... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Saturday, November 19, 2011

453: something something i forget...

Manchester Syline by Glenn Clarke

Reach to the heavens and cry out good morning sky! I would do were it not for the ceiling and the cloud cover; that was the gist of the sentence that popped into my head this morning as I walked to the bus stop. It's not the exact wording, which is now lost to time. However, the way I composed it originally was better; sparser, more bathetic, poetic, beauteous, better. It may have been all those things, but time cannot tell – time hides it from me. I didn't note it down, having forgotten my notebook, and now it is gone. I can only fool myself unintentionally into believing I had composed something wonderful, and then perhaps I could shut up about it.

I had an idea, but I forgot it, oooh, what was it, what was it... is a fairly tedious way to conduct a conversation. It's almost up there with the twin giants of tedious conversation: I had this really weird dream last night... and Someone I know (or someone who I know, knows someone who knows someone...) saw a ghost, went to a psychic, did a Ouija board, felt something I can't explain; how do you explain that?... Snore. Not interested. There are real more interesting things out there, and I shouldn't have to listen to the tedious fantastical, nonsensical meanderings of your dreams or ghost stories. Of course I'm too polite to say so in so many words... Oh wait, no I'm not.

Here is the occasionally wonderful Tim Minchin to express similar sentiments to those touched upon in the previous paragraph, and to do so in a way clearer and funnier than I could do if I was a million monkeys with a million iPads:

I think I will never tire of that. I am already tired of his lesser stuff, that fucking dreadful song about dancing bears, for example.

I now keep a notebook with me at all times, unless I forget it obviously. I had a hardback A5 one which I could just about squeeze into the pocket of my work trousers causing and uncomfortable and inconvenient rectangular bulge. I now have a small pile of incredibly flimsy but much more useful 15p-each-from-Wilkinson beauties. I can whip them out and jot a thought or sentence at will. It's tools and tricks like that that will play a deciding in role in the ongoing battle between me not being a writer, and me being a writer. One day victory will be triple underlined in the signed edition of my novel.

Good afternoon world!

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