Today is the fifth anniversary of my very first journal entry. When I first started blogging, I dreamt of being that daring, edgy writer whose ideas would grab a tragically dull world by its lapels, punch it in the face and knee it in the groin. I was going to change everything.
In commemoration, here’s “First Post” once again, in its entirety:
Testing. Testing. This is my first attempt at a “web log,” or “blog,” as it were. Blog blog blog. Blog blog.
Those were some gonzo times, man, before I sold out. I miss the anger.
Last night’s dream:
I arrive at Mole’s old house on the mountain. I ring the bell. He answers the door. He doesn’t look happy.
I ask what’s wrong.
He says, “It’s bad.”
I ask, “What’s bad?”
He says, “You have to go in.”
He leaves. I go in.
Now I see what was bad. Seated in a semicircle of chairs are “Ingrid,” “Martha,” “Selena,” “Gringita,” “The Lady,” and a few other women I can’t really see in the dim lighting. I’m not sure who they are, but I’ve picked up on the pattern.
I suspect that Mole is playing an elaborate prank on me, and look around for cameras. I see none.
I say hello. They say nothing.
I ask whether this is a joke. They say nothing.
I ask if they’ve met each other, even though it looks like they already have. They say nothing.
I ask if they’ve eaten. They say nothing.
I ask if they have any intention of saying anything. They say nothing.
It is bizarre. It’s as though the whole dream were directed by Lynch in one of his slow moods. After another series of questions and non-responses, they get up one-by-one, hand me slips of paper with their phone numbers–each of which begins with a four-digit area code–and leave.
I walk out onto the front porch and watch a convoy of cars navigate down the gravel driveway and disappear into the woods.
Mole reappears. I tell him that I’m not sure, but I think that was bad.