A Blog Post About Nothing
You got a problem wid dat?
kind of a nothing day
Which is bullshit. Every day is filled with interesting stuff. You need to slow down long enough to notice what’s going on. So much is going at any moment on any day you try to take it all in you can’t you’re brain will mash up like this sentence….
A sign will pop up on your frozen brain: head is not responding…wait? cancel?
I say nothing I mean I’m hanging at Joan’s pad on a saturday and it feels like nothing’s happening because this is like a retirement villa over here.
Nobody’s out there.
I’m in here.
So what?
Nothing. I’m just saying.
One of these days I’ll figure how to put ads on these posts. That’ll get the ball rolling. Plus I’ll make money. I’m not making any money. That’s what nothing is…
You’re not making any money.
Blogs that make money are the following:
- Digital marketing.
- Blogging and making money online.
- Health and fitness.
- Personal finance and investing.
- Recipes and food.
- Personal development and self-care.
- Travel
I don’t fit any of these categories.
What I have is a NOTHING BLOG.
Nobody wants to sell shit on a blog about NOTHING.
Because why?
BECAUSE NOTHINGNESS IS NOTHING!
Wait a minute…
Nothingness is NOT nothing.
Nothingness is a thing, according to this French Dude.
Not just any deadbeat nobody French Dude.
A French Dude who happened to be a big shot philosopher.
One of the biggest ever.
Jean Paul Sartre invented NOTHINGNESS.
Sartre “I am. I am, I exist, I think, therefore I am; I am because I think, why do I think? I don’t want to think any more, I am because I think that I don’t want to be, I think that I . . . because . . . ugh!” From his book NAUSEA.
This French Dude wrote another depressing book called BEING AND NOTHINGNESS. Depressing because it forces you to think…and thinking is a circle jerk.
They gave him the Nobel prize for it.
He turned it down!
I guess he didn’t need the money.
I just read where he tried to get the money later but was refused.
I guess he coulda used the money after all.
Nothingness is a thing
Sartre defined his invention.
nothingness: mind-dependent aspects of reality, such as values. freedom: ability to make choices for the future. facticity: those aspects of my being that are fixed about me, e.g. who my parents are or what i did yesterday. bad faith: ignoring what is true of myself – either that I am free or facts about me.
Philosophy Now
This what my blog is about!
About nothing!
Because Nothingness is a thing!
I’m so relieved
I thought I was a loser.
The only question is, how do I attract NOTHING ADS?
Now it’s just a matter of coaxing Expedia to PAY ME for running this ad on my blog!
Fat Chance…
A thought just occurred to me
My Blog is not just about Nothing.
It’s about Old Farts. Boomers.
Shit! How’d I forget that?
It’s the old Gloomer Boomer mind….shrinking.
Well, as Fernando Lamas liked to say, “I’d rather look good than feel good.”
My new hat!
And here’s a shout out to Stewart, one of our more brilliant Boomers.
Happy Birthday, Man!
Maybe keep it to one candle, eh?
3 thoughts on “A Blog Post About Nothing”
Upon Nothing
BY JOHN WILMOT EARL OF ROCHESTER
Nothing! thou elder brother even to Shade:
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,
When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;
Then all proceeded from the great united What.
Something, the general attribute of all,
Severed from thee, its sole original,
Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall;
Yet Something did thy mighty power command,
And from fruitful Emptiness’s hand
Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race,
By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,
And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.
With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;
Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine
To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line;
But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,
And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign,
And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.
Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,
And the divine alone with warrant pries
Into thy bosom, where truth in private lies,
Yet this of thee the wise may truly say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay,
And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative, how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,
Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies!
Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate,
And True or False, the subject of debate,
That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state—
When they have racked the politician’s breast,
Within thy Bosom most securely rest,
And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit
That sacred monarchs should at council sit
With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit,
While weighty Something modestly abstains
From princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains,
And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns?
Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguise
For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,
Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise:
French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,
Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,
Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee.
The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,
Kings’ promises, whores’ vows—towards thee may bend,
Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.
No Place
The island was a word he woke upon.
Split by birth in two: one side dark
And carved or caved into peninsulas.
The other, an extinct volcano, blown
Out, leaving a circle full of air.
The ground was nothing, but it was flat;
And by lying down things moved far away.
Hard beneath him, the island was a dot
He washed against, wishing he were drowned.
Gasping in the foam, coughing up
Other words, other islands, wreckage
Noisy and populous once, they crumbled
From his memory, no longer worked as word.
But this beach, once he got back his breath,
His way of seeing in the dark, was his
Alone. There were no Fridays in the sand.
No vapor trails overhead, no smoke-stacks
Floating through the island silence. Only
The sound of him, map in mouth, exploring
Back and forth, forging the black rock
And giving it a name: No, No, No
Stewart Lindh
(A last minute Father’s Day contribution on nothingnesss or le néant, depending on how you see it. Mu works, too.)
Arthur
Tobacco smoke came to shroud the window overlooking
The San Francisco you abandoned when your cat died
And you began opening bottle after bottle, Searching for a note that wasn’t there.
Evidence of a doomed expedition of one, you left everythin where it fell: bras, cock rings, and erect cocks
Entombed in sex ads.
What happened, Arthur to Arthur?
What happened to the man
Who learned Mandarin as a boy,
Resembled Claude Rains in his 50’s,
And whose laugh could charm a smile from a statue?
Why didn’t I see you receding inside a tunnel of days?
Why didn’t I wonder why you answered your phone
Only to hang up without a word?
How alone did you wish to be?
Long after my mother stopping going back up there,
I returned to your world:
Stepping out of the elevator to enter that place
You had pulled down over you like a shroud, the way terrified soldiers yanked their jackets over their heads at Little Big Horn when they saw hatchets approaching.
Even thought it was raining, I led you outside,
And when I saw your face in the daylight,
The you I knew was gone,
Leaving an ashen mask in its place.
“I’ve been coughing up salt water,” you whispered before asking to go back inside.
I telephoned your doctor to describe what I saw.
“Art’s fine,” he replied. “I checked him a few months ago,”
When I mentioned the salt water he was coughing up,
The doctor fell silent then said to bring you in.
Days later, the doctor telephoned to say the results were in:
“Inoperable lung cancer. It’s up to a higher power now.”
“You called in a specialist?” I asked
“Yes, God,” he replied,” he answered, without irony or explanation.
Today, on a rainy day Sausalito,
In a room I don’t want to leave,
I search for you the way I did that day
You vanished inside that hospital room.
I use my pen as an oar and this piece of paper as a raft,
To row out to the island of your memory,
To visit you along the beach,
If you will come down to meet me,
For I am not allowed ashore yet.
There you are,
Strolling from the elegant house on the hill,
Coming toward me
Younger than I have ever seen you;
Dressed in a dinner jacket
Whispering Chinese to swaying lanterns,
Igniting fireworks with your fingertips.
Oh, father the amazing place you have become.
Please wait for me are until I can wash ashore
Face down to know you better.
Stewart Lindh