This blog is a direct result of having read Wegg's pillowbook. I ended up there by chance, but found myseln(tm) returning each week in anticipation of her next adventure. Technically erotica, her stories were,
for me at least, brilliant social commentry and insightful humour at the expense of this unfortunate, and ultimately doomed, species we call the human race.
Finding all of her posts missing from the interweb at the begining of this week was tragic in a way I was totally unprepared for. It was like using a cliche I'd always regret. I mean really... how-freakin'-weird? The fact that others (like librarianseeker, jarl, the fat controller & babydoll to name a few) obviously felt a similar sense of loss at Wegg's disappearance left me wondering just what the nature of blogging was.
Is it art? This connection with a complete stranger that seems to take place. Is it the beautiful sadness of a person laid bare? Is it the voyeur in all of us, peering in through a window at night, trying to make sense of our own lives in the reflection of someone elses? Is it bad poetry and personal ontology in a desperate bid for sincerity?
Who knows.
It is, however, definitely novel for me to feel somehow connected to someone I have never even interacted with let alone met. I mean, I grew up in the burb's *ffs*, where isolation seems to happen in the space of a figurative sardine can.
Ok.
Wegg's stories were pretty damn hot too...
I was just thinking that there is such a fine line between sincerity and insipidness, when it occurred to me that that's why I freakin' hate hippies. They continually cross it and turn a valid point into something vapid. The left is it's own worst enemy.
