The Blogger’s Art

This is a Log that jumps around and is intermittently delayed like the route 174 that passes through Rancho Boyeros Avenue. If you want to ride on this bus and go with it along the tangled way that each post must take before it arrives online, then let’s go. I warn you that all the twists and turns can make you dizzy so shout if you want me to open the door, if you want to get off, if there is no one who wants to make the trip. That’s what I said.

Let’s start by defining why it moves, or why I post. What is the reason I use my energies and resources to write these “disenchanted vignettes of reality”? I tried silence and evasion but they had no result. (I did yoga, practiced Tai Chi and even went to the gym, but nothing.) Nor did the helpful advice of friends, always calling for caution and waiting, do me any good.

Don’t believe, however, that I have been inspired by noble motives. It was, I confess in reality, an exercise in cowardice. Each new post lets off some of the pressure building inside me and each explosion is a form of compromise. So the kilobytes must bear my civic impotence, my few possibilities, in real life, of having a say in all this.

While you travel at the frantic pace of DSL and cable Internet, I move at the speed of the bus that connects to La Víbora at Línea and G. Each post depends on a countless chain of events that normally don’t go well. From my isolated PC to a flash memory and then to the public space of a cybercafé or a hotel. For this, without detailing all the complications, the elevator does not work, the gatekeeper asks me to show my passport to sit at the computer, or there are frustrations to sign on, plus the slow-speeds imposed by proxies, filters and keylogger.

As a typical example of this generation of Y’s, I get discouraged from the starting blocks. I alternate between “It‘s working!” to “It’s not worth the pain.” So there’s no need to panic if on a nice day you encounter here one of the little signs that says, “Closed for repairs,” “We’re taking inventory,” or “Change of shift.” And don’t be surprised if the catharsis raises the tone, if I set myself on fire, or if I hit a vein of pessimism.

For the moment, I am still here, posting and surviving or, even better, surviving because I post.

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