Long, Chaotic Conversations

I've been commenting on blog threads recently. Long comments, as is my wont.

And, Yes! I will too blog about blogging!!!

I will begin my blog by blogging about blogging!

"I'm a loner, Dotty -- a rebel."

There have been some days when this constant comment has proven the most perfect and delightful distraction for me. Others, when it has been the hair shirt I wore, complete with a lining of irate bees.

Regardless of tone and timbre, there is something in these long, chaotic conversations that fascinates me.

Comments cross-posted that ask and answer the same or different questions, creating conversational vortexes of their own.

Dialogue gone violently askew in the maelstrom of lagging ISP connections, moderation queues, and server errors.

Words dangling in limbo, divorced from the fingers that typed them, with no softening vocal inflection or quirk of eyebrow to modify their spirits-- only lone smileys and valiant punctuation marks, bravely attempting to nuance meaning.

"Why do I do it?" I sometimes wonder.

I have concurrent and paradoxical beliefs that what I type may matter immensely, and that what I type is simply another bit of throwaway byted-ness in the Abyss.

I simultaneously long for someone -- anyone -- to throw me a bone ("Good point, PortlyDyke!") and for everyone to leave me in my blissful anonymity (". . . .*the sound of silence* . . . ").

I try to wait until a comment is boiling up within me before I comment, and to say something really "meaningful", but sometimes my "wit" (yeah, right) demons intervene, possessing my hands with a fearsome energy that compels me to toss off some clueless bon-mot -- which I invariably regret.

I try to resist trolls while holding a compassionate mind-set that the person writing might simply be a) uneducated on the issue, b) a poor typist, c) dyslexic, d) tired/drunk/cranky, or e) all of the above.

Then, a certain sun rises, and I get a case of the Fuck-Its! for the entire day -- for no discernible reason -- I blast lightning from the tips of my fingers, and shoot sparks out my ass.

I have no idea what exact quality that particular sun emits. I have no way of predicting its comings or goings, or of parsing its plasma and flares.

Blogo-sphere! Quake and Be Still! Teh Portly Dyke Has Arrived and Shall Thunder Her Mightiness Upon Your Comments!

Or . . . not.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 2:15 PM  


Brave Sir Robin said... June 13, 2007 at 10:32 AM  

Welcome to the Tubes!!

Great to have you!

PortlyDyke said... June 13, 2007 at 10:37 AM  

Thankee, brave sir!

May your limbs never be hacked or mangled.

Moira said... June 13, 2007 at 10:58 AM  

*laughs* Wonderous. Is this meta-meta-meta-blogging yet?

Whatever it is, blog about whatever you damn well please. That's the point of having your very own personal soapbox. I'll be reading. :)

Phydeaux Speaks said... June 13, 2007 at 11:00 AM  

Dammit! Yet another place that I must - must, I tell ye! - visit on a daily basis! (insert smiley here)

Much better first post than mine (which was, "Hello, World.")

I, for one, enjoy your comments (and I do believe I have said so - but maybe that was just to my kitties and not on screen).

Anyway, "have at 'em!", welcome, and all that shite!!!!

Off to update my blogroll (dammit).....

Gender Blank said... June 13, 2007 at 11:27 AM  

I've added you to my daily reader. Gotta support a fellow portly dyke! :)

Capn Dyke said... June 24, 2007 at 8:27 PM  

Well held, PD. Th' Cap'n likes fearless women who blast lightnin' from th'tips o'their fingers (how horribly thrillin') an' shoot sparks out o'their ass (not quite so thrillin', but what a picture in Me Mind).

Ye've been put aboard Ship. Carry on...

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