Oh Dear

Well, I've now done something I'm not entirely proud of - but it's not my fault! I swear!

See, I felt somewhere close to 'just shovel the dirt over me, boys' today so, naturally, I sat in my butterfly chair, propped my feet on a kitchen chair and cleaned out my harddrive. Naturally. While doing so I ran across an essay that I wrote last spring for a creative non-fiction class. The original essay was about the written language, which was returned with the comment, 'Too esoteric. And wordy.' (Or something to that effect.) After cursing a bit - it's about 'the written language,' what other vibe can you strike with that subject? - I wrote a new, mildly sarcastic draft.

A representative excerpt is as follows (for those of you who don't want to read this - interesting - bit of literature, skip down to the bottom for the dramatic reveal of my dastardly deed):

"What synapse connected deep within the first primordial brain that suggested, “Hey man, what do you think of the letter T? It could be the beginning of that tree-thing over there. Eh, eh?” Who was the first caveperson to think of connecting vague squiggles together to represent a reality? Was this idea a passing fancy, born out of young Oglet’s mind as he pondered the sunset one balmy summer’s night? “Oh my,” did he proclaim, “Surely there must be some way for me to convey my soul’s rapture at this brilliant display of light and shadow! Quick, I must hasten to create a written language to record every ode that yearns within my breast!” Was this the beginning of writing, yet another means for teenage angst and melodrama to inflict itself upon the world? If Ug had not complained that Oglet was giving her a headache, would the written language have never risen? Perhaps, however, writing came more from necessity, a practical measure. Maybe Og took Ugo aside one fire-lit night, saying, “Ug is onto us. I think she somehow figured out the arrows that I’ve been etching onto cave walls. We gotta come up with something else.” Of course, Ugo, growing mildly weary of hiding, might have tartly suggested that Og finally do what he had said he would for ages and move out of Ug’s cave and begin chipping a new one. No fan of menial labor, Og could have responded, “Now’s not a good time, my sweet. Ug has been having a terrible time growing the non-poisonous green bush and Oglet has begun to moan about the futility of life and I can’t add to their burdens anymore right now… how about we make up a secret language?” Was it from one of these points that the idea of a series of peculiar shapes meaning a spoken sentence emerged?"

Ahem. Yes, well, I was young. And foolish. And somehow got an A, which was quite a shock in the sober light of day.

In any case, feeling poorly and amused retroactively by my disgruntlement, I felt Oglet needed an outlet to express more of his pre-livejournal woes. So, to my shame, here is Oglet's blog: Oglet's World. Updates will be - fascinating, I'm sure. Frequent is a bit of a stretch, but we'll see. Maybe Oglet has more to say than I do.