I’m writing this post to figure out how to write a blog, because I want to write a blog but I have trouble writing about stuff unless I’m writing in conversation with someone else, on a forum or over email. I churn out all sorts of emails thousands of words long but I can’t get it together to write a blog post because I don’t feel like I’m writing to anyone because I don’t have an audience because I’m not writing blog posts. That’s why I’ve decided to break the chain and write a blog post and get an audience so I can write more blog posts.
What I do right now is take my emails and the posts I write on forums about stuff (eg. Why Baudrillard is a shithead) and I repost it here. That’s pretty much what I did with my last blog too. Occasionally I’d post stuff I wrote in my notebooks for school or my journals. Actually, why am I fine with writing in my journals and not on a blog? It’s because it’s way easier to pick up a notebook and start writing – there’s a lower threshold of effort. But what is effort? I can’t quantify effort – effort undergoes qualitative change at certain thresholds, and “effort” is something I’ve invented to refer to something which is ultimately indescribable. But what a load of shit that is – of course it’s invented, that’s hardly profound! Just a bunch of ten dollar words. If I weren’t so against censoring things I’d have deleted this whole shitty paragraph. The question isn’t whether an idea’s been invented, but what an idea can do and what effect it has on the world around it, how it interacts with other ideas. Ideas are real things you know! Everything you see around you was once an idea in someone’s head, at a particular time, in a particular place. But ideas get wild and feral, take on a life of their own. They’re like babies in that respect – you can have a baby but it’s not just you and the other guy, it’s unprecedented! Bursting with limitless potential! But so is everything.
And why use the threshold metaphor? Because it’s great! A shithouse use of the threshold metaphor implies minimums, maximums, quantities and singular measures. A good use of the threshold metaphor which respects its capabilities takes advantage of qualitative measures, multiple intersecting measures and potentially as many unique states as there are coordinates on your measuring grid-cube. When you use qualitative measures there’s no bigger-smaller, greater-lesser, major-minor because nothing is comparable – you escape the logics of roots, imitations, and originals. The threshold becomes more like a key – a specific combination of different measures producing a specific effect. A measure is a kind of state. A door key is a very simple example of this, being constructed of a sequence of quantitative height measures, that is to say the teeth, which is like a very simple mathematical code made physical, or vice-versa. The code interacts with a lock, and whatever’s contained by the lock – potentially anything! – is made open, released. When you open a front door you’re releasing the inside of a house. I think this is what Deleuze means by “abstract machine” – a way things relate to each other. Abstract machines are metaphors, paradigms. Deleuze is a shithead, I like him. I read in Images of Organisation by Gareth Morgan that all theory is metaphor, and he was right. But that’s a metaphor itself, isn’t it? I’ve got tons of old emails on metaphor, I’ll post them soon. It’s funny how Deleuze gets this singular, imperial title – “DELEUZE” – and Gareth Morgan suffers the indignity of a first name. I’m going to call him Gilles from now on, the old French dickhead.
“Effort” is just a way of rendering an infinite amount of infinitely variable measures down. But what do I mean by infinity? People typically assume “infinite” means big, but it doesn’t have to – it just means not-finite, un-limited, de-ranged. Something could be very small and infinite. “Infinite” is treated as interchangeable with “immeasurably big” because the qualities of being unlimited only become clear and real when some threshold is broken, exceeded – when we can no longer say where something will end. But the truth is we can never say where something will end! Endings are provisional. Everything is infinite, limitless and constantly overflowing.
My books are easier to transport so they become external brains easier than a laptop could. They’re low maintenance – no charging. Book software is much simpler than computer software – I can come up with a colour code for a page, a system of shorthand or a recurring term and define it on the page, in the book, across books. There’s also plenty more you can do with a notebook and pens – write in multiple dimensions such that you can’t simply unwrap the text into a single line, use tons of different colours, write calligraphy, make diagrams, draw pictures, rip paper, use other media, make flower pressings, cry on it, put food on it. Paper is fantastic! The page expresses the dichotomy of use and potential, which is false. All dichotomies are false, but only within the logic of imitation and originals – only when they’re considered an imperfect representation of something else. In the logic of immanence, all dichotomies are true. The dichotomy is a real thing which has influence on the world, but which has no relationship to the things it says it represents. The elements of the dichotomy are purely a function of the dichotomy – it doesn’t take two pre-existing things, it manufactures them. It manufactures the sense of trueness through “representation”, which as I’ve said is just the process of tricking people into believing the thing you’re representing preceded your representing it.
The filled page is useful, the blank page has potential. The carved stone is useful, the uncarved stone has potential. The filled vessel is useful, the empty vessel holds potential. In this way the empty vessel is filled with potential, and the potential is transmuted into actual material in the process of filling.
The size of a notebook changes your writing – I spent 4 journals writing in an A6 notebook. Your ideas are the size of the page. Diagrams are smaller. Ideas happen at a higher frequency, like hummingbirds. There are hummingbird ideas and albatross ideas. Hummingbirds are flittering ideas which require a constant infusion of nectar (psychic energy) or they’ll die. Albatross ideas are austere, like knowing someone who barely ever eats. They are braver, I think, than hummingbird ideas, but the payoff is much slower. The beauty of albatrosses is in endurance and stillness. Hummingbirds are bright flashes of colour and incredibly long beaks but they can’t range very far and they’re always earthbound. The albatross is the beauty of long train rides – the beauty is not in any one location but in the sensation of movement. Endings are tentative for the albatross – the earth is a necessary evil. Hummingbirds are very small and exotic but the fascination wears off fast and you need to find a new hummingbird with a different beak and different colours, you need to find a smaller hummingbird which flaps its wings faster and has more brilliant colours until they dissolve into rainbow motes of shimmering movement. It’s an interesting polarity. One is the sensation of mobile immobility – the albatross and its gliding – the other the sensation of immobile mobility – the hummingbird and its hovering.
You could also say every idea you’ve ever had is just one big idea.
In writing this blog I’ve learned that blogs can do one thing very easily that books can’t – reshaping existing text. Reforging it, hammering it into new shapes – using new metaphors is always fun! I can dive into the centre of a paragraph and expand on a point I’ve thought more about, spiral it off into a new paragraph, or even an entirely new article! Every sentence is a potential book. Everything burns with limitless potential. To declare something finished is to admit defeat. I think the ultimate unit of text in a word processor is a sentence. This is true, in the sense that statements are only true insofar as they’re useful. With the word processor there is a potentially limitless space before and after each sentence into which anything you can conceive of could be inserted.
If this blog gets popular for one thing I’m going to start doing a different thing. Stasis is death. This is a shark’s blog! Writing is a shark’s job – keep moving or die. This expresses the ancient truth that Cold = Dead = Unmoving = Distant = Small and Hot = Live = Moving = Close = Big. This is why we say people are “larger than life” – they are infinite and perpetually overflowing, they redefine the parameters of life in exceeding them. If they are larger than life, how big is life? There is also the immortal truth that Trueness = Oldness = Fundamentality.
I had most of this blog written up but then I stopped because I had to go and do something which I’ve long since forgotten about. I can’t get into it in the same way I did – of course I can still get into it, just not in the same way. How can I get into it? I’m making the mistake of trying to imitate my writing from when I wrote most of it, and imitation is death. I have to make something new. I’m in a bad mood right now, I want to finish this and post it because I missed last week’s deadline. I’m going to keep writing blogs and learn more about them! This blog was a failure, but failure is good, as long as you’re failing in new ways. One thing I’ve noticed is that I came up with the hummingbird-albatross thing the second time I came to writing the article, and I’m very glad about that because it’s my favourite. The secret is to go off somewhere new and explore new ideas rather than forcing yourself to finish the old ones – if the old ones need work they’ll tell you, and their time will come. The last thing I’ve thought is this: Trueness = Oldness = Fundamentality = Secretness.