Blogging is for the wandering ones. For those who instinctively lean towards the activity the French call flaner: walk around, float, wander, disperse. It is about letting go of your inner discipline, about substituting something for everything, for the unexpected discoveries and rare echoes, for the misty strength of total, absolute, concrete virtuality.
Why am I doing this? To educate myself, to form myself, to see the world, to share it. But why am I doing this? Where from? Out of what, what need, what rush, what drive? Some strange urge to run away, to hide away so that one becomes visible, to keep the artistic discovery for myself- to share it in a hidden (illicit?) way. Obviously, way too obviously, not to be alone. To find ground somewhere else, to know what sort of (artistic?) world I'm living in. Not to be afraid of what happens. To participate in it. Or: to feel myself participate in it. Take a shortcut. Maybe. Take the long way. Possibly. Write, express, yes, whatever. But beyond the obvious. To draw out my world. To myself, to the present posterity (those who will have known me). Why is it better here than elsewhere? Recognition. To re-cognize - to think again, to find out once more. To confirm the presence through thinking. And, since art is a myth, the confirmation seems welcome. And unfair: didn't I want the myth instead of its confirmation?