it renders the word even more evanescent than journalism; yoked, as bloggers are, to the unending cycle of news and the need to post four or five times a day, five days a week, 50 weeks of the year, blogging is the closest literary culture has come to instant obsolescence. No Modern Library edition of the great polemicists of the blogosphere to yellow on the shelf; nothing but a virtual tomb for a billion posts - a choric song of the word-weary bloggers, forlorn mariners forever posting on the slumberless seas of news.
This is good as it means I can drone on about my ipod and bore you.
You may remember my ipod - it occupied a liminal space as a contested artefact in our household and contained such diverse music as Babyshambles, Artic Monkeys and Eliza Carthy.
It was an inbetween artefact, colonized by both adults and children and as such it moved across the domains of practice, from me on the train to Sheffield to kids in the back of the car...
It lasted six glorious weeks, in which I became a smug apple-earphones wearing person who looked like everyone else and occupied the ipod therefore I am universe.
and now no longer.
it slipped out of the car on the way to Dorset (child who allowed this to happen will be nameless)
and is gone.
What do I do?
1. Insist that child pays me back and buy new one
2. Buy dodgy one on ebay
3. Allow silence into my life?
You see, blogging is utterly ephemeral.