It's all about you...

Today I found myself reflecting with a friend on how cathartic writing a blog can be. This got me thinking about what a blog is. In so many ways, it defies definition. Okay, so it doesn’t totally defy definition. Here’s what my good friend Merriam Webster has to say (I believe that I am entitled to call M. W. my good friend, as I’ve probably had more conversations with Merriam in the last four years than all of my other friends put together):

Blog: a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer.

Sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it? But what is missing from this definition? Although implied, there is nothing explicit in this definition about the most crucial component of a blog. You. If, in fact there is a ‘you’ out there. That’s the crux of it. There may not be a ‘you’ out there after all!

A blog is an exercise in the unseen and the unknowable. A blog is an exercise in textual fantasy. Again, my friend Merriam is useful:

Fantasy: a mental image or a series of mental images.

So, a blog is a place where all these mental images can go. A place without space. It is a fantasy land where my thoughts, desires, dreams and even my nightmares can come out and play. But it is more than that. A journal or diary can just as easily be an exercise in textual fantasy. A blog is distinguished from a mere textual fantasy by the nature of its performativity.

A blog is both fantasy and voyeurism in one not-so-neat little fetishized package. It is a place where I march out my mental images like players on a grand stage, playing to an invisible audience. Places without spaces and people without faces.

I recite my monologue from an empty stage to a darkened room. I hear the echo of my voice reverberating through the room and it comforts me. Sometimes I peer out into the darkness, trying to see if you are among the shadows. Other times, I prefer not knowing. There is a sense of safety in not knowing if anyone is watching and an element of excitement in knowing that maybe someone is.

I could write this without ‘publishing’ it. Much of the catharsis is in the writing of the play, in the rehearsals and the dress rehearsals. But the fact that I am here, that these words are here (while I may in fact be washing dishes, writing annotations or drooling in my sleep), is testament to the fact that it isn’t just about me. It’s about you. Whoever you are.