Secretly, I don't want you to find me here. Secretly, I don't want you to read me. Well, a little, but not too much and not too closely. Secretly, I don't want to know you. Secretly, I want you to know me if you find me, but I don't want you to find me. Secretly, if you find me, I REALLY want you to know me, all of me. Secretly, I want to move in secret circles where we don't have to talk, write. Just sit breathe. I come here for quiet. Honestly? It's so damn noisy here.
Was a house party, a gathering, talking about what you talk about when you sit in garage-sale couches drinking beer from a can. What kind of fool would punditize there, on a green-cushioned chair, among friends? What kind of fool would talk outside of their own body, telling you to read so-and-so, to look here, look there, what he said, she said, what the Wall Street Journal said.
Would you get up and leave--a pundit at your party?
I would get up and leave.
That's what I run up against every time I betray myself here. In writing. Who's the jerk in the green chair with the can of Coors talking about journalism and PR, about clients, about aggregators, about people who talk about those things? Who invited her?
Secretly, I want to bounce the pundits from this gathering. Especially the pundit pieces of me.
