Who’d be a writer, eh? Forcing themselves to work at stupid o’clock at night. Skinny, shivering, odd, and malnourished like an underfed houseplant. Over-thinking every last twitch, discussion and ... and lump? Every last squeak and shuffle, symbol and soliloquy? Not me. Lies, lies; it’s all me. Who else would I be talking about in my daily descent into my own arsehole. It is undoubtedly time to take another step back and reorganise this into a serious literary litany, an articulate articulation of hypothetical hypothesis’ and cohesive theories. On occasion this becomes necessary but the time between occasions is decreasing exponentially. Soon every single post will be a nostalgic fancy for the days of yester and a helpless call for re-evaluation. But until then let us proceed as if every word I write is gold.
I’m tempted just to slam the laptop shut and, without being influenced at all by the style of the language in the Stephen Fry book I am reading, dash it all to hell. The devotion to my blog doesn’t prevent me from doing this, and neither does my need to please my invisible imaginary ordinary audience. What stops my is the certain knowledge that the fan (yes, I’m moaning about the fan again) in the laptop will continue making a fucking racket, even if I slam the laptop with a brick, slap it with a fish and launch it out the window over a rainbow and into the Lancaster canal. As it glugs to the clay-y bottom a hundred miles away I hear that persistent over-worked whirring; forever, and ever, that fan.
The contradiction is the longer I write the more I hear the fan, the more I use the computer the more dust the fan sucks up, and the more again I use the computer more the more the dust overworks the fan heating up more of the computer more, more. More hotter; more louder. Like paper lit on one side with a candle flame, the keyboard cinders and fries my fingers. Caustic causing and more meaningless couplings of similarly sounding sounds.
If you don’t have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true? Well, last night I dreamt I was at work. And it came true. I went to work. If I don’t hit shut down soon I may reach my second wind and then sleepy sleepy dream dream is off the cards for the near future. And without the confusion of clocks back/forward/forgetting and the impending teeny-doom of a day at work, it’s entirely likely I may have some exciting enjoyable dreams. And then I can tell you all about them in a final frantic suicidal act of masochistic blog flogging. Telling people about your dreams is unforgivably tedious; blogging about them should mean instant end...