Posts Tagged ‘blogging’

Inevitable

Posted: March 4, 2016 in Random
Tags: , , ,

It was inevitable that I would see The Daily Post. I made light of it at the time, little realising that five minutes later I would be staring at a blank screen, incredulous as my fingers fluttered across the keyboard. Each tap, a step closer, to completing a blog post – a smile of satisfaction swept across my face – I was done. The game’s afoot – the blogging journey has begun!

Engine, engine, number nine,
On the New York transit line,
If my train goes off the track,
Pick it up! Pick it up! Pick it up!

I’m always bewildered by the random information that my mind chooses to remember. I suspect in this particular case VH1 may be to blame, as I seem to recall watching a show about seminal moments in hip-hop history. Of course why I chose not to change the channel is beyond me especially as my taste in music can best be described as bordering on eclectic and dabbling in non-existent. It’s not that I don’t enjoy music, but rather I tend to function without it.

You’re more likely to find me with my nose in a book, than having the stereo blaring. In fact I’m one of those bizarre types that appreciates peace and quiet, while I’m busy losing myself in another world. Even having the TV on in the background is what I would term an unnecessary distraction.

It’s a strange admission to concede that music isn’t exactly a focal point in my life. After all I do have somewhat of a poetic streak running through me. Admittedly it is a hidden talent if I can call it that. I can imagine it lying dusty and forgotten in the corner of one of the rooms in my mind. It only tends to rise to the surface when there’s a bit of melodrama in my life, like the creativity is fuelled by confrontation or commiserations.

I can only hope that writing poetry is like riding a bike. That no matter how long the hiatus, like an eager mistress she’ll be there waiting with slippers in one hand and a pipe in the other. A part of me misses writing poetry, and yet there is another part that is content that asks, ‘why rock the boat’?

Perhaps I’m oversimplifying and using the lack of drama to justify my creative inertia. Maybe if I just put pen to paper I’ll be surprised by the way the letters arrange themselves…

I knew it was going to be bad even before I opened it. You might think that someone in my position may have hesitated, perhaps had second thoughts, or considered the implications of their actions. But alas, no. Rather I acted like a man possessed. I laughed in the face of danger and happily skipped past the line drawn in the sand. My devil may care attitude however would be short lived.

Suffice it to say after perusing Freshly Pressed I now know more about book spines than I ever wished to. Not that it was something I often wished about mind you. That being said it was still somewhat of a revelatory experience. Food for thought, if you will. Out there somewhere in this vast oval shaped expanse we call earth, was a person, and judging by the comments section persons, who were naturally inquisitive about book spines. It begs the question, were they born this way or was it an affliction they suffered later on in life?

At this juncture, I should disclose that I too have glanced at book spines from time to time. Generally in the presence of lady company. Women like bookshelves apparently. Perhaps it’s a disguise and the only reason they buy bookshelves is so they have somewhere else to stack their collection of Cosmo magazines. I’ve often stared at these overflowing bookshelves in wonderment. Where do they find the time? How many books on relationships can one person possibly own? And why wouldn’t you Supersize a meal, it just doesn’t make any sense!  

Despite my protestations to the contrary I am a voracious reader. Maybe even too much so. Is it a result of some kind of undiagnosed ADD? Whatever the reason, I don’t tend to linger long once I’ve finished a book. No time for the moral of the story to percolate in my mind. I’ve already started plotting how I can possibly get my hands on the latest Taylor Swift autobiography- ‘Taylor Swift: The Early Years’. A short excerpt:

“My uncle Randall sure loved to play the banjo. Even now I remember sitting at his feet as he strummed away, thinking to myself, ‘Why hasn’t anyone ever told him how terrible he is?’ It was then that I vowed that I would only ever play the ukulele. Unfortunately they don’t have much need for ukuleles in Pennsylvania and so I had to make do with a guitar. But guitars and ukuleles are pretty much the same thing when you think about it. If you play from the heart it doesn’t really matter what instrument you have in your hands. Unless that instrument is a banjo because those things are ghastly! Wait I may have mentioned that already. My bad.”

Now that I have mulled it over perhaps it takes a certain wisdom to appreciate book spines. A wisdom that says there’s joy to be found in the finer details. A wisdom that says take the time to value the little things because it’s the little things that count. Or it could just be that some people are OCD.

Thankfully I’m not OCD so frankly I couldn’t care less if I’ve mentioned Taylor Swift’s name exactly 3 times in this post or not.

You just counted, didn’t you? Busted!

Writing is a disingenuous muse. A fair-weather friend. Happy to roll off the tongue when the sun is shining, but less inclined to rouse itself from under the covers when a cool temperament has taken hold.

 

Getting back into writing is akin to stage fright. All the lines are perfectly rehearsed but as soon as the spotlight starts burning, sweat trickles down my back and I become fluent in gibberish. I can’t say I have writer’s block because I’ve never really considered myself to be a writer. I’m more a collector of thoughts. A soundboard for lunacy.

 

My writing malaise is seemingly an addiction. I’m aware I have a problem. Apparently acceptance is the first step. But knowing you have a problem doesn’t stop you from ignoring it just the same. Sadly I’ve been swept along by the current of denial.

 

Writing was, or should be, one of my favourite pastimes. An escape from the by the numbers 9 to 5 tomfoolery. My mind was a crack shot at creating decibels out of silence. Creative tangents in a linear reality.

 

The well of ideas is a yawning chasm. The bucket lies in the dust disused and ignored. A reminder that thirst is fleeting. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. Still waters run deep. I take a deep breath and dive in. That’s just a convoluted way of saying I have been bitten by the writing mosquito and it feels so good to scratch.