| September'99 | . |
This Journal |
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So This Journal just keeps chugging along, right on into the top of its third month. It appears that I have not lost my audience, but I'm not sure that it has grown any. So be it. I cast it out upon the waters. I can only guess at its value for you, dear reader. For myself, it is priceless. I get to extend my brain out into a space both larger and smaller than I can imagine. I get to construct and deconstruct and reconstruct myself through the language I've been given. I get to pretend that some part of me can be known more clearly in the glow of this tiny screen. I get a daily challenge to fill a space, to write something. And I get a potential, a possible, audience with very tiny hands to clap me through tomorrow. Negotiating an identity online can be tricky for new guys like myself. (The platitude about just being yourself probably works as well online as off.) At first it seemed so simple: just get a web site and let 'er rip. But as I began connecting with people I had to determine how much info I would be divulging. I'd heard the horror tales of stolen identities. I don't doubt that it could happen to me; but it provokes a crisis, like having to decide how many fences, alarms, or locks one wants to live behind. I'm not about to post my credit card or social security numbers, but other questions come to mind. How much should I say about my family and friends? To what degree do I name names? Do I need a lawyer yet? Can I resist the temptation to use my web site as a vehicle of revenge against the very very few thoroughly unpleasant people in my life? What can I believe about people I only know online and nowhere else? One early web encounter opened my eyes to its potential for human connection. A fellow named Rik visited my site, felt some congenial vibe from what I'd written, and e-mailed me to say hello. He seemed then (and remains today) authentically interested in my little world. His letters from the start have been unguarded and generous, encouraging and supportive (especially during my professional and personal upheavals of this past spring and summer). Here was a near-total stranger helping me over a few bumps in the road, even to the point of recommending brown paper bags for the transportation of books and helping me figure out how to backup The Closet. He turns out to be not only a decent human being but quite a decent poet as well. Maybe you could read some of his stuff. Another revelation is the AOL Instant Message thing. Jeff got me started at the beginning of the summer, and it's safe to say that I've become something of an IM madman. Very late one night (or early morning) I got an IM from a complete stranger asking if I would proofread an essay. Shortly after that, another anonymous student popped on to ask if I could help him/her come up with a topic for a paper on Henry IV, Part 1. I guess I managed to pull it off somehow, but I couldn't figure where these folks were getting my screen name. And then the light went on. I had identified myself as an English teacher in my AOL Profile. These kids had done a search for "English teacher" and...voila! These haven't been too disruptive, and I've learned some tricks in the process. As far as This Journal is concerned, I'm slowly growing a sense of who I may be here. But, of course, it is just me - Tom or Br. Tom, that bald guy with the cat. I present myself here with the same neurotic hide-and-seek I play in life. It's a hoot, I must admit. I hope this month's design works for you. Despite my presbyopia, I've chosen a fairly small font size. If it's impossible for your eyes, please let me know and I'll try to fix it. I like the triple-table-Mondrian-thing going on, which you probably can't see. I continue to be inspired and baffled by the design I find on other sites, especially Steve's at Misanthrope.org. Take a look for yourself, and pause to read some of his continually interesting journal. |
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The need to express oneself in writing springs from
a maladjustment to life, or from an inner conflict which the
adolescent (or the grown man) cannot resolve in action. Those
to whom action comes as easily as breathing rarely feel the need
to break loose from the real, to rise above, and describe it.
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