It’s 11pm now and I’m just home; I’m back up at 7am for the open.
Oh hello, though, two cheeky semi-colons in two paragraphs? Ambassador, with these luxurious punctuation marks you’re really spoiling us!
So… yeah…. Loss of neurological efficacy has begun. Brain integrity at… 54%, and falling fast!
Try to reroute some… Blork. I’m too tired to do that bit. Imagine I’m doing a funny bit transposing the tiredness of my brain into the trope of a damaged Star Trek ship. Make a joke about the egregious use of lens flare and how the bit must be being directed by JJ Abrams. You can do it. I’ve got faith.
I’ll just sit here and finish my Lady Grey. Mmm. Lady Grey - for the times when drinking Earl Grey just isn’t effeminate enough!
I'm joking. Man is what man does, and this man here luuuuurves his delicate Lady Greys. And Jordan Peterson can suck it.
I was only going to do a short post last night. It was past midnight. And then I started writing about God and that, and next thing it was 3:30am and I realised I’d done it again. And then lying in bed I kept letting go of my body and letting the sounds of the falling rain envelop me and letting my brain go loose… and immediately some thought would come to me about a blog post to write or something that needed noting down, so I’d sigh and sit up and turn on the light and grab my notebook and write the thought out - because experience says you’ve always forgotten by the morning, and the idea has gone forever, and this is the job, whether you want it to be or not. And so I’d get it down, close the notebook, turn off the light, lie back down, listen to the rain, feel the weight of my body, close my eyes… and, Phoooosh, another wildly important thought that I knew I had to jot down.
Or, not even wildly important. Most of them end up as nonsense. But you have to plant enough seeds that some of them sprout, and if you refuse to plant the seeds that probably won’t make it you end up with none that make it. So you have to treat each one as if it’s the only thought in the world, be serious about it, give it the room it needs, give it nourishment, dig out enough soil, pop the seed in there and cover it up.
And then you read back the next day and think, What the hell was I on last night?
But you have to do it. You have to do it.
So my brain, I guess enlivened by the God chat, had shaken it’s schema of understanding, and now bits of detritus were floating downstream into my consciousness unbidden, and it was my job to scoop them out and clean off the mud and put them in a safe place for later.
Mixing metaphors there. But I kept thinking of things to write until half six in the morning, is what I’m saying. And then I was up at half nine for work. Yuk yuk yuk.
OK. That was some words. I've done my words. That’s me out. Last of brain’s structure is collapsing, the warp core is flickering, time to crash this bastard into San Francisco and have an anticlimactic fist fight on top of a hovercar, or something.
I’m outtie.
……
Dammit, music. Unnnnn. High Horse, by Kacey Musgraves. She sounds like the cast off from an excised first-draft stanza of Jabberwocky. "All kacey were the musgraves, and the mome raths outgrabe."
I was only going to do a short post last night. It was past midnight. And then I started writing about God and that, and next thing it was 3:30am and I realised I’d done it again. And then lying in bed I kept letting go of my body and letting the sounds of the falling rain envelop me and letting my brain go loose… and immediately some thought would come to me about a blog post to write or something that needed noting down, so I’d sigh and sit up and turn on the light and grab my notebook and write the thought out - because experience says you’ve always forgotten by the morning, and the idea has gone forever, and this is the job, whether you want it to be or not. And so I’d get it down, close the notebook, turn off the light, lie back down, listen to the rain, feel the weight of my body, close my eyes… and, Phoooosh, another wildly important thought that I knew I had to jot down.
Or, not even wildly important. Most of them end up as nonsense. But you have to plant enough seeds that some of them sprout, and if you refuse to plant the seeds that probably won’t make it you end up with none that make it. So you have to treat each one as if it’s the only thought in the world, be serious about it, give it the room it needs, give it nourishment, dig out enough soil, pop the seed in there and cover it up.
And then you read back the next day and think, What the hell was I on last night?
But you have to do it. You have to do it.
So my brain, I guess enlivened by the God chat, had shaken it’s schema of understanding, and now bits of detritus were floating downstream into my consciousness unbidden, and it was my job to scoop them out and clean off the mud and put them in a safe place for later.
Mixing metaphors there. But I kept thinking of things to write until half six in the morning, is what I’m saying. And then I was up at half nine for work. Yuk yuk yuk.
OK. That was some words. I've done my words. That’s me out. Last of brain’s structure is collapsing, the warp core is flickering, time to crash this bastard into San Francisco and have an anticlimactic fist fight on top of a hovercar, or something.
I’m outtie.
……
Dammit, music. Unnnnn. High Horse, by Kacey Musgraves. She sounds like the cast off from an excised first-draft stanza of Jabberwocky. "All kacey were the musgraves, and the mome raths outgrabe."
The Guardian reckons this is the 18th best song of the year. It’s… not for me. I’m, uhh, not the target demographic. And I’m watching the music video, and I never watch music videos any more, I don’t think I’ve even been on a music channel on TV since about 2007 (or been on a TV, for that matter), and isn’t it just so fucking astonishing that if you want to be a singer, in 2018, and you’re a woman, part of the bargain to get famous is still that you have to strut around in hot pants and little dresses and plunge tops, fluttering your lashes, in full makeup, prancing coquettishly? Maybe it’s because I was expecting this to be Radio 6 music, because I found it on the Guardian, and it's Radio 1 music. But, like, what’s being an objectified acquiescent little plastic doll got to do with singing? When did we conflate using vocal tonality and rhythm as an artform with being an object of titillation for adolescent boys? Oh my God, it can fuck off. That whole music machine can cock the fuck off. I’m going to bed. Good night.
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