this blog

this entry is a kind of interim report/page marker/interruption to cynovation as a project.

the blog, in general, as a form of contemporary narration is a funny thing. it's ethereal (having no tactile or real-world production), crude (because it lacks or has no need for the elegance of literary tradition), and miscellaneous. In short: I'm a fan.

I have, however, noticed something about my own blog.

When I rebooted it earlier this year I had intended it to be an apostrophe to a pair of cities to which I was a relative newcomer. I wanted to have some small voice in this medium to express the way in which a modern exmetropolitan, not-so-densely populated region fed the kind of cynicism that brands my generation (Gen X, but just barely) in general, and my own life in particular.

Cynicism is rarely an honest gambit. It's a gloss. It's a veneer. It's a shroud we cast over ourselves to keep off the cold. The more I practised it, the more I began to feel as though I was wearing a borrowed garment. It fits just fine, but it isn't mine.

That's not to say I haven't got a healthy amount of ironic distaste for the state of affairs in the world at large. But as I mull over and compose a thought or a point or a musing, I've made an effort (perhaps subconsciously) to keep it honest.

Not just honest, but open. Open to the point where things get personal. I've mentioned this before. I don't know if I'm my to accomplishing what I set out to do a few months back, but as I make a 'go' of it I find that there's a narrative emerging. It might be that the act of writing (or my formal education) causes me to focus on narrative structure; either way, I could argue that one is emerging.

So, can the blog hold its own as a literary form? Maybe.

Thoughts?