Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Reckoner
02/02/10
Following Andrea baby's (oh yes, we're doing babys now- but not in that way) proclamation that my last post was decidedly 'too short' and the enthusiasm and bubbling eagerness that reading Salinger brings about I've decided to plunge back into the blogging business with a renewed, perhaps slightly violent, gusto and update you on my wonderful life.
I've also decided I don't like the fence much. The detached, stoic mark of charcoal that is the writer on the fence; producing effortless, sophisticated prose in between languid drags of a cigarette, while she/he leans (not slouches) on the planks of wood (slightly damp from the last nights spring showers)that separates she/he from their alcoholic, semi-detached neighbours and their autistic son, watching the rising sun bulge ominously against the clouds.
It's no fun. No fun I tell you. When words are rabidly frothing out of you like bicarbonate of soda and vinegar why contain it? Why control it? I'm going to write my heart out at some point-I briefly remember resolving to do this some time not long ago, in fact, having just checked, in the last post before this(remember: recycling will save our future)- I just need to gather enough heart to make it through and to make it memorable and affecting and wonderfully cathartic but till then you're stuck with bricks, poor,gentle reader-or, just Andrea right now.
I'm going to stop all that right now because I've promised to-
03/0/10
What I was going to say when I as rudely interrupted by my pathetic attention span was that I've promised to tell you about my wonderful, wonderful life,(and I do stick to my promises; principals ya know) placing all my efforts into providing a masochistically honest drag and drop of every awkward and mundane detail excepting the colour of my pants-
well, maybe not that far, we don't want to become uncivilised ,do we? No, Ill hold on to Marlowe's bloody boots, at least for the moment. I will though tell you the colour of my underwear. It's red. There: Intimacy. Glad we got that out of the way. Now, away from italics and back to business, back to the Question: What did I do today? I'll reply to that with another question because It's my blog and I've suddenly rediscovered the power that that gives me and practically forces me to use: what do I ever do that's worth mentioning? I brood, I paint, I read, I am. I also, you might be shocked to hear, talk to people. There are two boys, guys, blokes who I sorta hang out with with a bunch of other people, they have a thing for pigeons. I love how I manage to meet all the mad people. Their quirks tickle my world with a little colour.
I want to talk about the people I meet more extensively but all the words I've used have left me dry, but one last morsel of information, for the way back, since you've been so patient with me.
I'm working on a piece now,a painting as it happens, which tries, hopes, to explore loss through the cutting of the hair.
Following Andrea baby's (oh yes, we're doing babys now- but not in that way) proclamation that my last post was decidedly 'too short' and the enthusiasm and bubbling eagerness that reading Salinger brings about I've decided to plunge back into the blogging business with a renewed, perhaps slightly violent, gusto and update you on my wonderful life.
I've also decided I don't like the fence much. The detached, stoic mark of charcoal that is the writer on the fence; producing effortless, sophisticated prose in between languid drags of a cigarette, while she/he leans (not slouches) on the planks of wood (slightly damp from the last nights spring showers)that separates she/he from their alcoholic, semi-detached neighbours and their autistic son, watching the rising sun bulge ominously against the clouds.
It's no fun. No fun I tell you. When words are rabidly frothing out of you like bicarbonate of soda and vinegar why contain it? Why control it? I'm going to write my heart out at some point-I briefly remember resolving to do this some time not long ago, in fact, having just checked, in the last post before this(remember: recycling will save our future)- I just need to gather enough heart to make it through and to make it memorable and affecting and wonderfully cathartic but till then you're stuck with bricks, poor,gentle reader-or, just Andrea right now.
I'm going to stop all that right now because I've promised to-
03/0/10
What I was going to say when I as rudely interrupted by my pathetic attention span was that I've promised to tell you about my wonderful, wonderful life,(and I do stick to my promises; principals ya know) placing all my efforts into providing a masochistically honest drag and drop of every awkward and mundane detail excepting the colour of my pants-
well, maybe not that far, we don't want to become uncivilised ,do we? No, Ill hold on to Marlowe's bloody boots, at least for the moment. I will though tell you the colour of my underwear. It's red. There: Intimacy. Glad we got that out of the way. Now, away from italics and back to business, back to the Question: What did I do today? I'll reply to that with another question because It's my blog and I've suddenly rediscovered the power that that gives me and practically forces me to use: what do I ever do that's worth mentioning? I brood, I paint, I read, I am. I also, you might be shocked to hear, talk to people. There are two boys, guys, blokes who I sorta hang out with with a bunch of other people, they have a thing for pigeons. I love how I manage to meet all the mad people. Their quirks tickle my world with a little colour.
I want to talk about the people I meet more extensively but all the words I've used have left me dry, but one last morsel of information, for the way back, since you've been so patient with me.
I'm working on a piece now,a painting as it happens, which tries, hopes, to explore loss through the cutting of the hair.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Amour
I think of things that I want to say, that I want to type up here when i'm on the train or when i'm out but by the time I make it back home to the laptop the desire to communicate dissipates.
I want to be honest and impressionistic and write my heart out. Let's not plan scentences, let's not plan feelings.
I should shower at some point.
I want to be honest and impressionistic and write my heart out. Let's not plan scentences, let's not plan feelings.
I should shower at some point.
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