9/24/97 - At Home in the Ethereal Void. I was reading Alexis's Meta, Baby today, the fifty-fifth one. That woman is going to look back in twenty years and wonder how the Hell she managed to write so much. ;) And she'll of course write about THAT certain experience too. 115 subscribers. Perspective is a funny thing. I think there are seven people who know about this .plan out there. Or who have, at some point, remembered it. I think only two of those people really care about what goes on here, but I of course counted myself and the other person is rather obvious. It's going to be different, selling myself. I'll be doing it a lot at some point. Right now, I am afforded the luxury of education, which grants one some leeway to do what he really wants instead of what makes him the most money and fame. I'll have to compromise when I'm vulnerable, before I work my way up the ranks. It'll be a real bitch. Because I have a problem getting motivated for things I don't like. Sure, that's the same for everyone, you think. But the difference is that I can do anything I set my mind to. That's not idealism. I KNOW that as a fact. Even the worst job I did on a project would be better than many others' projects. I don't do any publicizing right now. I don't talk to many people, so I don't get my name known and my site pushed out among other places. That's hurt my success. I really don't feel like I fit on the Web. I think I do a Hell of a good job creating for it, and pushing the meaning behind the Web, but everything about the Web pushes me away and alienates me, as if I were some creature created by a fictional Genevan's hands. I mean, I'm there, somewhere. The site is active and I contribute regularly to the 'Net in different ways. But I can't quite define a place I hold on the hierarchy. I've no name for myself here and I care little for the names others have made for themselves. What I do, then, has no roots. I don't have a basis or a groundwork from which my ideas come from. Some people stress family, or upbringing, or hometown, or friends online, or something of that nature. I have no solid ground here. Anywhere, really. Not in real life. Not online. As good as I can get is my parents' home, or my domain name, or my driver's license. I am transient and fluid, flexible and shifty. All that keeps me together is Anna. She is fixed in my life, and you may tire of me referring back to her over and over, but you know, without her, I would have very, very little. Painfully little. She is my basis. She provides me what I need. She provides the emotional support I require. And I don't realize always how much I need it. Because I have little identity, in the eyes of others, which does have much importance, no matter how hard one will deny it. If I were to disappear from the Web, a handful of people would notice. If I were to disappear from the university, few would care. And so on and so forth. This is not an expression of suicide at all. I suppose I yearn for anonymity, and I am dealing with its consequences, as I do also yearn for the carefree fame one can garner in these days, where all it takes is one stroke of work to be recognized and paid sound sums of money and exposure for it. And I suppose it nicks at one's conscience when some schmuck who has no frigging clue what he's doing is getting more press than other, more hard-working people. Hey, I'm not saying that I deserve to be crowned the Best of the Best. Please don't interpret it that way. I admit that what I do only fascinates me and those close to me. I admit that what I do isn't always well-done in the least. I admit that I don't have the info and content that you need to get exposure on the 'Net (not just the Web). But fuck, have you seen the people who are scoring off the trash they complete? Case in point: Vivarin's contest. Further my alienation, will you? . . . c o m |-. ,-. ,-. |- . . ,-. ,-. ,-. ,-. | | |-' | | | | | | | | |-' | `-' `-' ' ' `' `-' ' ' ' `-' '