers, your whatever and filtering through them is far more difficult than initially thought.
It becomes obtrusive to the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to when you decide to finish something. It has to take over it just won’t get done. It may be a week of your life gone, or a month, even only a hour, but it is a hour spent finishing something when you would much rather be doing something else.
At the start of things intention is always there, but follow through rarely exists. One day I’ll finish this entry and be able to look back at it and say I accomplished something, however small or insignificant, I finished something.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Kings of the World
The wish is always as it should be, you get what you want. Things, they never go this way. Sometimes you’ll see others, they have everything you want and more, and they could be anyone. Men selling cigarettes in the street, laughing, sharing their lives with their coworkers, is who they could be. People building, renovating your condominium lobby, with not enough to eat and barely enough money to get home, telling lives, smiling at what they are, also. They could even be you. It should really get you going. It should really make you feel better with what you have, but it never does.
You should feel lucky, is what they say to you every time you complain or cry about your wants. There are people, they follow up shortly, that are jealous of where you are in life.
Tell me about it.
In the plaster and fake wood that is the Tuscanny lobby, there are men with towels on their heads, white face or wiping towels, lampins, wrapped around their forehead, covering their hair. These towels, they’re shades of grey and pearl white from saw dust, ash, and cement. They’re monuments to their lives, tributes to the work they have done. These towels, they’re crowns to their kingdom.
Kings of the world.
As a child, the nannies, the ones your parents hired to take care of you through the first four or five years of your life, they would put these lampins on your back themselves, robe you, appoint you. Those capes, those robes, they collected your sweat, your cries. They collected your excess while you would run around, and give the nannies orders to fetch your toys, or get you water. You would tell them to dress you, put on your socks for you, kneel down. And these people, they gave you your cape, your robe. They handed you your kingdom.
Those capes, when they’re used, they have no shade. They’re white as when you wore it, but wet with your sweat or soaked in your tears.
I have no lampins now, my towels are big and coloured. Bed sheet wide, heavy and will not hold in place.
Now I have neither a crown or a cape.
You should feel lucky, is what they say to you every time you complain or cry about your wants. There are people, they follow up shortly, that are jealous of where you are in life.
Tell me about it.
In the plaster and fake wood that is the Tuscanny lobby, there are men with towels on their heads, white face or wiping towels, lampins, wrapped around their forehead, covering their hair. These towels, they’re shades of grey and pearl white from saw dust, ash, and cement. They’re monuments to their lives, tributes to the work they have done. These towels, they’re crowns to their kingdom.
Kings of the world.
As a child, the nannies, the ones your parents hired to take care of you through the first four or five years of your life, they would put these lampins on your back themselves, robe you, appoint you. Those capes, those robes, they collected your sweat, your cries. They collected your excess while you would run around, and give the nannies orders to fetch your toys, or get you water. You would tell them to dress you, put on your socks for you, kneel down. And these people, they gave you your cape, your robe. They handed you your kingdom.
Those capes, when they’re used, they have no shade. They’re white as when you wore it, but wet with your sweat or soaked in your tears.
I have no lampins now, my towels are big and coloured. Bed sheet wide, heavy and will not hold in place.
Now I have neither a crown or a cape.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
*Notes on language and communication*
Do you know what I think?
I think it was the waiting. That’s what must’ve done it. The how long it took for things to arrive by mail, or the only so much you can say by telegram. It was inefficient.
Communication is a social necessity. It was easy when it was just finding a sound for water or food, but became more difficult as abstract ideas were attempted to be expressed. How did we decide on a sound for happy? Why is there a distinction between joyous and glad?
It was in the waiting when an overzealous attempt at generalizing abstract thought became a practice. We couldn’t stand around hoping that a dialogue would end up at an absolute agreement, rather we generalized ideas into individual designations in an attempt to speed up the process of communication. In this hasty tête-à-tête the bewitchment of language occurs. Saying red how I imagine blood to be, and you hear the red of fire hydrants and trucks. So much of the information is lost in the receiving.
Early in human history letters were the main method of long distance communication. So much could be said if you had the time to write and read. The problem with this was that it took so long before a letter was received. Weeks to months, sometimes, years before a letter would arrive meant that the posture of the correspondent had probably changed.
(to be continued… a little later)
Language was created because of a need, but evolved because of idle time.
I think it was the waiting. That’s what must’ve done it. The how long it took for things to arrive by mail, or the only so much you can say by telegram. It was inefficient.
Communication is a social necessity. It was easy when it was just finding a sound for water or food, but became more difficult as abstract ideas were attempted to be expressed. How did we decide on a sound for happy? Why is there a distinction between joyous and glad?
It was in the waiting when an overzealous attempt at generalizing abstract thought became a practice. We couldn’t stand around hoping that a dialogue would end up at an absolute agreement, rather we generalized ideas into individual designations in an attempt to speed up the process of communication. In this hasty tête-à-tête the bewitchment of language occurs. Saying red how I imagine blood to be, and you hear the red of fire hydrants and trucks. So much of the information is lost in the receiving.
Early in human history letters were the main method of long distance communication. So much could be said if you had the time to write and read. The problem with this was that it took so long before a letter was received. Weeks to months, sometimes, years before a letter would arrive meant that the posture of the correspondent had probably changed.
(to be continued… a little later)
Language was created because of a need, but evolved because of idle time.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Do you buy it?
It was one and two and three and four and five o’clock in the mourning. Whenever it was, it was time to write the entry. And of course it is such a burden, how homework always is.
What you’re going to write about is the whole ordeal. The whole making out process of writing an entry. The how many words dedicated to itself. You tell yourself, such a hassle.
See also: burden.
See also: encumbrance.
So much to writing in a blog is self promotion. You say, hello this is me. Telling the whole world, this is what I like. And the point is that someone cares. A comment that leaves a mark justifying your existence. It used to be; write a book. It used to be; paint a portrait.
In writing an entry what you say matters less than how many people have read it. A numbers game when you’ve gotten so many comments, or so many hits. At the end of the day what it is, is big business.
A lot of what you have to say only you will buy, which means so much of how you’re talking is you selling yourself to someone else. Having a conversation becomes keeping another person’s interest. Buying his or her time. All of it is making a transaction.
This, you say, is me.
P.s. post a comment.
P.s. send me a reply.
What you’re buying is status. The how many friends you have on multiply, the so many comments you’ve gotten from the blog defines your status. Where you are now is the result of people paying you interest.
At the end of the day you can look back at your blog and rate your importance to the people that know you.
Do you buy it?
What you’re going to write about is the whole ordeal. The whole making out process of writing an entry. The how many words dedicated to itself. You tell yourself, such a hassle.
See also: burden.
See also: encumbrance.
So much to writing in a blog is self promotion. You say, hello this is me. Telling the whole world, this is what I like. And the point is that someone cares. A comment that leaves a mark justifying your existence. It used to be; write a book. It used to be; paint a portrait.
In writing an entry what you say matters less than how many people have read it. A numbers game when you’ve gotten so many comments, or so many hits. At the end of the day what it is, is big business.
A lot of what you have to say only you will buy, which means so much of how you’re talking is you selling yourself to someone else. Having a conversation becomes keeping another person’s interest. Buying his or her time. All of it is making a transaction.
This, you say, is me.
P.s. post a comment.
P.s. send me a reply.
What you’re buying is status. The how many friends you have on multiply, the so many comments you’ve gotten from the blog defines your status. Where you are now is the result of people paying you interest.
At the end of the day you can look back at your blog and rate your importance to the people that know you.
Do you buy it?
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