Down the Stream of Consciousness Without an Oar

by The Witless Wonder

I thought I had so much to say. I thought I had *something* to say. I thought I had something to think. I think that I have nothing to write. I’m right that I have nothing to think. I write that I have nothing to think. I sit here creating a page of drivel for the sake of no longer staring at an empty page.

I infect, spewing forth a stream from my unenviable consciousness; a geyser bursting forth with mental impotence for the world to see, laugh at, pity, then discard, just like all the other gen-x, dime-a-dozen, adolescent angst-ridden tripe that litters the media in all its multifaceted glory.

I guess it’s a common affliction amongst those that think they are intelligent, witty and interesting. We recline in our malleable, modular, munificent ikea chairs like modern (high school) high council elders, passing judgement upon the less wise, the less learned, the less fortunate, which, inevitably, is everyone and everything. Still, we proceed, our vision obstructed by inflated egos, our imitation obscured by a reflexive disregard for all things popular, for anything obvious. We survive in harmless pockets of disillusionment, happily secluded from the infinitely offending, indeterminately offensive, unavoidably perceptive ignorant masses. This separation of truth and fantasy was a happy equilibrium, a delicate balance on the fulcrum of societal sensibilities. That is, until the internet came along.

It is clear that we make grandiose motions of creative pioneering upon well-trodden ground. Nothing that’s said is new. Everything is recycled – a regurgitated mess of MTV mass-culture, parrotted philosophical pseudo-authority, and trendy newsbytes – meandering, tangential, repetitive, recurring, redundant rubbish, and for added arrogance, alliterations aplenty. A relaxing cruise on the information superhighway is the only requirement to come to the sudden realisation that there’s no original content, medium or mode of expression. It’s all been done. Like the rest, we drone. Like the rest, we *are drones. Of course, the internet does provide an excellent opportunity for egotistical, condescending, stuck up brats to go toe to toe with brutish, stubborn, foul-mouthed neanderthals — to test their mettle, so to speak. It is natural for confrontation to result, but unfortunately, as a high intellectual, you can never win this combat of “wits”. Now, your typical smartly dressed, smart-mouthed smart-ass will pursue one of two strategies:

a) launch a highbrow affront which will wholly and unequivocally soar unscathed over the other’s lightweight noggin, resulting in no progress to the situation at the least, and a series of harrowing guffaws at the most, or

b) attempt to sink down to the idiot’s level, and get cleanly overwhelmed by the latter’s overabundance of experience, a situation that would only serve to leave one confounded and the other even further entrenched in their intellectual drudgery.

If you’ve made it this far, you know you would do well to avoid the subject, defer to pity, or, as a last resort, make lewd comments about the other person’s mother. Or, if you are feeling of particularly adventurous mind, you may attempt to be the exception rather than the rule. Confront your inner idiot for inspiration in inundating the outer ones. But while it will not be easy, it is precisely the challenge that makes it such resounding good sport. Similarly, this strategy can apply to the broader picture aforementioned, so long as there is a supportive will. Familiarize yourself with past productions, posts and preconceptions, and then try, try again your humble hand at the marvel of creation.

and corrigible.

  • Down the Stream of Consciousness Without an Oar
  • by The Witless Wonder
  • Published on August 1st, 2001

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