I just received this letter from my blogging mentor Ypres (pictured on the right). Ypres (real name Eugene Weeber) is an avant-garde blogger famous for pushing the boundaries of blogging and Web 2.0. Some have called him unbearably pretentious while others have simply called him agonizingly pompous. Let’s just say he’s not your father’s blogger.
He first caught the alternative blogging scene’s attention in 2004 when he posted a completely blank blog entry called untitled and he has not looked back ever since. Among other things he was the first person to post a blog entry upside down and most recently turned heads when he posted a blog entry called this is not a blog entry. Very original, very avant-garde. I doubt you guys would even get his stuff.
I wrote Ypres asking him what an average day for him looks like. My goal was to better understand the mind of this blogging genius by understanding his process. When I did not receive a reply I assumed that was his reply. You get it? Probably not. It’s very, very avant-garde.
Anyways last week I finally got his response in the mail. I now share it with you. You probably won’t get it though...
As an artist I can never live the same day twice. Repetition and routine breed complacency which breeds mediocrity which breeds life and all art is death. I can only tell you what I did yesterday:
I awoke at whatever time I awoke and promptly murdered a small flightless bird to draw inspiration for the day (art is death). After that I made dispassionate love to an exotic woman of indeterminate ethnicity for what seemed like years (or perhaps seconds?). Of course, as always, neither of us climaxed. Once this act of listless carnality had finished we smoked opium in my bed. I asked her about her father and she responded in her native tongue (Swahili? Mayan? Pre-Industrial Polish?). Though I did not understand a single word she said I knew she was spewing hateful, unsubstantiated lies.
At breakfast I was joined by a menagerie fellow artists, critics, revolutionaries, escaped circus performers, Yogis, brigands, dandies, roustabouts, mourning widows, outright murderers, and several people in a state of catatonic shock. Amongst my guests were the famed duelist and self-styled botanist Francois Letreuse, the illiterate whore and mother to my bastard child Velvetta Bavard, and Belvedere Krebs, who’s foppish affectations and clever witticisms earned him the title of “The Most Fascinating Man In Trieste.” We ate soft-boiled eggs.
Inevitably one of my guests, I believe it was Patriarch Ludlow Van Hessek, the maniacal religious zealot who heads a now mostly defunct monastic order, attempted to sodomize my butler. After this incident I brandished an automatic pistol (a gift from Farek Duswan, the clown prince of Bosnian comedy) and ordered everyone to leave in total silence whilst maintaining eye-contact with me. Eliza Pomice, a not–insignificant–Italian-diplomat’s mistress and theromin enthusiast, insisted I shoot her on the spot. I declined because the lighting in my breakfast nook was not suitable for an execution.
Breakfast was followed by nothingness.
At lunchtime my one-time nemesis and would-be assassin (who was once called Deviance Oprichik though I do not know if he still is) joined my table. We dined on whatever scraps of food he had stolen from the asylum he had just broken out of. I could not help but laugh when he finally succumbed to his wounds that he received during his daring escape (I never laugh). As per his final wishes I dumped his lifeless body in the middle of the road with a note that read “Truthe?” attached to it. The misspelling of truth was, of course, intentional.
The afternoon was filled with my musical pursuits. As most music is a lie my musical pursuits mainly consist of finding the patterns in the silence that surrounds the screams of lepers undergoing radical, unproven treatments for their hideous disease. This is naturally done in complete darkness.
At dusk I was joined by a group of runaways who dared to ingest peyote with me. I wrote a highly controversial manifesto on their naked bodies before slipping into a drug-fueled trance. They proceeded to rob me as I thoughtlessly whispered the paradoxical maxims of an ancient Sanskrit text.
When I emerged from this hallucinatory state (wherein I imagined myself to be the scrotum of mid-level office manager) I found my adobe to be completely empty save for one runaway girl who was tending to me. Her flawless beauty was revolting. I demanded to be taken to my office to begin crafting the dreams that would become the visions that would inspire the thoughts that we be next my next blog entry.
As always I was lowered into my office, naked, in a coffin. My office only contains four things: a desk, a chair, a laptop, and a mildly-retarded, mute, hunchback huddled in the corner. He always stares at me with a toxic mix of fear, incredulity, and profound respect and I have reason to believe that he once owned the Quebec Nordiques.
In the course of half an hour I constructed a blog entry that simultaneously encapsulated and destroyed the combined artistic and scientific efforts of every civilization in human history. I immediately deleted it. After that I held down the a-key and filled up the entire page with this one, eternal letter. I cursed God for my genius and posted my latest masterpiece. For the next 6 hours I wrote hostile, seething responses to the fawning letters of praise that I received from critics and European royalty regarding my latest blog entry.
My day finished with a cup of sleepy-time tea and the late edition of sportscentre.
Amazing. Did you get it? No? Didn't think so.
I have to say I think he was actually talking about 2 days ago because I hung out with Eugene, I mean Ypres, yesterday and we mainly ate pizza pockets and played Mortal Kombat in his mom's basement. The part about the Sportscentre is true though.
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