Thing the First: A real factor in the maintenance of this website, (and people, please forgive me for getting all "meta" on you right now) is that too many of my fancy Hollywood friends who don't suffer fools gladly, and who are much sexier and cooler than I am, read it. As a result, I have the desire to curb my lameness to a reasonable level, and that cramps my style sometimes. I mean, if this were an entirely anonymous, (instead of just a quasi-anonymous) exercize that would be one thing... I could wax philosophical, publish my insufferable poetry, talk about cute boys and post pictures of my uber-cute dog! I could even belly-ache on and on about all my unrequited loves, and how I'm planning to die alone and be eaten by wild dogs (or rats, maybe, if I do it in New York City, as I fervently hope will be the case), and none of that would bother me or threaten my dignified pastiche, because none of my hip, urban compatriots would look at me funny later on in the full knowledge that I am extremely silly.
Or, to put this more seriously, writing a blog embarrasses me on an elemental level. The word "blog" embarrasses me. I have a real question about the value of this exercize. I mean, who in the heck cares what happened to me yesterday, what my friends are up to, or what the latest thought to cross my mind is? Having said that, I do enjoy reading the latest things to trip across the minds of lots of other blog-keepers... And, more embarrassing than any of that is this ostentatiously chatty navel-gazing that I'm doing right now. D'oh.
Thing the Second: Yeah, that Love Letter to Viggo the Magnificent's Art Book embarrassed me a day later. SO WHAT! So what if he's celebratedly handsome and speaks Danish! So what if he's playing my first-ever childhood heartthrob to particularly bewitching effect in the movies lately? Yeah, I love it when he goes on Charlie Rose having scrawled "No more blood for oil" on his t-shirt. What of it? So what if, that one time Mortensen was in the cafe around the corner from my house, I was forced to immediately vacate the premises in a desparate, last-ditch effort to call a halt to the complusive staring and prevent the potentially embarrassing need to call in the local fire-fighters. Forget all that! I'm too old to be retardedly besotted, and moreover, I'm a libido-less art-lover, and "objectivity" is my middle name. I live in Hollywood, and I'm sophisticated like that.
Or, as someone clever I know once said: "Blah, blah, blah. Look at me; I'm Jane."
In conclusion, let's just have a little word from T.S. Eliot. It's the kind of thing that simultaneously gives one hope, and crushes one's illusions, and it's been sitting on my shoulders for a good... oh... 20 years, or something:
"The bad poet is usually unconscious where he out to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him "personal." Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it's not an expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things."
~ From Tradition and the Individual Talent, 1920
That has some bearing on the dilemma, and if I think real hard, I'll probably figure out why. In the meantime, I fear this post may be even more embarrassing than the last one.