“I have a blog which is not going anywhere,” I said this to a blogger, a fellow journalist and and an author I interviewed recently. “It’s OK. A blog doesn’t need to go anywhere,” she said. I take heart. Thank you, Annie. You are right. It doesn’t need to. It can be about anything, everything. That’s why it is a blog. Just a blog.
We live in a continuum. Everything around us is fluid. There is little room for stasis, status quo. Less so for rigid, straitjacketed compartments. I can’t limit the space I have chosen for uninhibited, unrestrained, unfettered outpourings of expression. An expression that incorporates anything. And everything.
So, for once, I stop bothering about going anywhere, about arriving anywhere: I just go on, keep going, further and further — there’s no looking back, no looking ahead. I go on writing whatever I can. Whenever I can. At these moments, when I have to evoke my helplessness (or uselessness) to do more of what I love doing, I think of Henry James: “We work in the dark. We do what we can. We give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
I work in the dark. I do what I can. I give what I have. My doubt is my passion and my passion is my task. The rest is the madness of art. For me, however, it doesn’t stop here. There are more complicated, bizarre things to deal with: the voices in my head won’t leave “the rest” to be the “madness of art”. There is the madness of mind. And the body.
Sometimes, the deeply vague — and vaguely deep? — stirrings impinge on my moments. They are baying for my blood. And sweat. And toil. And tears. Tears? May be. Fierce stirrings. Lazy moments. Internecine battles. Blood. Gore. And later, greed, guilt: some more, alas! I didn’t make much of more. Or make the most of more.
Life is full of paradoxes. And cruel ironies. It keeps throwing a lot at you, all the time. You learn to grin and bear. You don’t try hard to make it a practice. It becomes a practice. You bear it. Like thousands of other things. Like some people jumping to conclusions and forming an opinion based on your identities. Like some people forever trying to keep themselves — their families, their friends — first and everyone else later. (Everyone does that. I must be demented to think differently). Like some people forever finding someone else to laugh at, criticise, make fun of. (So, must you be a fool if you are self-critical and laugh at yourself?) Like some people on the roads who drive a Mercedes, but must spit recklessly and litter with gay abandon. Like some people who don’t know any other way different from their way… the list is long… I must stop here… you know what I mean…
As days slip by — weeks roll into months — even though I keep going somewhere or the other, I don’t quite go anywhere; and in the same vein, though I keep posting something or the other, I have a feeling I don’t quite post anything.
Not going anywhere. Not going anywhere.
Not intent on arriving. Not intent on arriving.
Did you say it’s good? Is it?