David over on Dadpoet asked an interesting question in a post a few days ago. Why do I blog, at all? The immediate answer, the one that comes out unreflected, is that I’ve been writing a journal since primary school, and this blog is just a continuation of that.

The difference is, of course, that I censor myself a lot more here on the blog than I do in the journal. The very private things go into the binders, and don’t go up here. I don’t write about all the little things that happen in a day, and that shape our lives together to build what we have.

I suppose that it does grow boring, and repetitive, and there’s just so much I could say without going in circles, but then we’re back to the why of journaling thing.

I write the journal for the most private things, the things I don’t want anyone to see, and I write this blog for the things I think about, and which I like to hear back about.

The journals are so much dead wood, silent words, hidden away behind a lock and a glass door for nobody but me to ever see. While this blog presents a very skewed image of me, one without all the other facets of me, of us two, the original hand-written one doesn’t talk back to me. I suppose this blog is where I pretend to be this really mature type that live by the intellect and the word, and where I pretend that I don’t censor all the normal silly shit that goes on in my life, or in the life of anyone my age.

Aside from the censorship, the difference between my private journal and this blog is that one has an audience, and the other one does not. Sometimes the audience makes all the difference, because the feedback prompts me to think anew about something.

That’s the immediate answer. The not so cool, and maybe a bit embarrassing answer is, maybe because I’m pleased about the attention? If it was all about truth and honesty and reporting and intellectual interrogation, then my journal would be the thing, wouldn’t it, because my journal sees all of me, while this blog by necessity only sees a very narrow spectrum.

Censorship is not bad because it hides things. Censorship is bad because it is fundamentally dishonest. It purports to hide that which is negative, and which would be illustrative for the viewer. Censorship by its nature attempts to portray a lie. So, now that I’ve admitted to being very careful what I write about, does that not undermine the authenticity of everything that I write here?

Maybe what drives me to put up these very public posts are not so much a drive for advice or feedback or even social interaction in a medium that I consider myself quite adept at – writing – but maybe it’s a bit more narcissistic than that? Maybe I’m not so different from everyone else at my age in that I only do this in order to get attention I don’t normally get.


I am trying to understand why I sometime have no sense and no forward projectional ability, and why I sometimes have this sense that things will be all right even though every indicator screams that I am putting myself up for serious and terrible abuse. I think there is something wrong with me.

Today in school we had a ‘sports day’. What that means is that normal classes are shelved, and we were all hounded outside where it was freezing and rainy and cold. For the last two years Ben has suggested that I should try out Rugby, and to be fair he hasn’t been very persistent – until two days ago when we had to sign up for the sport we wanted to try out.

I’m a running man, not a muscle hunk. Mark is the muscle in our relationship, and since he also has the brains of the pair, I don’t spend too much time thinking about where I fit into that. But since I am a runner, not a fighter, I should not sign up for a sport like Rugby where the entirely predictable thing happened.

Me, in a pile, at the bottom, with ten incredibly fit hunks on top of me. It only looks cool and interesting when you sit up in the gallery and watch it from a safe distance. When your nose is pressed into the freezing mud on the field, with five knees pressing into unspeakable nooks and crannies of the body, and when it feels like every last breath is being squeezed out, and when every last drop of freezing water on the field is sponged up into your track pants and shirt, then you realise that the lack of ability to predict these entirely predictable outcomes is a character flaw.

I have now limped off field, and I have washed off about ten pounds of mud just from my hair alone, and I have escaped back to the safety and security of books and pamphlets in the library. Ah, this is my world. Let the hunks and sports junkies have their cold earth, frozen clothes, and their pointy knees.

I think I will hide here until the day is over, and I will have to moan and whimper extra loud so that people believe that it is my body that is injured instead of my stupid pride. All I need now is a large mug of tea, but we’re forbidden from eating and drinking in here.


Mum and Auntie are coming home this evening, and if my body has healed enough, we will be going over there for more eating.

Tomorrow is the big day, and the whole family will gather at a restaurant here in town. Mum, dad, auntie, and Mark’s parents, as well as us two. When that is over, my friends are dragging me out to the pub for the secondary celebrations where they will spend a few hours humiliating me, and getting me incredibly and unfashionably drunk.