Posted by Lizzie on 03/17/05
We’re in the process of transitioning (we quit) from one job (no windows) to another (great chairs), which means that, instead of spending a goodly amount of time on this blog, we will, once again, be doing work. What this also means is that we have, for whatever, subconscious, despicable reason, been spending our last days in a terrifying round robin of blog-checking, blog-posting, email-checking, email-sending, message-checking, and guilt. We have also been thinking — which is so, so, dangerous, especially when you really need to clean the bathroom — some nakedly philosophical thoughts. We have placed them where philosophy should ALWAYS go: after the jump. Jump! No, seriously. Jump!
Writing, like any other, um, un-job job, is about the production of content. Lovely blogs like Lifehacker and 43folders explicate, nay, CELEBRATE, the efficient production, organization, and dessemination of such content. We’re in support of the wiki lifestyle, but it has become increasingly clear to us that we have, of late, been reading about wikis — and we know what wikis are now , we think — rather than living the blessedly wikified life, as such. Today, for example, we got stuck in a ever-branching path that went from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Quicksilver to whoisEmily Coates to 49 things we DEFINITELY HAD TO POST, all before checking our smoothly revamped 1-Gig webmail on AOL, our blog email, our old work email, and the state of donations to The Book Thing. We’re writing this, and it’s been four hours since we sat in front of the computer.
Maud has written about the terrifying effect of blogs on people with obsessive-compulsive disorder (TTEOBOPWOCD). Whatever and whenever it occurs to you, you must say it, spray it, link it, google it, buy it, SYNC IT. Our problem may be that we have just enough OCD to feel the burn, but not enough not to throw that rowing machine in the basement two weeks later. We’ve held out against the iPod, iCal, iMac and iNextthingwe’regoingtomakeyoubuy life because we are really more of an iSore kind of person, but also because we don’t have the skills to sync life in its entirety — and not only because it reminds us of this.
Maybe blogging is different for writers without geekly powers, which, for Christ’s sake, we wish we had, because we certainly would have made some money during the dot-com boom. We’re blogging, but we’re supposed to be finishing our next book of poetry, getting past the outline on that short story, writing in our journal, paying the bills. We have at least three books that need to be integrated into our side content, something like eighty more on the shelf to read, and those FUCKERS at HP are claiming they don’t owe us the rebate because we didn’t send the UPC code, and, by God, WE DID. We won the battle for $79 from Verizon and the open-container ticket from NYC’s finest, but we GAVE AWAY THAT GOOGLE T-SHIRT FROM 1999 and HP MUST DIE. We rented all those Sex and the Cities DVDs from the video store and forgot we could use Netflix, possibly to the tune of six million dollars. And where is that T-shirt? It is worth at least three.
Did prehistoric man torture himself about the Elk hunt he just didn’t have time to etch in red clay onto the cave wall that month? Were nineteenth century gentlewomen all, How could I have chosen the calling card with the lily, it will take me eight months to use them up, perhaps nine, and then FLOWERS WILL BE OUT WHAT WAS I THINKING???. In Little House in the Big Woods, Laura, following the seasonal acts of house-cleaning (spring, they cleaned in spring then, too), pig-slaughtering (summer), and maple-sugaring (fall), expresses delight at receiving, for Christmas, a tin cup and two pennies. We had to go through six steps to get the associate code on that Amazon title so that, if you buy it, we get two pennies. Where’s the Wiki to let us one-click our associate status on the title’s page, motherfuckers?
But in another sense, we have become Laura, albeit a Laura who needs her tin cup and two pennies every six seconds. Did Gawker update? Did you write back to me? Did you leave a comment on my site? Did someone buy a blogad? Did someone send me a book? WE GET THOSE THINGS EVERY MINUTE, AND STILL WE ARE NOT SATISFIED. We have moved to Little House in the Big Words.
It doesn’t end here. After this, we’re going to check our email(s), Technorati status, fucking bloglines. If there is one last thing, and we’ll find it. The paper mail! The phone messages! And we’ve got laundry to sort, bills to pay, dishes to wash, a roast to brown! Ah….that sweet, sweet relief.
We’re STILL sick with something (bad fish? Dairy? Minor flu? We have no idea), and we’ll chalk this screed up to the fact that we really can’t make our appointed rounds in the “world,” as we seem to recall it was termed. We know it’s “out there,” and that often, something called “sunlight” hit our face and we liked it. Can you link to sunlight?
Well, we’ll certainly try. And then ask Dr. P to tweak those meds.
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