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confession

by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Saturday, June 17, 2006, 2:29:00 AM

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I think I've neglected this blog in many ways.

If I were to reflect on its original purpose. mini-misedu's was originally intended as a communal blog, where like-minded lightning wit friends would gather to discuss and debate. Plant a starter post with a topic, subsequent replies come as retorts or supplements to add on to the former. At the very beginnings of when this blog started there were episodes of promising potential. It was a nice idealistic moment for awhile there, a virtual salon where intellects met and parry friendly blows, minus the coffee and wine of a real world Florence or Paris though. You can still see some relics from that time.. the blog name's hinting a multi-person organisation, provisions for others to post entries; friends are called "comrades" in this blog, the idea playing on a theme that we're part of some Stalinist era, the blog's design and items embodying ideas of what an Orwellian administration may be like, this was even more pronounced in the earlier years as compared to now.

Another dimension to the blog was to serve as an avenue for my personal reflections, to explore and mine the little day-to-day discoveries that I make in my own life..

Of the two goals, obviously the first has faded into redundancy as can be observed through reading of archives, and I accept it. The second's always been around, sometimes more so than other. Looking back through the entries, I imagine myself as a stranger tracing out a story - the beautiful sweet moments of couplehood giving way to post breakup pains and confessions. To this end the blog was a lifesaver like dogs are to man and diamonds said to be for gals, it stayed quietly by and listened as I drowned my sorrows typing character and word line after line losing myself in cathartic penmanship.

More recently however that function as a vital signs life support has taken a backseat, the blog shifted to take on a role as a kind of guerrilla indie lifstyle journalism, as my interest in local music flourish and I take a more frontal role in attending gigs and getting involved with the scene. The number of personal entries have dwindled as a result. I guess it reflects chances in my own lifestyle and social dynamics too.

But maybe writing superficial show reviews and being my own media centre serves to hide some things too. I don't know how to put it exactly. I've come to notice that I've lost that passion to be creative, write just a little more superfluously, have some pride in striving to capture that memory or thought more effectively through proofreading and editing. Try to clutch that illusive moment of flare and contentment where I'm in awe and feel like I've worked out something beyond what I thought I'm capable of. Satisfaction on the deepest level.

I'm going through a personal writer's block lah, and I'm feeling like its not a brief thing. Everytime I think about it the picture is always of me standing in an arid wasteland, grasping vainly at the right words lying all about but they slip right through my fingers like sand and dust. Or my thoughts like a jetliner cruising headlong into a maelstrom of cluttered distraction - the plane's hopelessly caught up torn apart by the everyday noise and interruptions and the flight lost on radar, all onboard gone and even the black box's unrecoverable. That how I view my current attempts to put the more complicated things I want to say down into proper writing. Inability like a disabled.

The problem is I know that to improve my writing I need to constantly work at it. Conscious efforts to expand my vocabulary and note the occasional word gems, writing styles of good authors and techniques employed, work with peers who share similar interest cos' the blade that constantly grinded at is sharpest. But its the truth as much as a lousy excuse - I'm succumbing to my super-short attention span problem again and again. And I half-wonder what went wrong when I feel my mental persona standing outside in the winter cold, barethreaded with inaptitude and getting lost in the misty snow and fog.

I'm lost about what happened to that passion for writing until I chanced upon this beautiful entry on another person's blog. Then I recalled the wonder in the early years, when I started out as a Lit student, amazed by the power of mere words to shape and inspire, expressing the esoteric and arcane more effectively than even music or painting. It is a miracle really, to be able to speak, communicate, interact, articulate. Its God-given beauty in the most universal form, and trust me, it takes standing out in the darkness of expressive impotency and an absence of inspiration to be able to clearly make out the illuminative brilliances of others and think back on the past.

Now I've said all that, its going to take time to think things through, and wonder where to go from here on. Deep breath.

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