A good friend and painfully too sporadic drinking partner suggested to me that I start a blog, and while initially I was reluctant as I have some serious reservations about the whole blogging phenomenon, I’ve decided to give it a shot.
My reservations on the concept of blogs comes from my association of the internet with the slow death of artistic endeavors. I put blogs in the same camp as e-books or those people who make short, shitty, supposedly comedic films on YouTube. Art should be easily accessible, but being a somewhat hesitant participant of the digital era, I feel as though the internet has made it way too accessible. It seems as though any muppet with a Wi-Fi connection can be a writer/artist/film maker, and it dilutes the body of genuine artistic work.
One might argue that art is relative to the individual. Art is an incredibly difficult thing to define, but from my own, personal perspective, art should be a reflection of truth, as opposed to an escape from it. It should reflect and inspire genuine emotions, feelings and experiences. With that in mind, it should become more apparent why I distrust the internet as a platform for art, as the online world is a world of falsities and lies. We use Instagram, Facebook and Snapchat in a futile attempt to convey the life we’d have others believe we live, and blogs, particularly travel-blogs, are no different.
I’ve read a few people’s travel-blogs in the past, and very few of them I can stomach, the vast majority of times it’s simply a repetitive and mundane list of boring shit the author saw or did, without any mention of how they felt or thought.
I’ve been backpacking a few times, and while the sightseeing and touristy bollocks is all well and good, if a backpacker starts a travel-blog, I don’t want to read about their trip to the East Side Gallery. I want to hear about them raging at 7 am Sunday morning in an underground Berlin nightclub, off their tits on a cocktail of poppers, pills and booze, or the night they spent stoned with an unknown group of vagabond hippies in the basement of a bar somewhere in Bohemia, the night they fell in love in a Bavarian nightclub thinking it was merely lust, the night they spent on the streets of Paris among faceless tramps and junkies, the nights they embraced the unknown and the insanity of life. I want to hear about the madness, I want to hear about the low-down, down and out, disenfranchised, miserable pieces of shit they encountered and loved, because that’s what’s real to me, that’s what inspires me.
I’m leaving for Canada on the 9th May, spending a couple of weeks in Ontario before heading out to Banff, Alberta where I’ll be working throughout the summer. Perhaps I’ll write another post beforehand, I’d love to recount my experiences in India, or on the side of a mountain in Norway, or a particular night in the Czech Republic I’m still not convinced wasn’t some kind of drug-induced dream/hallucination.
I’m not entirely sure what I hope to achieve with this blog, but I only really started writing this as a way to distract myself from the hang-over I woke with this morning, and in that regard my first post has been a success.