TWO FOR TWO

Well, maybe now it could even be called three for three, if you count these words as I’m writing them. Time, you see, is an odd cove to have as your master; The situation remains at two posts in two days (possibly written for two people), but the very process of stringing these words together here actually starts to build the third, and, by the time I actually publish – or choose not to publish - this piece it will be (future tense) the freshest, newest thing to be found here (present tense), and will as be old and as raddled as yesterday’s mayfly (past tense) by the time you happy few cast your eyeballs over it in contempt.

Anyway, setting all that aside, I suppose that I should clarify whatever it is that I’m talking, no, writing about, which is of course, fairly recursive given that this is precisely what I am writing about.

The point is, as those of you who are aware of such things might have actually noticed, after a fairly barren year here in Lesser Blogfordshire, suddenly there’s been a minor glut, and some brand new, frankly bonkers, outpourings of nonsense have suddenly appeared for your delectation and delight, and on two (possibly three - if I can ever be bothered to getting around to finishing this) consecutive days, despite my obvious reluctance to continue with such follies.

Still, don’t get used to it.

I’m still not convinced that this is an appropriate use of my time, and I’m even less convinced that the universe isn’t likely to shrug in a mildly Gallic “couldn’t care less” kind of a way, and turn back to getting on with absolutely anything else, the merest insignificant morsel of which would have to be more engaging, relevant, and worthy of its attention.

Which brings us to the point, really, in a haphazard, crazy, round about kind of a way. A point that I’ve been making to myself for much of the year; If I can’t really write, surely it’s better to leave it to those who can, and to those who might actually have a point of view or an opinion that actually matters to someone. Speaking (or writing) as someone who has found themselves occupying an increasingly irrelevant corner of the cosmos has led me to finally understand that the only time that I’m wasting is my own and even I, antisocial and lazy as I am, could find far better things to occupy my time.

Meanwhile, I keep on asking myself whether I care about such matters, whilst endlessly demonstrating that I clearly, most obviously do, otherwise I wouldn’t keep on fretting, obsessing, and going on about it, even in my own mind when I’m clearly not doing it, my mind keeps on getting back to why I am not doing it, and whether anyone actually cares about whether I am.

As to whether I should care, of course, well, that’s a completely different matter. There is, after all, a lot of things that I ought to be caring about in this big, brutal world where, much as our own country did in what we like to call less civilized times, people can still be burned, butchered or beheaded simply for having a different belief system, sexual preference, drawing pictures, or writing a few words online that someone else happens to disagree with.

In the end, the fact that writing blogs is something that’s getting people murdered in other parts of the world should either make you more determined than ever to write one, or make you cower away in fear at the very prospect, even if your own outpourings are little more than a bit of relatively harmless fun.

However, and in the spirit of full disclosure, coupled with a slight sense of embarrassment about the whole thing, if I’m being honest, I am still very uncomfortable with the culture of “Meeeeee-ism” in society, culture, and (it sometimes seems) the whole ruddy world, of which, hypocritically, this must be considered a part, and so sometimes it felt as if the very best thing I could do was to run away from that, stop contributing to the general mish-mash of screaming self-obsession that currently stains our world, and that, too, has contributed to this almost schizophrenic relationship that I have developed with the online world.

Meanwhile, it has been suggested to me that, as I seem to have been drawn to the “dark side” of what we once called “microblogging”, I might wish to share some of that ephemeral chatter with you from time to time, but I’m still not very sure of the wisdom of that given that, by its very nature, the whole point of Twitter is that, like the mayfly, it’s there and then it’s gone, but maybe I’ll rethink that another day.

It has, at least, finally kindled something of an interest in the dark arts of poetry, for which I should, I think, be grateful, so that’s an optimistic side-effect few could have predicted. Anyway, anyone who wants to can sign up to Twitter, join “the conversation” and, if they really, really want to ruin their mornings, follow my nonsense via @MAW_H (I suspect usually to be found under the hashtag “WhyDon’tYouKeepYourBigMouthShut?).

After all my efforts over those past two mornings, however, it does still seem as if my little theory that the more I write, the less attention is paid to these pages, and vice versa, has indeed come to pass, as yesterday’s little offering triggered the least number of clicks on that jolly old number counter that these pages have seen in quite some time, which was, I’ll grant you, the very topic of that minor offering, even if nobody could have known that without actually reading it, which they didn’t, forming a classic paradox of a “Catch 22” kind.

Meanwhile, I’m starting to believe that my own wordsmithery has been infected by some form of mental “Chronic Fatigue Syndrome”, not that I’d ever want to call it that, or be flippant about a condition that debilitates the lives of many people, a few of whom are actually known to me. It’s merely that the symptoms I’ve been describing in terms of my writing did seem be rather similar.

Anyway, “on that bombshell” as it were, for the moment, at least, it is at least nice to find myself able to string a few words together again, even if only for a day or two, after so many months of not being able to, or even being able to pluck an idea from the ether to then not feel able to explain properly…

And so, with that in mind, Lesser Blogfordshire still lives on with its tiny life of quiet desperation, so, until the next time…

I know I'm no poet

(These words tend to show it)

Yet I spend so much time

Producing bad rhyme.

Just look at the sort of guff that you’ve (really not) been missing out on (!!!)