Monday, April 25, 2016
As a zen master of the highest order, I’ve taken to scrolling through what passes for motivational bling on my Twitter feed every Monday.
Like the #ff brigade before them, and the #throwbackthursday people 24 hours before that, the #motivationmonday mob now stands poised to flex its inspirational genitalia before our eyes and perform future-creating miracles simply by tugging deftly on any loose skin.
Occasionally, there are gems, but mostly these are verbatim quotes, ripped from the lips of dead sages.
We are parading our laundry right now, occasionally setting chemise against panty and hinting at a whole new spiritual outfit.
But for the most part, no one is saying anything inspiring or incendiary — like “what happens when we’re all super motivated as can be?”
I figure that could be a real hot potato.
Or is it po-tar-to?
Uh oh. Bloodbath.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Is it really ten years since Evil Editor started blogging?
Yes — yes it is.
Only bizarre Caribbean terrapins and multiply tucked Hollywood celebrities shall outlive him!
If you’re driving by on a frantic tab cruise between shower breaks right now, why not check out his first ever post.
It’s a masterclass in how to suck in the links ten years later, though I suspect at the time EE was merely trying to be funny...
Thursday, April 21, 2016
There is a moment when words, pre-written or pre-spoken, meet their do-or-die flashpoint.
Either they will pass into some form of public domain, or they will go unspoken.
And herein lies the dilemma.
What if what you want to say is provocative or challenging or offbeat?
I have known many times when I have held thoughts of this nature and refrained from releasing them.
We all do this: have these kinds of thoughts and these kinds of responses to them.
Sometimes it isn’t apt or appropriate to voice heresy, and sometimes intimidation forces your hand, and I wonder what happens to these unspoken words.
(And by heresy here, I do not simply mean calling Christ a cock — I refer to the thought that doesn’t quite smooth with the moment.)
My guess is that these words slither back down your penthroat and redouble their efforts for the next time.
Perhaps they dress a little different, the better to be heard, or perhaps they strip to the waist and prepare to do battle anew.
Whatever happens, all this reincarnatory lifepulse counts for nothing if they duck out again when they get the next chance.
And by them, I mean you.
Make a habit of this, and what happens to your voice?
Your inner wardrobe of reinvigoration?
Your epiglottal punchbag?
Perhaps language affords us an opportunity to add finesse to our obscenities so the intrinsic awkwardness of being singular can count for something.
Bit by punctuated bit, we learn to give voice to our passions in ways that endear us to the people we need.
It’s either that or hanging out alone, with nothing to say.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Picking up from my last blog post, I got to wondering about a book I read a while back (as in probably when no one had heard of Nirvana.)
The book in question was called Six Thinking Hats by Edward “Up My Own Arse” De Bono.
As I recall, he argued that business meetings and discussions would be more productive if people took on roles, in much the same way that the successful busting of fantasy dungeons depends on a symbiotically constructive spread of fighters, healers, mages and dubiosity specialists.
(If that’s not what the book was about, then so much for the power of its lasting impression.)
Anyways, I always figured the book was junk because you don’t need people to adopt roles in that way if you first of all ensure that you have the right people on your team.
And — only six hats?
What is this? Magic the Gathering with a canary?
But, like I say, I have been thinking...
I suppose, in its way, this blog requires me to don a “hat”.
(Prolly it is more of a snakeskin belt, ooh ooh, yeah — with a chunky pirate-themed buckle, puh-lease.)
And I suppose what I was saying last time is how it is sometimes difficult to distinguish which hat you are wearing.
I was writing specifically about writing, but I realise now that this point applies to everything in my life.
Like, yeah — I have my Writing “hat”.
Also my Dad “truss”.
My Partner “straitjacket”.
My Wasp Cooking “tights”.
I have multiple interchangeable wardrobes of being, and it’s not always possible to dress consistently.
Hence the sporadic nature of my blog output right now compared to other stuff I’m writing.
Why, those varmint projects are sucking the life out of my platform here as Whirl!
How they conspire to offer me up as a crisp and withered phantom!
My suspicion is that any concept of “hats” (or whatever) is a momentary illusion.
For a time, we may be drilled down on one thing or directing our output along a particular channel.
But it is in our nature to transform.
It’s in our genes to mushy out on the combinatorial.
And let’s not forget good old procrastination!
How bizarre it would be if we struck out on a single path and just kept going.
How weird if we did not meander like caponised ganders.
I know it’s a big deal these days to BE MOTIVATED.
To get a fix on your direction, and head on out in spite of all obstacles.
But, like De Bono’s Six Hat junk, I suspect this POV will look ridiculous in 20 years time.
Kinda looks ridiculous to me already.
Boy George: An icon of purest mustard in a cosmos aswill with sin.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
When it comes to channelling literary fluids along my various pipes, I’m typically pretty vigilant.
But not this week
Such is my intermingliary confluence potential right now that I can’t be sure I’ll even make it to the end of this sentence without going off on a tangent unconsciously summoned by some other project.
Thing is, I much prefer things this way.
It is how stuff works in real life, out there in the pre-socmedpoopscape where the analogue myth of quantum living re-analogues itself in a kind of perceptual slurry.
People are impossibly moody in this place, and competing narratives channel hop the poncey doncey out of one another beneath the blancmangeclouds of Celebrity’s eerily fixed personas.
If writing is a net trained on the sensible, it surely allows the juiciest stuff to escape, preserving only eels strung out along the strings — or fish so stupid they endeavour only to swim for freedom backwards.
(Probably, in California, there are gold nuggets, and even the odd Icelandic nomad must own a nettable mobile phone, but you get my point. Or do you? My literary fluids per-lump round my network as if plumbed by a pan-flow cocktail enthusiast.)
Out of my system.
Time to go and write about BRAS.
Monday, April 4, 2016
The internet feels very pixel-crisp right now.
Sharp images and even pointier narratives cavort like serial hussies, elevating big ideas for the benefit of all shared mankinds.
It’s a pulse of gamified glitz, the opening shot in a spectacular mass unfurlment of spirit.
Also: increasingly meaningless.
I am reminded of the moment in every lock-in reality show where the contestants announce their arrival in a flash of pre-prepared grandeur.
Every tooth gleams, every hairdo swishes, every cleavage ejaculates — all before a single gratuitously unbearable word has been uttered.
This persists for any number of self-reincarnating agonies, till the squeak of anal contraction threatens to rip all muscles from spines in an orgy of post-splurge awkwardness.
Then everyone gets cagey, edgy.
That’s probably where we’re at with the internet right now.
So — what next?
2020 looms, and with it, all manner of unflaunty fluffing around.
Assuming it doesn’t take everyone forever to work out who sleeps where, the main event of the “first night in the house” happens right here.
As masks are peeled back to the skimpies, the twin behemoths of SNORING and FARTING stomp their way closer to their inevitable exit holes.
Now comes fitful sleep — and the exercise of isometric rictus.
Millennial feely popsicles will almost certainly retract deep into flesh, their antennae probes replaced with embarrassing wisps of gas and sound waves only an elephant seal could interpret.
Playtime soon gonna be over, kittens.
Friday, April 1, 2016
Blogging is such a weird thing.
I am reminded of my friend’s all-body courgette tattoo.
She’s had it now for just short of 58 years, and though it always comes as a surprise to strangers that she isn’t descended from a line of subterranean lizard people, those of us who know her forgot long ago that she is green and pseudo-warty from head to toe.
It’s just how she is.
So, hey — it’s my 8th bloggiversary today, and I almost forgot.
Maybe I should spend the day checking for lumps.