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version seven. http://demongin.org |
I Gather the Limbs of Osiris
Wide-ranging ruminations on the colorscheme of demongin.org.
Sunday, 2004-09-05 | Classic Gin, demongin.org, The Limbs of Osiris
I've marveled at semiotic implications once or twice before now--I just haven't said anything. You might find it marvelous, as I did just moments ago, that whenever I tap the happy little 'home' icon that I've allowed to remain in the garishly stark toolbar of my personal copy of Microsoft's Internet Explorer, the happy muted pastels of the consumer-friendly internet evaporate and I'm back to the old, familiar pitch and ash--back to DemonGin.org, my homepage--and I'm also back home.
If you've ever heard it told that a man's room is the closest thing to the manifestation of his mind or--even better--if you believe in that particular axiom, then you're already laughing along with me as I'm tickled almost to death at how that peculiar dictum implies this or that about me based on the choices that I've made with respect to the color-scheme of this weblog. What we've learned as a society from George Carlin's seminal musings on possessions and the state of the human condition circa America 19xx, A Place for my Stuff, also seems to suggest that this might all be a desperate cry for help.
If it is the case that, as Carlin argues to great comic effect, a man's things are really all that he is worth to the world and his home is merely a place for his things and, as the adage goes, it is the case that his room is the manifestation of his mind and, as I've been implying, it's the case that his weblog is like his room in that it is a reflection of his sensibilities, tastes and, indeed, his very humanity, then what must a weblog like this say about me?
I'm actually such a swell motherfucker that I'm going to go ahead and untangle all of those dependent clauses for you. Here goes: If what I'm saying is true, then my sensibilities, tastes and humanity are metaphorically manifest on this weblog just as they are literally manifest in my room. If Carlin is right and my room, the manifestation of myself, is just a place for my stuff and my stuff is all that the rest of the unthinking, unfeeling entity called 'the world' takes into consideration when appraising my existence, then the world must judge my character on the basis of the aesthetic choices I made way back when I put this whole weblog together.
An atramentous firmament punctuated by hundreds of errant gunmetal stars is what I've got to weigh against the gossamer Feather of Maat when Anubis comes to hold the scales before me. If you remember sixth grade history class as well as I do, you've already remembered that it's not the weight of a man's heart against the weight of the hearts of other men, but rather, it's the weight of his heart against the nearly weightless feather that determines his worth.
Put another way: how does my black and gray weblog--replete with an ongoing chronicle of personal tragedies, mewling, self-aware language and dire proclamations of an intensely private nature--measure against a given normative standard?
Has this ever been any good?
