The idea of a blog – that claustrophobic space in the World Wide Web that belongs to one theme, one topic, one owner, one set of appropriate keywords – is a repulsive, ridiculous idea for a 21st century schizoid (wo)man. If you are a bubbly bumble bee expert, it may work out fine for you, but for someone like me, who gets any work done by switching modes/moods every 5 minutes (shoes, postmodernism philosophy, sex toys, make up tutorial, theatre review, Weltschmerz, shoes), it is an equivalent to literary hara-kiri. What is a hormonally disturbed woman like me to do when, if I say, I start a blog on men or dating or any other science fiction topic, I know I will write articles like ‘5 ways to a perfect b-job’ half the month and unintelligible gibberish like ‘just bite it off, bitch’ the rest of the month? Where is consistency in that? What are the right keywords: ‘men suck’ or ‘men rule’?
What if I am ‘actively interested’, as some copywriters like to put it, in deep breathing meditation, step aerobics, binge eating and traditional Indian fasting all at the same time? What if I am actively practicing these all at the same time? Am I supposed to open a blog for hungry Sveta, horny Sveta, humble Sveta, hissy Sveta? Not only do they have to be about THE SAME THING but they also need to be in the same STYLE. And what about my BRAAAAAND (pukes all over the screen)? Is it angel with the children, bitch with the bitches, whore in the bedroom, academic behind the lectern? How many Svetas can the world take, really? I have three at the moment: one for Sveta the writer, one for Sveta eating in Minsk, one for Sveta eating all of Minsk by night. I have three coming up. Does it make any sense to anyone? Does the happy healthy human being wear many masks? Or is it allowed a single label everyone can recognize?
If you think I am exaggerating, look at Twitter, the mini mini blog, with mini separate accounts obligatory for mini aspects of the Self. There is no space for lengthy explanations, no time to analyse, to question, to be serious (serious, I say? Nah, it’s just Mr. Chomsky getting worried again); there is only the magic number of letters to count, and just when you start getting to the point of defining who you are, you are running out of characters.
Pun intended.
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