What Are Blogs?

The Finnish composer Jean Sibelius once watched sixteen swans fly in formation over him. Afterwards, he wrote in his diary, “One of my greatest experiences! Lord God, that beauty! They circled over me for a long time. Disappeared into the solar haze like a gleaming, silver ribbon. . . .” He also rendered this experience into the second movement of his fifth symphony, what he called his swan hymn. But what would his swan blogging be?

I can go no further until I know!

Maybe I agreed to blog only to know if you were out there“But to ask the right question, in the right words–will that ever be the province of a blog? And what thoughts of mine should hold any weight in unweighted blogosentences?

In November I saw these birds“ And quickly I reach the limit of nouns, adjectives, verbs (my here by may among still through our around). I quickly reach the limit of blogs. For me to adequately describe these birds, and my feeling of sitting there in the sand at the bottom of the playground slide watching them“How many months should one post take? That particular sky was higher than the limit.

I can go no further until I know what I am supposed to be doing!

What are blogs?

It should be possible to build a pagoda of crispbread, to think of nothing, to hear no thunder, no rain, no splashing from the gutter, no gurgling around the house. [ ] I have never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we are abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. [ ] You become a self that fills the four corners of night [ ] dumbly calling, deafly listening [ ] His mind and his hand went together; and what he thought, he uttered with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers [ ] “Confession is nothing, knowledge is everything.” That’s a quote but I’m not going to tell who said it. [ ] Did it need to be known it would be. No interest. Not for imagining. Place consisting of an arena and a ditch. Beyond the two skirting the latter a track. Closed place. Beyond the ditch there is nothing. This is known because it needs to be said. Arena black vast. Room for millions. [ ] One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail. / One beats and beats for that which one believes. [ ] Will you please be quiet, please? [ ] Someone is leading the paradox to its wayward conclusion“With even more momentum I have passed through the page timelike yet moonlight. [ ] Then I reflected that all things happen to oneself, and happen precisely, precisely now. Century follows century, yet events occur only in the present; countless men in the air, on the land and sea, yet everything that truly happens, happens to me[ ] satisfaction is a lowly / thing, how pure a thing is joy. [ ] Cut this. Into ribbons. As we swim. You sing. Thread the ribbons. Through the sea. [ ]


p.s. I should have included Whitman.