About time to give myself a good talking to

Hey! Me! Come here! Yes, right here. To this blog. My blog. I can try writing something where I belong for a change, can't I? I mean, who do I think I am, exactly? Roaming the internet, cluttering comment pages, imposing on the hospitality of others and elaborating on or challenging their ideas whether they like it or not? And it's not exactly sweet nothings I whisper, either. Talk about know-it-all, demanding, depressing nothings. I mean, LIGHTEN UP. Hey! Take my hands off those keys! I'd appreciate it if I'd at least look like I was taking this seriously. And what makes me think they're interested in what I have to say? They have minds and lives of their own, and they were doing quite well before I came along. Boring? I think it's boring on my own blog? Lonely? Well, well, well. Who's fault is that? Write something interesting for a change, I mean, really interesting, and if that doesn't help, then I'll feel sorry for me.



They hurt, so watch out for them.


Creator Incommunicado

My blog functions have been inaccessable. I was unable to write all day yesterday. That this would happen yesterday in particular is yet another of those coincidences in planetary life that bemuse and titilate me. I had time then, I have no time now. Certain thoughts have settled and may now never leak out into blogdom. We shall see. But I am alive and thinking, and will be back soon.



There was a post that I deleted. I decided that it's my own decision what I tell whom and when.
My spooks are gathering. One of them called me a fruitpants. Does she find me boring? Does she think I'm a coward? Does she think I've grown too big for my spats?

My Earl Grey tasted like bergemot oil this morning, assuaging my fears that the flavorless tea in the last package heralded the collapse of civilization as we know it. Actually, that's what I'm eagerly awaiting, but I hope that tea doesn't have to go down with it.


Smoke Signals

On the subject of truth and trueness, I highly recommend watching this film. (Some of us will be able to do this more quickly than others, if they haven't already done so.) I like the film so much that I find myself sliding into its prevalent accent (which, by the way, has a melody that reminds us of scottish. What do the experts say?) quite often. Don't give up if you think it seems goofy in the beginning, because it isn't.

The dogs have calmed down somewhat, hopefully not because we screwed up yesterday and let them out together for a half an hour before realizing our mistake. Oh well. They looked happy.



She was writing on her blog. She had had quite a good idea, and was looking at it from various angles, when she found that her attention was wandering. Looking up from her desk, she saw three apparitions. They hovered, two to her right and one to her left, all of them seemingly absorbed by the words on the computer screen before them. One of them was shaking its head in a mildly disapproving manner. They were barely visible in the light of the morning. She tried to convince herself that she was imagining things because she had slept poorly. She waved her arms around and through them in case they were an exaggerated effect of dust floating in the air. They weren't. In fact, the longer she looked at them the more solid they became. Behind the increasing definition of their shoulders she saw the shadowy forms of new apparitions taking shape. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and tried to remember what she'd been thinking about before she noticed them. Oddly enough, this caused them to fade. She concentrated harder, and began to write.


Back on Track

My friend Sam has a blog. One day, on Sam's blog, a discussion arose about bicycle helmets and the necessary or unnecessary courting of danger. During that "conversation" something happened. I realized that it was possible to srape away all the layers of prestige, conviction, jargon, and general clutter from one's intentions, and manage to say something entirely recognizable as truth. Truth here is to be distinguished from honesty, which I rather define as the belief in one's own truthfulness, and the subsequent attempt to be truthful, but which can be phenomenally wrong without our noticing it.
Maybe everything there is to know is right here before us, or even in us, hiding in our own voices and in our ability to discern.

She willfully honed her clich├ęs, preparing for battle

I raise the welcome banner to all and sundry, but woe beit to him, who does not rise to the occasion and buckle down to some serious writing when paying me a visit.

I hope that you (the you who wants to write, not only read) try to say something you haven't said before, or at least in a way you haven't said it before, all in a joint effort to keep language alive and kicking. This may already be an active principle for some of us (and fille in particular), but we all bear an EQUAL RESPONSIBILITY.

Don't worry, I'm satisfied so far.

It's snowing here, inside and out. I have barely slept. I haven't been able to sleep well for at least a week, which bodes no good. Our female dog is in heat, our male dog is losing his mind and taking the rest of us with him. This is not my actual source of anguish, but it really doesn't help.


A Rest Stop on the Internet

What with tuesday's child being fair of face, and taking consideration of other factors and omens, I think today might be a good day to begin blogging.
How many faces does one (wo)man have?
I have far too many. But if faces are like words, I'm starting to believe that it doesn't matter so much which ones you use. Those who can see recognize you behind any mask, and those who can hear recognize you through any words. It's not that I try to change faces, it's just something that adjusts itself according to my company.
I try sometimes, for reasons of innocent deception, to disguise my handstyle. Everything I draw or write looks like I drew or wrote it, at least to me and my family. How can this be? What is it that shows? I do have a theory, actually, but I don't feel like going into it now. Feel free to help me arrive at an explanation.