04 February 2008

We interrupt this programme

I have been mindlessly writing in this thing (or variations thereof) for about five or six years now. It’s only been within the last year that the anonymity afforded me by a pseudonym was most likely breached by a family member or two (or three). Hence the new address.

But last night, after finding a suspiciously familiar IP address from Shaw that I can’t account for, I got to thinking that maybe my mother knows how to find things online by putting search terms into a browser after all.

I know! Where on earth do parents learn these things? It must be the other, more technologically-advanced parents who shoot their mouths off in the remote aisles of Safeway where our parents can overhear, because I sure as hell didn’t teach her that!

This got me thinking about the other people in my life I’d rather not invite backstage, where all the drama actually takes place. Which once more delivered me into the arms of an age-old dilemma belonging exclusively to private people who write personal information on a publicly accessible space: what am I doing this for?

The obvious answer is: I enjoy writing here. Coming here and posting something - anything at all - makes me feel as though I own a little piece of my day, which otherwise belongs to a job that is pretty intent on destroying my spirit. I do this job willingly (gladly, even) because I know that in the long run, it will help me to achieve some of the things we are very intent on achieving this year. This is a choice I’ve made, and I’m not going to complain about it (much) (overly much).

No, my real issue is with the people who come here to siphon off that last little sip of bliss in an eight-hour grind with their long-reaching straws so they can call me up out of the blue to find out if I’m still planning to move to Vancouver, mother.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But until I know who that Shaw address belongs to (and I hope you’ll just come right out and tell me that I’m off my rocker, Shaw), I’m not going to write a single word more - in this journal or any others.

I enjoy the spontaneity that online writing lends someone as fearful of literary permanency as me, but not to the extent that I could pull down the sheet and expose the real hands of this shadow-puppetry I endeavour to make for a modest audience of (I’m hoping) close friends and perfect strangers.

Expanding my soapbox any further than this makes me cringe, for a variety of reasons I’m sure I could work out with a therapist. But I’m hoping I won’t have to. C’mon Shaw, who are you?

1 comment:

stuart said...

You need to write a series of increasibly outrageous lies and see who says "I'm so sorry to hear your legs were chewed off by beavers. Maybe you can spend your million-pound lottery win on robotic octopus tentacles, like you discussed." That's surely far better than stopping the blogging.