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| "Some nights I wish that this all would end..." ~Fun.
If Drak was right about one thing, it was what he said about Xanga: One day we'll look back on this and say, "Remember when..." I often look back on my Xanga days with mixed feelings of warmth and loss. There was something liberating and altogether terrifying about sharing your thoughts and passions with total strangers. It was as if the whole world were bleeding, but instead of raging war, people came together and mended wounds. I don't know half of the names of individuals I met on Xanga, but I can honestly say they were my friends. That's something Xanga did with friendship. It broke the mold. In the "real world", our "friends" live in close proximity. Which may be the only thing we share with these familiar faces who frequent our company. Conversely, in the blogworld of Xanga, you couldn't "see" the environment you were in, couldn't "see" your friend, or hear him, or touch him. But in a sense, you were closer than kin. Because Xanga provided a unique "space" for you to connect. Not like the clutter of myspace or, later, the turgid fluff of facebook. In Xanga, you truly connected with people. With Xanga, you had a direct tether to the heart of another individual. This made you vulnerable. And yet you were safe. I never once witnessed hatred. Not once. These days, I read through CNN and FOX news articles, and I think the whole bloody world has gone mad. People talking about guns and politics and God with torches and pitchforks at the ready. Xanga wasn't like that. With Xanga, you could discuss these things and your peers would maintain some fundamental level of respect. With Xanga, there was honor. With Xanga, there was human decency. Even when Drak was calling me "Fu@#face," I knew it was all in good humor. There was Welsh Kabob, Echo of Emotion, and Author Unknown87 - all artists in their own right. Kylie with her many blogs. Something Wicked with her cat-like charm. Keni with his dozen i's. Starry night writer, strange poet, Ophelia Crow, the midnight masochist. Didn't Pensive Poet hook up with Xinergy? And didn't Kylie meet her husband on Xanga? My brother met his wife on Xanga. Now they're raising two little girls together. Well, Drak, you were right. The world has moved on. Echoes of voices I never knew are returning now, beckoning me to forget. And I am. Slowly. I am. | | |
| "Cool, white bones - they won't save us this time." ~Halloween, Alaska  Xanga was a world inside a world, subjective, imperceptible in the harsh light of reality. Everything was texture and essence and personality. The blog-space was a place of dreams and cathartic revelations. Instantiation of the spirit – that’s what Xanga was. While Facebook is moderately attractive and mildly entertaining, I can’t help but note that it is missing something substantial. Although its tools are more appealing and its user interface more polished, the greatest thing about Facebook – it’s staple, mind you – is it’s number of users. And being a member since its exclusive student-only days, I’ve noticed this feature grow proportionally with its number of shared photo albums and “friend” lists. So there you have it. Facebook is a photo-sharing network with cheap thrills and trick illusions. It power lies in numbers – the more “friends,” the more photos tagged, the more “popular” a user feels. Construct your profile with clever quotes, esoteric jokes, archaic music, and sophisticated movies; and don’t forget – DO NOT FORGET – to post photos of yourself overseas, at the beach, and at the party you attended last weekend. You are a well-rounded individual. You are important. People love you. You are popular. “But it looks so clean,” you say. “Unlike Myspace which looked so dirty.” That’s the power of socialism. Consistency. Conformity. Unanimity. Let the people think they are unique. Let them think they are individuals. Let them think they are important and loved and respected, while you make them conform, while you make the world seamless. But to make them conform, you must keep them occupied. You must keep them busy. You must keep them distracted by all that glamour. Encourage them to post more pictures, submit more comments, and add more friends. Keep them addicted to society and blind to the emptiness they’ve harvested in their hearts. Distract them! Because we need their attention. We need their devotion. Because strength is in numbers. With numbers, you have sponsors, and with sponsors, you have business, and with business, you have money – money – money – silence! You’ve said enough! Good riddance to Xanga, to to Blogger, to thought. Godspeed. Au revoir. I bid thee farewell. | | |
| Language is indicative of the human intellect, a product of erroneous assumptions, misunderstandings, and old fashioned laziness; with every thread of linguistic incongruity, one could weave a tapestry of hominal shortcomings. | | |
| Me, the Intellectual Supervillian. Unrequited gratitude. And that thing that cometh before destruction.
I am an intellectual sadist, pedantic, vain, self-absorbed. Plagued by an insatiable avarice for knowledge though cursed with inadequate communication skills, I assimilate with pride but disseminate with contempt. Assimilation is a long, monotonous trek uphill 'neath the heat of a magnifying lamp; though it is through self-assertion that I press on. Dissemination, on the other hand, gives me full control of the who/what/where/when/how I precociously disperse my recently acquired jewels. I am reckless, antsy, irritable. I demonstrate none of the qualities through which I was taught. With contempt, I scoff at the underling; with spite, I watch him fall. For he is the me who once was, the me who will inevitably overcome. He is a looking glass through which I am constantly reminded:
I am not a god.
© PA 2008
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| Over the years, I’ve noticed my vision debilitating quite rapidly. Last night, dreaming, I realized it was a
degenerative disease. The optometrist had missed it. Something happened, and
now my eyes had become disfigured. Neither eye turned in the same direction; similar
to lazy eye, one focused while the other wandered. I rushed to a nearby
mirror and, to my dismay, discovered both eyes set back. It was as if someone had
pushed them in with their thumbs. They’d shrunken, too – like raisins
– leaving a pink gap between the body and each corresponding lid. The white part of my eyes had developed an etiolated look: covered by a thick yellow film, they resembled
uncooked egg yolks, the iris warped, the cornea cytoplasmic. I looked like an
ogre.
Maybe I could scrape the gelatinous substance
with a scalpel, I thought. After all, my vision being blurred is probably due
to the amoeba-like slime growing on my eyes. At least I'll be able to see. I rummaged through the bathroom
drawer and found a straight edge. This’ll work. Knife in hand and arms trembling,
I brought the blade to my eye. Careful. Steady now. A few delicate incisions, a gentle tug, and you're home free. My fingertips sweaty, I minded the stainless steel grips, how
smooth and cool they felt in my palms. One slip is all it would take…
Working meticulously, I made a cut along the
lower eyelid. So far so good. Now lengthwise across the upper eyelid. Good. Using
my thumb and forefinger, I pinched the jelly as I would a contact lens. It
gave. A burst of dry air immediately bombarded my eye and set it ablaze. Overcome with this stabbing sensation, I gave it a reckless tear, and before I realized what I had done,
I’d peeled the cornea from my eye.
Shrieking, I fell against the bathroom door. I
dropped the razor and cupped the eye with my free hand, my other hand still clinging
to the dismembered cornea. Fumbling, I tried to press it back on. A wave of
panic sweeping over me, a shrill whine rising from my
lungs, I kept missing, slipping the cornea on sideways. This can’t be happening!
Doctors can sew it back on! It’ll stick. It has to stick! See there? Oh
no!
I dropped it on the floor.
Seizing it I hurried to the sink to rinse it off and there was my face and oh man it
looked terrible my eye a scarlet honeycomb dripping pus for honey and NO!
It went down the drain.
I looked in the mirror, dazed by what had happened. My eyes were black now, my mouth a frozen O of terror. Hair
disheveled and cheeks sallow, I watched my face melt into a swirl of poison taffy.
© PA 2008 | | |
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