Saturday, October 13, 2007

minus 11 - the door

well, that's a formidable entry. Or barrier! Wonder what it's to be.

It's Saturday, the toughest part -or day - of being 'on deadline' [as the king says] and having to be out of usual life. We have our usual Saturday routine - I know I've written about this before - where the king goes to the drycleaners and stops by the wine shop and the artisanal cheese place (where they know him by name) and picks up fresh bread and cheese and wonderful olives of several colour types and little mini-baguettes with fresh ham and brie on them for lunch. Then, we decide whether we're having Oranginas or white wine.

Today, white wine. I'm gonna need all the help I can get, which is probably why I should have stuck with Orangina, but I have never exactly been the 'prudent' type. Now I'm upstairs with chapter one ("The Re-Write") and the king is doing laundry*, heading out to get dinner (we're having company!?) and will then settle in for some college ball.

I'm hiding the fact that I'm writing 'other' stuff - he doesn't know that I've started this site. . . . And it's going to be a little tough telling him! And harder every day. I have no idea how to do this. I see now that I already have some 60 [60?! Try over 80!!!] postings, each of one which was done 'in secret' as to him. Not consciously. We really have no secrets. But I've not told him about this. I'm not sure why I have wanted to keep properprophet so private. It's funny: no one I "know" knows about this place. Not yet. And I'm a little careful about sharing sites I have posted comments on with my 'real life' friends, for fear that they'd find this place. What's the deal with that?

This is one of the questions I think I had early on about "who" we are, when we're prophet, or Non-Essential Equipment, or Adorable Device of Destruction, or Mir, or Lemon Stand - although some of those women give an indication as to who they are. It's funny to think about the images we've chosen to camp out under. Machinery, plywood stands, butterflies, corvids, weapons, regret . . . .

I remember reading an article about 'avatars' - I think it was when I first came across Second Life, which believe it or not was part of my research! Turns out that Judge Posner (the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals Judge who thinks that academic moral theory is worthless with respect to making judicial determinations) appeared on Second Life to talk up a new book. You can see an illustrated transcript here.

So - you see - I am working! Stop to think, too, that "avatar" means "incarnation", which is very relevant to theological dissertations! sigh.

Anyway, I think the whole thing of secrecy or anonymity or virtual 'life' or whatever you want to call it has to do with consequences. I can control virtual consequences. If I piss someone off, or they don't like me, or I don't like them it's easy: no more contact. Delete messages (or don't allow them in the first place!) Don't visit. Deny access.

We can't do that in real life. And in real life, the people who know me can read what I've written and say "________, would you ever get real?!!! Stop messin' around and start writing! Kwitcher bitchin. . . . ." And that would be horrible.

So, on the one hand, I can control adverse consequences and on the other, I can presume on the goodwill of strangers. But not forever. At some point, you have to become friends. Or not.

Who was it said: "I love mankind; it's people I can't stand!"

That's how we are in the 'blogosphere'. Or: how we are at our worst in the blogosphere. . . . Because I think we can also make friends. I've read about people who have. And I know how I feel about the people who've come alongside me these last few weeks. . . .

By the way. . . . is there an uglier word than "blog"?! Or "blogosphere"?!!!! Barf. Who thought of that? I hate that word. It curdles my bone marrow to think of calling myself a "blogger".

I am a WRITER.

Best go get some writing done.
(*the king's mum has already had confidential discussions with him about this, asking "Is everything OK in your marriage. . . . .? Bless her heart. . . . ahem. . . . .)

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