Time to do it right…

February 3, 2011 at 5:50 pm (Uncategorized)

Ok, I’ve rallied against blogging for long enough, time to stop trying to beat it and maybe even lie back and enjoy it.

Hmm. That was not a good start.

Anyway, years ago (when I first set this thing up) I was helpfully told by other users that my blog was difficult to navigate cos, well, cos I wasn’t actually blogging. I was making pages instead. I stand by that – I wanted each bit of my work to have its own page. I might continue that, but for the sake of making things easier for anyone wanting to read anything, I guess I’ll #grits teeth# blog. There, I said it. I will blog.

With that godawful introduction over (I’ll explain my former hatred of blogging another time), I proudly (and shyly) present Three-Eighth, some old stream of consciousness thing I wrote a long time ago, don’t ask me what the title means cos I can’t remember:


The baboon outside my window laughs as it swings from the lamp post, hooting for my attention. Meanwhile Mr Drake is calling my soul home and making me cry happiness inside. Two silver sharks provide an ambience that their fishy counterparts could not, stereo twanging and picking and warbling and gently lifting. I am overwhelmed by something I am too small to explain or express, and all the time an itch torments me and breaks my concentration. My daytime professional demands two spaces at each terminus but that is not my common way and so I ignore it. The creature in the corner licks its hands and cleans its ears, then smiles at me from beyond the glass. I am irrationally scared to turn around in case there is one unusual behind me. This song feels like heroin and I wonder if they are related. No build here, though, no influx of ecstatic passion, I am not flying yet. I should try to focus but the words are pinned to the page, damming and damning my creativity and forcing rivers into clich├ęd and long-accustomed furrows. The programme insists on an upward flick, it will not allow me but is quick to correct. The distant machine flashes and whirrs and I increase the whimsical noises to drown it out, hoping that the combination will not swamp my mind and wash it away. I know that the next one is quirky and I smile in anticipation, then in pleasure as it starts, bouncing in waves and carrying me off with it. The creature has settled into a warm hat that helps keep the head of nothing protected from Russian winters; I remember cold fingers selling cigarettes in ones because no one can afford more; and the bouncing goes away. The boat has swung into Central like a bootlick and beat-tramp as they argue the same side and as the bow leans between their rowing heads I think they may realise that earlier was the only time to stop. I stop too and stop myself from reading back because that is not the purpose of this exercise. I am interrupted. Explosions and a soft kiss. I thought that was the end but I bit my tongue and the moment passed. The man returned and the second left, a second’s reprise and a brief visit only, but at least the world still has one of them. I shut my eyes and inhale the upwards exit, letting the flow take me where it will. A counter-rhythm will not disturb me this time, nor the next: ego as a part of the whole is stronger than the arrogance beneath, or perhaps I do it a disservice to assume this, but I am denied the opportunity to challenge. A long pause to give physics a rest and leave it alone for a while, all is blurred as every iota shivers. I am put in mind of how similar we are to plants as the silence descends. I need something that will soothe, that will speak to me with nothing so crass as lingua. This is not it, but it will be. Too many interruptions, do I really need to know what that was. Will the green wavy line appear, should I taunt it to. This is too much right now but the cease button eludes me like orange juice to mushrooms. The red, the red! Ignore it! It doesn’t mean anything! What is meaning, why is this word thus. Beauty lies in complexity lies in sadness and I am gripped by the mind-stretch of it all, then released, then scooped up again and whirled onwards. Does this need looking at again and again until the pedestals seize and shatter, or will one cold glance suffice. I think it may be broken already but if I do not look then I will not know. Do I want to know? Why do I still look for meaning, does this mean that there is meaning and I was wrong all along? It doesn’t matter. I need a familiar closeness but the arrogance keeps it prisoner and it doesn’t even understand, but I have these sounds and as much as they torture me, I am comforted.

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