Thursday, May 9, 2013

The end. And where we start from.

I keep thinking about what I want to come here to say. I used to blog fairly regularly. Never every day, but a few times a week. And then this year, it's been almost not at all. Nearly a month since I posted last, and only two posts all of last month.

And some of that is the feeling that I'm on the internet all the time, babbling away on twitter and posting things on tumblr and what do I have left over to say, anyway? Like, maybe I shouldn't be talking here unless there's something important, which is kind of ridiculous, because this is my blog, and I'm the person who decides what gets said here (or not) and when. But there you go.

And some of it was finishing a book which was written in a voice that is very different to the tone of the blog, and when I was finishing it, it felt like that was the only voice left in my head. I could barely even talk to my friends, because all the words I could think of were words for the book.

And some of it was, my God, this was a tough winter. Maybe you don't understand why I'm saying that now, now when it's May, and quite thoroughly spring, but let me tell you that it was snowing last week. Even here, that doesn't happen, and there was this sense of being out of time and elsewhere, and a longing for green and warmth and light. And it was a tough winter personally, and for people I loved. And those aren't the sort of things we are supposed to talk about, you know? No one wants to read about your troubles. Don't whine.

I am so envious (speaking of thoughts and feelings we're not supposed to discuss) of the people who seem (because it is always seem, there is always a filter) able to say anything anywhere. To speak, without worrying about what people will think, and say. Or to worry about it, and have the ability to say, fuck you, and speak anyway.

And so here I am. And it's spring, I think. And I've started a new book, and one of the things that matters very much in it is who gets to speak, and about what, and how seriously are they taken when they do.

So maybe I'll stop worrying so much, and talk. Or maybe I'll keep silent, but the silence will be mine.


  1. Sometimes when I'm elbow-deep in a project, switching gears to write a post can allow me to return to the project with a fresh perspective.

    ... about the worrying? I reckon it burns up way too many calories with to little to show for all that energy exoenditure!

  2. Diagnosis: Wonderful, terrifying, involuntary tidally locked writer to book, where no must know or can understand what is going on.


    1) Read "Times Square in Montana" by Richard Brautigan (a booster read if the patient has already read it).

    2) Perform simulated deitism where the author walks around house/apartment pretending to have god-like power, e.g the author shouts 'COMPUTER BE ON!' before pushing the switch or 'LET IT BE DAY!' before drawing the curtains. This is very healthy practice.

    3)Only blog when i)drunk, ii) angry or iii) balanced on only two legs of the chair to create urgency in the writing style.

  3. One story.

    "He would reach the park before the sun began to warm the shadows of the trees, and sit on one of the benches around the Madonna spring. To some, he was a harmless lunatic; to others, a stranger arrested in time. But that wasn't so for the squirrels that would climb him like a tree; neither for the skittish and playful hummingbirds who would fly over his long and fuzzy hair. Even less so for the confident geckos who would venture into the canvas bag that he always brought with him.

    From her amorphous marble plinth, dirty and mud-covered, the old statue knew that the man was there for her. That the once young sculptor waited for that one last glimpse of inspiration that would allow him to finish his work. Then he could die in peace."

    (José Manuel Ortiz Soto, "The last muse")

  4. It was a difficult winter, and spring is not so sure (still) where I am.