Naked and Exposed

It's about time to rant and rave about the world at large, or the tiny one that I dwell in.

This is my first blog and I'm feeling pretty exposed, not that anyone will actually read this yet, but as I write more, I'll feel comfortable in the nude. And I look pretty good too.

Blogging is such a part of our world, and I may be just joining in and catching a late wave, but it's not about keeping up, it's about using the best form out there to express yourself and be heard. Though, as I and everyone else have seen, the whole world wants to expose their ideas, emotions, private & intimate thoughts, to a public that knows not who we are, in the hope that it will bring fame and, possibly one day, after a profound body of work is completed with all the media attention directed towards it... fortune.

Who doesn't want fortune? So which is the ultimate goal of all the bloggers out there? To get a little attention or purely just to find a place in the world to be heard, without the physical self creating a distorted, pre-conceived bias (as I include a self-portrait) in the many sponges out there, waiting for new, reprocessed, or used ideas to feed their hungry skulls. People want guidance. People want to commiserate, or simply feel self-important enough to believe that what I am doing right now will change the world.

At this point, I have all those feelings swirling around my solar plexus, shaking up some fear and self-loathing, not to mention, excitement and hope of actually contributing to the vast and infinite webscape of anonymous and known users, waiting to soak up the poignant, prophetic and profound voice of infinitesimal me.

Picture this... I'm sitting in a low-walled cubicle, window offices in my view, Manhattan below, on the 40th floor of a corporate, investment banking behemoth, Queens in the Eastern sky, blanketed by clouds and mist, a horizon of white, and although this morning, as I sat down, ate my buffet-prepared cheesy-eggs, hash brown rectangle, and mixed fruit bowl, I felt the cube walls squeezing me, and my butt muscles sinking into the routine. But through these words, filled with light and optics, switches and silicon, I feel infinite. It's happening as I write, through imagining the possibilities of what needs to be purged and told, not for the sake of the reader, whom may never be more than one soul - that being my wife - but for the sake of me. Just knowing that my private journal is public, transmorms and transcends the normal daily plodding of random thoughts and spells.

I'm understanding the need to put it all out there and be fearless once again. It's empowering and liberating. It's making my once-tingling solar plexus spread the tangible feeling to my torso, and my breath continues to expand the breadth of emotional reward that fulfills each idea through every keystroke, to my entire being.

This is quite a reward for doing what I always do, but this time, there may actually be a reader. It changes everything. I'm opening my backpack, taking out my journal, tearing out a page, and placing it in harm's way, without body armor or helmet, and lifting a glowing, flashing target to be pelted with on any occasion.

Cool. "Let it be", and with that, "whisper words of wisdom..."(1)

So am I doing this merely for exhibition's sake, for fame and fortune in the future, to let my manhood twist in the wind in a sadistic plan for anonymous flagellation?

No... I'm actually finding a freedom that I know will carry on in my regular day, a satisfaction in the knowledge that what I write, my consciousness, is not wasted. It has meaning and purpose and little by little, I will craft and hone a living breathing entity that is my consciousness, and it won't be for nought on this planet... and if I get a little cash one day for that effort, I'll tuck it in my belt, and keep exposing what I got...

(1) of course I quote The Beatles