“She tune in till the tune suits her right she tune in till the dial come alright she tune the dial till the needles.’s in the white tune in tonight tune in tonight tune in tonight… …try to think of nothing…” I’ve picked up Circe’s habit of starting entries with obscure (or not so obscure) […]
“She tune in till the tune suits her right
she tune in till the dial come alright
she tune the dial till the needles.’s in the white
tune in tonight
tune in tonight
tune in tonight…
…try to think of nothing…”
I’ve picked up Circe’s habit of starting entries with obscure (or not so obscure) song lyrics. But I like it as a device, and since I think of almost everything in terms of song lyrics (or in terms of sex, or in terms of monty python – god, imagine what I was like as a teenager, with this trio of influences running through my pot-fueled brain. Yeah, that’s it exactly, annoying as hell), it sort of makes sense to me.
I had one of those nights last night; awoke a 4am with my brain running at absolutely maximum speed, like I could actually hear clockwork running and synapses firing. Oh, and did I mention it’s damned cold in my house? Rats in my heater. Don’t ask. So anyway I’m lying there thinking about why I can’t stop thinking. Thinking about the work that needs to get done this week, the deadline for two projects, the headcount drain in my group that lead to a team of six becoming a team of two. And I’m thinking about all the stories I want to write, another of which I started last night (why the fuck can’t I stop that, I need to finish one before I start anymore. Someone out there, crack the whip). Oh, and about friends who’re having trouble with child care and new jobs, with husbands they don’t want but can’t leave, with mates who may or may not be the one, with friends are upset about having to say no. And how I’m gonna pay for the fucking rats in my heater.
This stuff, of course, all seems quite manageable in daylight. With a hand-painted demitasse full of steaming home-made espresso (Peet’s Italian Roast, made in my freshly cleaned Gaggia espresso machine, no automated crap for me!), I feel quite honestly there’s no problem I cannot solve. Kirk in that story line (ok, help me here trek geeks, which film was that?) where he hacks the simulation because he does not believe in an unsolvable problem? That’s me. Really. Give me time I’ll come up with something for all of these issues. Even the one about the saying no.
4am though. What is it, the worrying hour? Or maybe it’s just that cold makes my brain over-heat. Maybe it’s too much blood in my caffeine system. Hell if I know.
Aside: I should talk about the call I got over the weekend, from my mother, who had just read a piece of my writing for the first time. But I think that’s another whole entry.
So more comments on blogging. I have observed interesting things lately in some other friend’s blogs; first Circe, one of the best bloggers I’ve ever read (ok that’s not a huge sample but still) worrying that she’s not writing as well as she should because some nitwit bagged on her (As if). And then she said something like “Blog as if no one is reading”. Now this thought sort of set the mongeese (yes, that IS the plural of mongoose, fuck you if you disagree mister dictionary, I invoke the Humpty Dumpty Principle) to battling the cobras in my mind. I realize true journalers write for themselves, but – well – ah – what’s the fucking point in that when you’re in a blog, right? Because a blog by it’s nature is a public forum – because a blog isn’t the same as some ratty little book you keep tucked away from prying eyes. People can claim it is, but it isn’t. People can write like it is, but it isn’t. Maybe it should be though. That’s one for further consideration.
I guess there’s a funny line we walk, some of us who like the freedom to talk about ourselves but still need some shell, some curtain to draw to leave a little privacy and mystery. I read something similar in Doxy’s blog not so long ago, about “A lot of me. But not ALL of me” which I rather liked because, while my name is really attached to this thing, I still by nature am not going to be able to do what some bloggers can, and simply spill the id out upon the type-written page. It’s not (at least not yet) in me to do so. I suspect it never will be. I’d rather lurk in the shadows and leap out at you like a nosferatu, clutching my skinny white fingers and flashing my fangs, than dance in the spotlight with my tits hanging out like Miss Jackson.
Then there’s Sam. Who started with one blog she wasn’t updating. And then added another that she updates less. She’s now up to three she doesn’t update. What I’m wondering is, how many does she have to start before she finishes one? Sam, let’s make a deal. You start updating more and I’ll start finishing stories. Really. Promise.
Sigh. Is it friday yet? No? Ok, then is it the drinking hour? Damn, that’s gotta be close.