One of the reasons for the high mortality of my blogs is ingenuousness. Not my own, but the ingenuousness of bloggers in general, or my lack of it. Let me explain.
To be able to write about your own matters; to trust innocently and naively that somebody might be interested; to offer your stuff, straightforward and unfiltered, on display, has always struck me as childlike simplicity, as something really not cool as opposed to what I deemed cool: sophistication, experience, critical judgement, irony or capacity of tearing something into shreds.
Candour has never been my cup of tea. If it was, I’ve always sought to weed it out as soon as I detected it. Because candid is too often paired with “credulous, unsuspecting, lacking craft or understanding of matters, unsubtle”, and has always reminded me of two things: of innocent, virginal creatures lacking independence and unable to support themselves; of mere objects, things that don’t make meaning, but only bear it, for somebody to evaluate and interpret them and – finally – be able to laugh at them. All things that I honestly didn’t wish to seem.
“Thus conscience makes cowards of us all.”
Seem is the key to all this. Almost thirty, I suddenly discover the innate (=genuine,= ingenuous) strength of spontaneity that’s not afraid of mistakes. Of simply showing and being, of not hiding behind the multiple radioactive layers of cleverness and taste. Of the great fun of doing something wrong. Of contemplating the possibility of imperfection. Of being comically (innocently, inadvertently, God forbid!) laughable. Somebody stop me!