I value my privacy so why do I blog about personal experiences, publish telling poems and reveal my intimate truths? Because I’m a crazy writer without protective boundaries.
I recently watched a fictional series on Netflix called, “You” it’s about a creepy clerk who becomes an online stalker of a naive, writer/poet who has her entire lifestyle online. It sufficiently creeped me out.
I started thinking that all my acquaintances and coworkers could read my blog anonymously, which feels kind of creepy. Followers aren’t creepy because they’re often also writers, the really cool ones like your posts, add comments and create community with you. Having an active audience makes your blog worthwhile in my opinion.
But reading a blog without subscribing to it is spectatorship, a form of non-participation. We as creators put ourselves on the line. We’re out in the open, exposed bare, sharing our truths, perceptions and art; which is a brave act especially for sensitive, introverted creatives. Why do we do it? The hope of fame? I doubt any of us will become famous from blogging; most of us aren’t professionals, we write for free.
Blog writing is a DIY act of love of writing and community. There’s no exchange of money here; the exchange is conversation and connection. So to read a blog without following it, is a one way street of consumption, not communication or collaboration.
When I was young enough to get away with going to a nude beach I did, but only once with my hippie, burning man boyfriend. We went to Baker Beach a clothing optional public beach in San Francisco. There were mostly couples, and young hippies there. The beach was loosely designated in areas; there was a seperate side for those looking for sex. We were in the non-sexual zone, by the volley ball players, sunbathing and reading, like at any other beach.
Then this ox bull overweight man started posing in front of me. He was completely naked but with a cock ring on his testicles. He was black, stocky and had an average sized penis, nothing worth the peacock strutting and posing he displayed continually in front of me. No matter where I turned, he moved to stand in front of my gaze like a fat man eclipse. My boyfriend and I were both so grossed out by him that we left the beach. It was kind of funny but more gross than amusing.
Worse than Mr Cockring were the male voyeurs that patrolled the beach. They oddly wore long sleeved clothing, (including jackets), dark black clothes on a sweltering beach. They carried cameras like perverted sight seekers photographing all the naked sun worshippers. Something about that stark contrast of naked openness with the overdressed porno patrol, armored with clothes and weaponized with cameras. It was probably what the conquerors thought when they saw the natives in near nakedness. The conquerors used the naked people as property. They didn’t want to share or learn or emulate. They came to stare, lust after, rape and enslave their naked purity and vulnerability.
So I’ve unpublished previous poems and stories (made them private). Everyone who subscribes, likes or comments, thank you! I’m grateful for your insight and support.
If you’re reading my blog without following it, stop reading my blog in secret. Show up and be seen. Don’t be a creepy voyeur!