I think that I'm just treading water with this blog now, ticking off the days as we head towards the end of another year…
Ever since I noticed that there was still an outside chance of actually making it to the 365 postings ("A Blog A Day") mark for this year after all (and despite my many lapses), I've suddenly found myself with nothing much to write about, so it's become something of (yet another) stick to beat myself with, made doubly troubling ("Doubly Troubling" - I like that… could be the name of a character in something…) by the number of postings that I know that I've done where there were hardly any words at all, which means that they hardly even count as "blogs", and the sure-fire knowledge that this whole process really, really, ought not to be too difficult.
And yet, sometimes, it is...
And yet, sometimes, it is...
After all, a couple of paragraphs about what's going on really ought not to be beyond me, even if I try not to talk about work (for obvious professional reasons) and my Beloved does not like me to talk about her, and I have little in the way of friends and family to get me into all sorts of scrapes.
But, you know, I do still just about have a pulse, and I do venture out of my door in the morning, and things do actually happen around me as I plod my way along and through this great big shiny world. Conversations… Events… Really, really annoying items on the radio… but often I know that they've either been better said already, or they are just far too tedious for even me to bother with putting finger to keyboard and expound upon.
But, you know, I do still just about have a pulse, and I do venture out of my door in the morning, and things do actually happen around me as I plod my way along and through this great big shiny world. Conversations… Events… Really, really annoying items on the radio… but often I know that they've either been better said already, or they are just far too tedious for even me to bother with putting finger to keyboard and expound upon.
So, instead I drearily talk on and on at great (or perhaps not so great) length about the inner me (a dark and frightening place), or things that trouble me when I listen to the news, or just - if I'm getting really desperate - stuff that I've bought, or stuff that I have that I've rediscovered, or stuff that I just enjoy.
Hence the stupid amount of telly talk, or sad, desperate mornings like these when I might feel that I may yet have to resort to admitting to having played virtually all of the "Queen" back catalogue in the car during my commute in recent weeks for some bizarre reason which now utterly escapes me, or those terrible, terrible mornings when the Blog starts to eat itself and I merely ramble on about the process of Blogging or, perhaps, Not Blogging.
Like today…
Because we've come to that point of the year where the (almost) inevitable internal debates begin; Should I really bother with trying to stagger through yet another year of trying to come up with some daily thoughts about nothing in particular, especially when "nothing in particular" appears to be mostly what I do?
Not only that, but the nothings in particular that I do tend to burble on about seem to have less and less to do with the lives of everyone else with whom I fail to engage, and those very nothings appear, perhaps without any irony, appear to be appealing to nobody in particular.
My "most read" (or at least "most clicked on") pieces remain those two posts which strangely have little in common other than having the word "post" in their post titles, with an observation about Penguin biscuits coming in a distant third… and everything else that I have bothered to churn out has been all but proven to be utterly irrelevant, except to a very choice of a few very special people.
You know who you are…
So here I sit, trying my best to think until my forehead bleeds of another eight or nine things to rattle out a few words about to fill those last few notches on the calendar's quota board as the year as almost arbitrarily designed as a human construct in response to making some sort of order from the motions of our little blue planet meanders to its inevitable conclusion, and somehow, as that final hurdle looms, the mental well seems to have frozen over, and the tiny bucket that I plunge into it from time to time is merely bouncing off the surface and not bringing me the fresh, clear spring water to my stream of consciousness that I want it to, and that well water is not so much being trodden as skated over, slipped on, and smashed into as the smooth-bottomed shoe of time leads to the Accident and Emergency Department of destiny.
Possibly...
Could I really stand putting myself through another year of such torture…?
I guess we'll all find out soon enough, eh…?
Like today…
Because we've come to that point of the year where the (almost) inevitable internal debates begin; Should I really bother with trying to stagger through yet another year of trying to come up with some daily thoughts about nothing in particular, especially when "nothing in particular" appears to be mostly what I do?
Not only that, but the nothings in particular that I do tend to burble on about seem to have less and less to do with the lives of everyone else with whom I fail to engage, and those very nothings appear, perhaps without any irony, appear to be appealing to nobody in particular.
My "most read" (or at least "most clicked on") pieces remain those two posts which strangely have little in common other than having the word "post" in their post titles, with an observation about Penguin biscuits coming in a distant third… and everything else that I have bothered to churn out has been all but proven to be utterly irrelevant, except to a very choice of a few very special people.
You know who you are…
So here I sit, trying my best to think until my forehead bleeds of another eight or nine things to rattle out a few words about to fill those last few notches on the calendar's quota board as the year as almost arbitrarily designed as a human construct in response to making some sort of order from the motions of our little blue planet meanders to its inevitable conclusion, and somehow, as that final hurdle looms, the mental well seems to have frozen over, and the tiny bucket that I plunge into it from time to time is merely bouncing off the surface and not bringing me the fresh, clear spring water to my stream of consciousness that I want it to, and that well water is not so much being trodden as skated over, slipped on, and smashed into as the smooth-bottomed shoe of time leads to the Accident and Emergency Department of destiny.
Possibly...
Could I really stand putting myself through another year of such torture…?
I guess we'll all find out soon enough, eh…?
"the smooth-bottomed shoe of time....." Ha ha. Humph would have been proud.
ReplyDelete