Blogging ... it is everywhere and nowhere, particular yet strangely anonymous ... a way of writing out thoughts, ideas and adventures with no real idea of whether it will be read or not. It reminds me a little of something I read in a book of old Russian fairy tales:
There was a Russian monarch (then called Tsars), who had been born with the ears of a goat. It was something he found deeply embarrassing, so always grew his hair or wore a headpiece to cover his ears. The only people who knew about this were his mother (bless her) and his personal barbers. But the list of barbers was long and grew ever longer. Because each barber was sworn to secrecy, on pain of banishment to the icy desert. And each barber promised faithfully never to say a word. But eventually, the weight of the secret would become too much and so, in turn, each barber would blurt out the secret to someone and find himself banished to the frozen wastelands for the rest of his life.
In any case, our story actually centres around the last of this line-up of scissor-stylists to the goaty-eared Tsar. As usual, the barber was entrusted with the secret. And as usual, he began to feel like a balloon filled with too much helium, such that the secret would come squeaking out of him at any minute. But unlike his predecessors, this barber was an ingenious soul and came up with a clever plan. Our hero found a quiet place where he could not be overheard and dug himself a deep deep pit, then, leaning far into the pit he shouted, over and over "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!" Finally, when he felt he had relieved himself of the secret, he filled in the hole, and, whistling a happy tune, strolled home to have his tea.
An unexpected thing happened, however. After some time, a hollow-stemmed reed plant grew up in the place where the barber had dug his hole. And then, some time later, a child passing by saw the plant and cut a small finger-length piece from a branch and carved it into a whistle. Imagine his surprise, though, when he blew through the whistle and instead of a reedy note, he heard "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!"Laughing in delight, the little fellow cut as many whistles as he could, and gave them out to his friends. Soon, all over the city, the story spread: "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!"
Of course this got back to the (goat's) ears of the Tsar himself, who promptly had the barber hauled in before him. Accused of telling the secret, the barber confessed what he had done - digging the hole and shouting into it. The Tsar could not really fault him for that, and in fact (much to the barber's relief), seemed to see the funny side of it. And so the barber kept his job, and his house, and after all no-one seemed to love the Tsar any more or less because his ears were a little pointier and hairier than most.
My point is: that writing a blog feels to me a bit like that barber's enterprise; like digging a hole and shouting into it. It feels anonymous - no idea who your audience is, if any. But then again, like the reedy whistles, you might just hear your own words coming back to you from the most unexpected places. And so, although there is a part of me that has always wanted to journal my travels and thoughts in this format, I remain uncertain about it ...
There was a Russian monarch (then called Tsars), who had been born with the ears of a goat. It was something he found deeply embarrassing, so always grew his hair or wore a headpiece to cover his ears. The only people who knew about this were his mother (bless her) and his personal barbers. But the list of barbers was long and grew ever longer. Because each barber was sworn to secrecy, on pain of banishment to the icy desert. And each barber promised faithfully never to say a word. But eventually, the weight of the secret would become too much and so, in turn, each barber would blurt out the secret to someone and find himself banished to the frozen wastelands for the rest of his life.
In any case, our story actually centres around the last of this line-up of scissor-stylists to the goaty-eared Tsar. As usual, the barber was entrusted with the secret. And as usual, he began to feel like a balloon filled with too much helium, such that the secret would come squeaking out of him at any minute. But unlike his predecessors, this barber was an ingenious soul and came up with a clever plan. Our hero found a quiet place where he could not be overheard and dug himself a deep deep pit, then, leaning far into the pit he shouted, over and over "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!" Finally, when he felt he had relieved himself of the secret, he filled in the hole, and, whistling a happy tune, strolled home to have his tea.
An unexpected thing happened, however. After some time, a hollow-stemmed reed plant grew up in the place where the barber had dug his hole. And then, some time later, a child passing by saw the plant and cut a small finger-length piece from a branch and carved it into a whistle. Imagine his surprise, though, when he blew through the whistle and instead of a reedy note, he heard "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!"Laughing in delight, the little fellow cut as many whistles as he could, and gave them out to his friends. Soon, all over the city, the story spread: "The Tsar has goat's ears! The Tsar has goat's ears!"
Of course this got back to the (goat's) ears of the Tsar himself, who promptly had the barber hauled in before him. Accused of telling the secret, the barber confessed what he had done - digging the hole and shouting into it. The Tsar could not really fault him for that, and in fact (much to the barber's relief), seemed to see the funny side of it. And so the barber kept his job, and his house, and after all no-one seemed to love the Tsar any more or less because his ears were a little pointier and hairier than most.
My point is: that writing a blog feels to me a bit like that barber's enterprise; like digging a hole and shouting into it. It feels anonymous - no idea who your audience is, if any. But then again, like the reedy whistles, you might just hear your own words coming back to you from the most unexpected places. And so, although there is a part of me that has always wanted to journal my travels and thoughts in this format, I remain uncertain about it ...
