johnny9fingers (
johnny9fingers) wrote2019-08-02 07:21 am
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The point of my blog...
Given I no longer have the sort of readership/interaction with other bloggers I had in the Golden and Silver ages of blogging, what keeps me doing this? In the old days, on LJ, folk participated in communities, and wrote and pasted pics or vids; but they wrote. Now folk blog on facebook and youtube with vids and cams, and interact through twitter. I miss the writing, however. And I am not on FB for reasons of identity. I refuse to give FB my birth name; I have been Johnny Ninefingers on the net for almost 20 years - we can thank my youthful penchant for far playing too many notes giving me the appellation of one too many fingers... there may have been some implication of too many fingers actually tripping over each other.
Oh well. Some habits die so hard.
Some of my non-musical chums knew me of old and still occasionally address me with my birth name on here, when they pop in to say "Hi"; but that is rare these days, and mostly happens on the LiveJournal crossposting; because LJ was where we all were to begin with.
I'm Johnny Ninefingers on The Gear Page. On Google. On Youtube etc and etc. But that's ok, as FaceBook won't be collecting or collating my data and sending it on to Cambridge Analytica.
The DreamWidth exiles... well we are trying, sporadically. And there are some interesting new folk I've met in this haven for the LJ diaspora too; folk who can write. And moreover who can express their personalities through their writing. Sometimes I wonder if I over-cultivate idiomatic repetition to emphasise personality traits. I know I love beginning sentences with a but or an and. And I think that says something about me.
So, can we diagnose ourselves through literary criticism? And should we want to? Metasolipsism writ large. (I'm pleased with both the coinage and the conceit, btw.)
Oh well. Some habits die so hard.
Some of my non-musical chums knew me of old and still occasionally address me with my birth name on here, when they pop in to say "Hi"; but that is rare these days, and mostly happens on the LiveJournal crossposting; because LJ was where we all were to begin with.
I'm Johnny Ninefingers on The Gear Page. On Google. On Youtube etc and etc. But that's ok, as FaceBook won't be collecting or collating my data and sending it on to Cambridge Analytica.
The DreamWidth exiles... well we are trying, sporadically. And there are some interesting new folk I've met in this haven for the LJ diaspora too; folk who can write. And moreover who can express their personalities through their writing. Sometimes I wonder if I over-cultivate idiomatic repetition to emphasise personality traits. I know I love beginning sentences with a but or an and. And I think that says something about me.
So, can we diagnose ourselves through literary criticism? And should we want to? Metasolipsism writ large. (I'm pleased with both the coinage and the conceit, btw.)
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Did you like Iain M Banks “Culture” novels? I assume you’ve read widely in the genre. The Culture is one of the few literary conceits I’d be happy to live in, along with: Wooster’s world, and Jasper fforde’s literary meta fictional world. Austen’s world is too close to the shit and death of the late C18th - no thank you, thank you very much.
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Have not read Iain M Banks. Traded science fiction for detective novels in terms of light reading about 20 years ago.
Did you ever read Marge Piercy's Woman on the Edge of Time? Piercy is kind of an annoying writer whom every aspiring feminist of my vintage was forced to read. I don't think anyone reads her now. But the utopian future in Woman on the Edge of Time was one I wouldn't mind living in: All cultural, ethnic, religious, gender etcetera differences celebrated (with love!) as a kind of cosplay but nothing more.
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BTW the ex GF is now a professor somewhere in the vast university network of the US. I hope her political opinions have become more nuanced with time; and I hope she imparts any gentling wisdom to her protégées too.
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I now regard it as an important novel of an unfortunately prescient kind.