I really don’t know what to write today. It doesn’t feel like the usual chore that it can sometimes seem like. I’m not clawing at my face in tortured angst fretting and fussing about words and the order to put them in. I just sort of don’t fancy it. It’s not even writers block; more like I have had a long hard day at work and I’d quite like the evening off. Had some takeaway curry (saag aloo, shami kebab, etc), watched Xfactor then Karl Pilkington An Idiot Abroad (Mexico and Chichen Itza), now instead of warbling and waffling I quite like to read a bit then sleep. But no, Kevin won’t allow himself that.
Google is celebrating Oscar Wilde’s birthday with one of their funny little doodles. This picture of Dorian Gray stood holding a lantern before his deformed portrait doesn’t exactly work as a logo. It’s too small to see and the G the g the l and the e are not exactly integrated into the design.
You know, fuck it. I tried to start discussing something I observed hoping that I’d get some material out of it, something to riff off; a basis for extemporisation, but it’s not going anywhere. I was losing interest in my words before I even finished typing them. Before I’d even ended the sentence I’d already thought fuck it.
I could stare at the screen hoping that it will write itself. I could chuck the laptop into a room filled with an infinite amount of monkeys and an infinite minus one amount of typewriters, and hope that the monkey that gets to work on my laptop is one of the erudite bloggers and not one of the wanking shit-throwers. There is an infinite amount of both; such is the weird nature of infinite. It always blows my mind that there is the same amount of whole numbers as there is odd numbers; the same amount of prime numbers as even numbers. But it shouldn’t blow my mind really, because infinity isn’t even a real number. If you do a sum and get the answer infinity you’ve probably made a mistake somewhere.
I could just bang away wildly at the keys and imagine I am some sort of early-20th Century artist or modernist who can still get away with that sort of shit. I could cut and paste random sentences from random Wikipedia articles into a Burroughs cut-up style composition. I could write ‘all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’ over and over again, and fool myself that I am being funny and original. I could stick a knife into the plug socket and then I wouldn’t have to worry about finishing the blog. Yes that’s what I’ll do... after I’ve finished the blog. If I’m back tomorrow with more words, you know it didn’t work.