vraie verite: the inside voice

there is a certain attitude that mistakes my own self, taking things such as "artifacts" which nick so aptly pointed out to be great revelations. those marks of human reproduction from the past seem elusive...and sometimes i forget this and fail to see the chaos in the exchange of information, searching for an absolute conclusion. hardy once wrote, "he's the man were in search of, that's true and yet he's not the man we were in search of. for the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted."

there is no end to artifacts, they flow almost automatically and naturally today with weblogs. what do we search for? surely not a "truth" of any sort. i would speculate it is more of a connection to an experience. we desire to read and relate, to participate in a physiological understanding that captures not just the mind but the entire body (should there be a distinction? once, many years before critics wanted to know what the writer's thought, what were their intentions. this is no longer the question of interest. it still remains a question but is best left unanswered in regards to blogs specifically. true, what is written will have to be, dare i say (you can tell, with hesitance), discerned. there will be no consistent form any longer as walter benjamin (for a quote and gloss, clickhere) might have argued today, we all must understand that there will be a counter-example to every possible example. but the i wonder what sort of difficult read of our generation this will create in the future with these "impressions"...these digital recordings will be lost once computers upgrade to something like an ultra personal computer if we haven't printed our writings onto something of material form, a "hard copy" of a sort. will there be a large gap in history, missing any sort of real passionate writing? only that which remains in the academic and public minds will be those professionaly published, dissected or marketed: essentially any tangible work (a film, a television series, letters, anthologies, essentially that which the publishing world takes seriously). again, i find myself taking this issue much to seriously. i am almost ashamed to find that when i desire to avert my focus from a matter, i come back twice as serious. possibly it is my desire to be taken seriously, so i'll present myself seriously. but this is illogical--vraie verite or true truth found in the expression of the soul will not bring me closer to any sort of arguable truth, this is too romantic. possibly i meet myself where the critic and the artist cross paths and this tension, if it truly exists, is exhausted from reality and would rather ponder the abstract?