I am compelled to do this.
Twitter is facile and without point: I have not looked at my feed in ages and now go directly to the pages of a few individuals with interesting and challenging things to say.
Facebook is death: I am glad to have abandoned it and to have become as insufferable about it as those people who remind you constantly that they do not own a television. (Also, I do not own a TV.)
Instagram is pleasing like a sweet. I can be a teen-ager, posting the equivalent of an AIM away message but with photography of questionable composition tacked on.
I am too old for Snapchat. The interface is a mystery.
So I will write here. For myself. And despite blogging (forgive me for using the term) being dead.
I am inspired by Ann Althouse and Conrad Roth--by the former's fecundity and cruel neutrality, and by the latter's "Aesthetics with a Hammer" and his absence.
I have many ideas for what to write, but I will let it come. A review of David Gates's Jernigan. Thoughts on the bullshit termed "the Romantic Soul". Mahler's "Der Abscheid" as a farewell to the conventions of a rhythm.
Speaking of which, I have a dream where I am conducting Mahler's 8th and I fall dead with the final chord. I am outside my body and behind it at that moment. I see it (me?) fall, suddenly stiffened, to my right. Not slow motion, but real time. My arms having fallen to my sides. And I awaken before I hit the floor.
Twitter is facile and without point: I have not looked at my feed in ages and now go directly to the pages of a few individuals with interesting and challenging things to say.
Facebook is death: I am glad to have abandoned it and to have become as insufferable about it as those people who remind you constantly that they do not own a television. (Also, I do not own a TV.)
Instagram is pleasing like a sweet. I can be a teen-ager, posting the equivalent of an AIM away message but with photography of questionable composition tacked on.
I am too old for Snapchat. The interface is a mystery.
So I will write here. For myself. And despite blogging (forgive me for using the term) being dead.
I am inspired by Ann Althouse and Conrad Roth--by the former's fecundity and cruel neutrality, and by the latter's "Aesthetics with a Hammer" and his absence.
I have many ideas for what to write, but I will let it come. A review of David Gates's Jernigan. Thoughts on the bullshit termed "the Romantic Soul". Mahler's "Der Abscheid" as a farewell to the conventions of a rhythm.
Speaking of which, I have a dream where I am conducting Mahler's 8th and I fall dead with the final chord. I am outside my body and behind it at that moment. I see it (me?) fall, suddenly stiffened, to my right. Not slow motion, but real time. My arms having fallen to my sides. And I awaken before I hit the floor.
