“Fine, I’m just going to masturbate in front of you.” That’s what I get this evening when I say it’s time to write my blog. Thankfully it’s a knowing joke. I now find myself lying on the sofa opposite a very active Tristan who is learning in “Forgotten Weapons” about double stack magazine housings for the MP40 (not adopted). Whatever the fuck that means. (Well, the Wehrmacht decided not to pick them up)? (I think my friend is a geek not a fascist…)
Most of the time these days I get away with making words in all sorts of different circumstances. Being able to eloquently write into my phone via swype integration to Google keyboard – that is pryceless. I write swiftly and eloquently into my phone, and I do it by tracing curves. It’s the perfect balance for somebody like me who loves curls and corners and strangeness but also needs to feel like it all needs to make some sort of sense. Aisleen once saw me writing like this and reacted with surprised interest. It is, to my mind, a revolution in writing. Since Apple destroyed iPad typing with multitouch, this iteration of Google keyboard has been far and away the swiftest and most intuitive writing medium for someone like me who thinks in curves.
There’s some sort of contract I don’t fully understand that I try to maintain with this blog. My main concern is consistency over time. I try not to name people because I’ve learnt. I once agreed to “promote” somebody in exchange for cheaper photographs and I very quickly realised I should’ve held back on that offer because their expectation was far from my truth. Nothing would have been good enough but for “I had my photo taken by the best photographer that has ever existed, please don’t kill me.”
This blog is just a bunch of words thrown together, but the words are mine.
And I enjoy throwing different words together. And at least I can try to pretend to myself I’m honest so long as the market doesn’t get involved. But the longer I go the more I feel I should start to make monetary sense of this daily idiocy, or of the instinct that promotes it. But that is another story and shall be told another time.
I let Tristan out onto a main road today. It was terrifying. He’s a contentious bastard at the best of times – that’s his special skill. But having to let him be the one behind the wheel? It required a certain level of terrified surrender. I’m glad we managed a whole two hours without dying or crashing. Now I’m round him and Tanya’s and I’m winding out. Tomorrow I’m doing a read-through that involves a reasonably good publisher, which should make me care about my material, but… Well but A: I am not writing for gain. B: If gain becomes an issue I’m unlikely to get giddy about it. Which obviates C: Profit. Sorry, C. Sorry, underpant gnomes. Keep gathering underpants. It’ll make sense one day.
The one thing I can be glad of is my recent journey out of London, down to the coast. I can think into the sea. There’s clarity in the water, if I look that way.