Meta

Sounds like the name of a very, very indie song, doesn't it? The kind of song scenesters would bobble to while pretending they weren't enjoying themselves. The kind of song that uses an esoteric instrument like a harmonium or a theremin or chittarone or lodo or veena or an ondes martenot (with thanks to online encyclopedias). The kind of song that thumbs its very abstract yet reified nose at lesser, loop-based songs. Except, of course, this title simply has too many syllables. It is overemotive, it doesn't get to the point. Much like this paragraph.

The point is: this is one of those "meta" entries, where a blog reflects on itself. Don't blame the human behind the web page, you can take your rage out against the internet directly. Try spitting on the screen, though I wouldn't recommend it if you're using one of those public terminals where the eternal nameless "they" have strict public health rules against that kind of behaviour.

So, as I wrote somewhere before, how do we go about constructing a useful, successful blog? (I dislike the word, but that's a tangent I don't want to get onto.) If it just includes little "slices of life", little observations, your friends (the ones who will initially read it) will not be impressed because, odds are, you've already related anything amusing to them directly, not via this torturedly roundabout way. If you get all abstract, political, scientific, philosophical, whatever, you're (probably) not informed enough to attract anyone other than friends. So, we're in a sandwich, being eaten by the internet; the internet is breathing and salivating on you and it hasn't brushed its teeth (it is, after all, a very busy meganetwork), and you're caught in the stench and squeeze: wet, stinky and stuck between two pieces of bread. (What did that have to do with anything?)

This is a problem only if you're seeking fame in the "blogosphere". (I hate that word even more. But I'll hold off until later. I probably have actual work to do.)

Consider: "sometimes I space out and right-click on Mr. Clippit, allow him to amuse me with his endless transformations. Now he is an atom, here he is a circle, now a box, maybe next time he will be a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. His untiring electronic smile and forthright bug-eyes help fight the gray, cumulonimbus loneliness of working in this cold and empty house."