3 most recent entries
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| "well yes, there was a certain amount of drinking going on..." 3 most recent entries |
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I finally got back from holiday in X and had an amazing time, especially in X (obviously specifics deleted to protect my 'real life' identity, 'cause apparently I am famous-style person and such discretions might compromise my celebre* identity… In my head.) When I finally got a online journal, I set out neat little boxes (in my head, always in my head) about which I could write. I resolved to keep to mass media, mainly television and films. Such resolution was to keep clear – fannishness from every day, a special little corner where an attempting grown-up could squee without it being traced back to her solemn face. [I hasten to add this is all in theory. As is evident from the general dearth of entries, I don't blog about much at all.] But when you're trying to coax and strong-arm yourself into writing frequently, shutting down avenues is not a fabulous idea. Attempting to reduce the potential for scribbling is (and this is a breakthrough for super-genius me) not the best idea for increasing productivity. I attempted to reduce the amount of books and music talked about because its too close to me. So I'm going to move away from that position and admit the obvious – that life, that who you are, bleeds into everything. I still fear the notion of being naked on the internet, that a friend might somehow come across the journal and click that it's me, and spot the nooks and crannies that anonymity allows. But I'm too fond of my compartments to abandon them altogether. But I think that in order to write anything with any frequency, I'll have to loosen my grip on my little boxes. Begin Begin again to the summoning birds to the sight of light at the window, begin to the roar of morning traffic all along Pembroke Road. Every beginning is a promise born in light and dying in the dark determination and exaltation of springtime flowering the way to work. Begin to the pageant of queuing girls the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal bridges linking the past and future old friends passing through with us still. Begin to the loneliness that cannot end since it perhaps I what makes us begin, begin to wonder at unknown faces at crying birds in the sudden rain at branches stark in the willing sunlight at seagulls foraging for bread at couples sharing a sunny secret alone together while making good. Though we live in a world that dreams of ending that always seems about to give in something that will not acknowledge conclusion insists that we forever begin Brendan Kennelly
They say the more often you post, the easier it is. They lie. I sit down to type and feel flummoxed, and stuff I want to write about becomes (to me) tiresome, unmanageable Herculean tasks. I'll keep on, and perhaps learn frequency and succinctness of posting, but first let me waffle on about HP!
Spent evening playing around with IJ. I'll give it one thing over LJ (apart from the glaringly obvious reason that fen are migrating here) - plenty of userpics for me to mess around about with. post a comment |
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