Average

I feel I'm drawn to mediocrity lately, as it concerns this project of mine: this blog. It's perhaps an unreasonable statement. Even I recognize the more obvious virtues of my latest efforts. ...Documenting bugs that Blogger chooses to ignore; Sharing inventions of code I'd never before had a forum in which to publish; And in the transfer of at least one old article (a recent favorite of mine) I sat down and added meaningfully to the content.

Still, I had envisioned this site a forum for my art -- finally a place in which to distill and concentrate the most perfect of my artistic labors; from music to movies to text. And yes, my snippets of code were to have a place here as well. But with the ever expanding Blog Archive for this first month, and the umpteen articles regarding tips and bugs and source code, I feel I've come to earn too much, too quickly in the way of averageness.

And even though I continue to shun the commercial lure of 'Monetizing' this blog by snapping in a few Google Adsense bars in the margins, the posts themselves seem to have taken on the all too familiar din of website commercialism.

I find myself making links to the other sites I mention - and do not misunderstand, this effort is made out of respect for the labors of my peers, a general thoroughness of the record, and to the convenience of the reader. Motives aside, the links I make look just as they do on any other blog. They still resemble the embodiment of greed I find throughout this internet. Each feels like a tiny landmine, lain beneath the sod of text by some viciously capitalistic author, in hopes the unsuspecting will step on one and be blown up - flung away to some other site - whereby he shall earn one twentieth of one precious cent for the click-through.

And I suddenly dislike the name of this blog. I don't so much mind it in the domain, but "...you fucking people." staring at me from the top left of every page seems not only to indulge, but to encourage, even provoke, the indignations within me. And despite all my vitriol, in my best moments I don't really want to be this way.

My talent for entertainingly bemoaning the ills of society; for haranguing the ignorant, deceitful, and unjust is only, after all, a talent. A man can have a talent for making war; for killing other men; for lying; for stealing; for cheating; for any number of horrible, evil, sinful things, but talent alone does not justify him in the doing of them. While I have yet to find the sense of self and inner peace that might imbue me with the strength required to restrain the lustful passions of my woeful talent, I can at least envision the day whereupon I shall. That day arrives no sooner for these spiteful words I've lingered overhead, ever enticing me to some new fit of unrest. Yes, they'll have to go.

I feel better about it now. That last paragraph is so beautiful; so unusually sane! Knowing that in a moment these words will perch, as if my own flock of songbirds, atop this oh-so-average endeavor has washed away the memory of her averageness. We have reproven. We are baptized; clean again. We have direction.

I can go on.