Why do I do it to myself; this blogging enterprise? Must I do it every day, or can I just do one or two every month or five? What will happen to my dedication when I am on holiday or if I ever end up seriously ill in a hospital bed after a tragic accident with a rhubarb and a bucket of chicken? Will I still be sitting up in bed, early in the morning or late at night, churning out words by the paragraph-load with a saline drip in one hand and a martini shaken not stirred in the other?
If I can’t concentrate on form and content because my kidneys are failing after my legs have been crushed beyond recognisable shape by aeroplanes falling in the 2012 apocalypse, will I still have the requisite concentration to spew two or three words, rearrange them into one of the limited themes I write on, and then click ‘post’? Will I know what is going on, who I am and what I going on about? War; what is it good for? Poetry, art, population control, science, technology, economics, history, film, computer games.
If WWIII kicks off (ignoring the fact that we have certainly had other World Wars of various descriptions since 1945, just not on Western European soil so they don’t count) and I am conscripted to the frontline, will I still be blogging away on a daily basis? Revealing little clues about our secret missions; crawling through the muddy trenches as the world comes down around me, writing up post number 2525 if man is still alive? In the year 2525, if I am still alive, if my downloaded computer mind can contrive to compose its own byline; my brain inside a jar, surviving so far into the future – will I still be excreting written words, shaping language into turds, and blahing blahing blah blah?
Blahdy-bla di-Blah Blah Blah. Here hare here:
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