"Ladies and gentlemen,
here's my disease.
Give me a standing ovation
and your sympathy"

Poor old Johnny Yen,
Set himself on fire again.

So I was thinking tonight about this whole online diary thing. And I remembered a conversation I had with a friend recently, where she expressed that she didn't want to be one of those people who defined themselves by how fucked up they are.

See the gene-genie
on his highwire act,
at the back of his mind
lies a suicide pact.

Poor old Johnny Yen,
Set himself on fire again.

The conversation occurred after we'd both already started diaries here, but she wasn't just talking about here. She was talking about life. Between us, we know far too many people whose only idea of self comes from a bizarre fun-house mirror - either the view through depression, or the misguided notion that you only exist as other people perceive you. The idea of self on its own instead of reflected that way seems to have gotten lost somewhere for a lot of people.

See the young men itching to burn
Waiting for their own star turn
Needing danger, a war would do
If they can't let it out, they'll pick on you.

Poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again, on fire again
Poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again

So tonight I surfed through the ever-increasing list of diaries I read online and, well, I was given pause. This diary thing, at least in the case of the diaries I read online, isn't limited to people who define themselves by how fucked up they are. I guess there are plenty of diarists out there who do define themselves that way, but of course I don't read those diaries. At the same time, however, there's something disquieting about the idea of a public diary as a writing exercise.

See Houdini in his underwater tricks,
you were sitting at the front hoping his locks would stick.
Watch Knievel hit the seventeenth bus,
you got crushed in the souvenir rush.

Poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again
I said, poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again

I mean, that's why I'm here. I don't have a counter on here, I have received no email from people who randomly found my diary or who were referred to it by someone else. My argument for this endeavor was that it made me get out my words, put something down [the on paper is implied here, I guess maybe on phosphors is what I'm looking for] and not delete it immediately, have a vehicle for expression on the days when I have something to say and nowhere else to say it. I'm not here for any validation, I'm not looking for comment from random strangers (although the friends who know this diary is here comment on it in private). At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

See the young men itching to burn
Waiting for their own star turn
Needing danger, a war would do
if they can't let it out they'll pick on you

Poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again, on fire again
I said, poor old Johnny Yen
Set himself on fire again

But what the hell? There is some excellent writing going on out there. Don't all these online diarists have another venue that's a little less, I dunno, feedback-loopish? This is a freakish sort of exhibitionism for people who otherwise seem perfectly well adjusted to their lives and how they fit in them. In one sense I can see how this is actually a very healthy writing exercise since you're writing in your truest voice here (one would hope) and you have to be able to master that before you can write in any other voice. But at the same time you're laying your heart on quite a bit of a public sleeve. It's a little sick, don't you think?

Ladies and gentlemen, here's my disease. Give me a standing ovation and your sympathy.

This meta moment brought to you by Fedward. Lyrics by James, ©1986, used without permission.

link (2000-04-26)