Online journals are kind of an oxymoron. Or maybe just the name is an oxymoron. I keep a journal, of sorts - more of a stream of consciousness written work that I do (or at least used to do, before I became a fat lazy Chinese bastard) - that I wouldn't show my evil twin from Dimension X, much less the public. Well, in all fairness, there are a goodly number of things I wouldn't show my evil twin from Dimension X, because in due nature of science fiction he would be plotting my downfall in the most humiliating way possible. It would probably involve gallons of pig blood during the high school prom and force me to unleash the full unbridled might of my psychokinetic powers upon my shallow, derisive classmates. Flee, pitiful doomed mortals! Flee and cower before your doom!
It occurs to me now that a) I'm more likely the evil twin and b) red wine makes me psychotic. As I was saying - I often can't quite decide my mode of communication when writing in an online journal. Part of me believes that nobody reads this crap, and that part is clearly in denial because I can glance to my left and see that my random scribblings have drawn the attention of at least 83 people (or one person 83 times, or some combination thereof). Another part of me believes that I'm writing to an audience that will never actually read what I'm writing, and thus I adopt a certain abstract narrative mode. My audience becomes my ideal listener and takes the form of a bearded old English gentlemen in a very well tailored grey suit and wire-rimmed glasses. He looks terribly interested in whatever I have to say, nods every once in a while, and occasionally says, "Hmmmm..." in a very thoughtful way. While I wouldn't, say, go into perverse sexual fantasies for this gentlemen (how shocking!), I might be willing to share my childhood traumas and complicated relationship with my family.
And part of me just wants to spill, and superego has to slap him upside the head before the deep, dark reaches of my soul gets slopped onto a computer screen.
I digress at this point to say that the journal thingy I used to do is actually called "Morning Pages," if you're familiar with the works of Julia Cameron and her fantastic book "The Right to Write." She is a wonderful writer, Morning Pages are great, and I like banana pudding. The world is a fabulous place, or roughly 5% of its surface area contains fabulous places, and the rest are alternately dens of hedonism, misery, and despair. Humans are some silly bitches.
It is also possible, I find, to switch modes in the middle of writing a particularly long piece. This is especially true when I've consumed a concoction made from fermented grape juice in possibly unwise quantities. For the record, 2004 Fairvalley Pinotage reminds me of mashed paper and vodka. Being a sugar nut, however, might color my perception a bit.
ANYWAY, yes, switching modes in the middle of writing. It creates distinct voices within a given piece of work. Kind of like stitching together a quilt using several different materials, some of which aren't appropriate to quilts at all. Asbestos, kitten's paws, and radium come to mind. While it creates an interesting texture, the resulting furry, radioactive, and carcinogenic hodge-podge inevitably causes a catastrophic breakdown in reader comprehension. The entertainment value may, however, appreciate nicely and make up for the loss of coherence and value.
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