Wednesday, 3 July 2002

bleah. i’m tired and my eyes are crusty/​crunchy since i chose sleep over show­er this morn­ing. but on to today’s rant and my first shot at metablog­ging.

what i get tired of see­ing as i search through the morass of the wide­world­ofwe­blog­ging are the sites in which the en­tries be­come noth­ing more than lin­guis­tic ac­ro­bat­ics. how cool can i make my mun­dane life and ideas sound? alas, i have been guilty of this my­self. my beef cen­ters on the fine dis­tinc­tion be­tween writ­ing to be ‘clever’ and writ­ing to be pre­cise. writ­ing to be ‘clever’ is easy. you just need a the­saurus and enough imag­i­na­tion to be­lieve the weath­er fore­cast. then, util­is­ing Roget’s tex­tu­al in­ter­face a per­son can sub­sti­tute words for words cre­at­ing a ren­dered uni­verse of kaliedo­scop­ic in­tran­sience whose pletho­ra of sub­lim­i­nal gad­getry hides the fact that there is no ac­tu­al con­tent to the damn thing. this ‘clev­er­ness’ is in fact noth­ing but in­ten­tion­al am­bi­gu­i­ty. writ­ing to be pre­cise, on the oth­er hand, does not let the read­ing in­fer any­thing from the post. they are told what the point of the ar­ti­cle is and it is ex­plained suf­fi­cient­ly.

now some might say that i am dis­tin­guish­ing be­tween two dif­fer­ent schools or writ­ing which could be rep­re­sent­ed but not nec­es­sar­i­ly de­fined by artis­tic writ­ing and aca­d­e­m­ic writ­ing. how­ev­er, what some might mis­take as my rant against the artis­tic is by no means my in­ten­tion. what i am rail­ing against is writ­ing that has form but no con­tent. neo-Dada writ­ing if you will. the point is that it has no point. fuck that. i be­lieve that those who think they are be­ing clever are ac­tu­al­ly con­vinced that their cre­ations have con­tent and mean­ing.

what is nice to run across are the in­stances of pre­ci­sion that pierce to the cen­ter of the author’s in­tent and en­light­en in­stead of mud­dle. when words are cho­sen not for their clev­er­ness but for their apt­ness. where ad­jec­tives are used with the dis­cern­ing taste of a con­nosieur to em­pha­size, in­stead of the hap­haz­ard ar­se­nal em­ployed by so many that mere­ly over­loads. good po­et­ry is pre­ci­sion writ­ing at its best, and it is artis­tic.

i’d like to ac­knowl­edge that the op­po­site is true, writ­ing can be ex­ces­sive­ly ba­nal to the point of mild in­san­i­ty but i’ll talk about that some oth­er time.

Nota Bene: this en­try is al­so an at­tempt at re­flex­iv­i­ty de­spite the fact that i dis­like the post­mod­ern, i am still a child of it. that is prob­a­bly ap­pro­pri­ate for the post­mod­ern it­self. coils with­in coils.