I am a worried man
I am worried that I will never be a great writer. I try and try, I practice incessantly, I make the letters line up properly like words, and make the words line up properly like sentences, and it looks write to me, but then I get these great moments of doubt, and so I go to these online places where the other writers are. And I see that they argue all the time, saying "no, you are wrong, it is not that, it is this", and I realise that I do not have that part inside me which can manfully ignore the various possibilities and seize instead upon only one way in which something can be, can be understood, can not be, can not be right, is, is wrong. And so I am sad because I know I can never be a writer until I learn this thing which I do not have within me. And I am sad because of this.
I am sad because I try to play with my Pookahs, but every time I think I am getting the hang of it they run around me laughing and I have to stand here like the piggy in the middle with my trousers round my ankles. Why can I not learn how to use belts properly? It is the fundamental thing to Pookah games, belting up and not being caught by an unexpected flop.
I am sad because I want to read the things other people are saying about the world and think "yes, I know, this is right, or this is wrong", but I cannot. I read and think, "I have seen this before, it is dressed up in a clever new fashion, but it is an old game". And I curse myself for having analysed so many things so deeply that I cannot watch the conjurers do their tricks any more.
I am sad because I would like to listen to rare and recherche music and tell everybody that I am listening to something that only 1024,768,640,480 other people in the world will have bought, instead of the 2^64 unthinking listeners, but I do not know how to find such things. And when I have bought some of them, they have sounded so strange to me that I did not want to tell people about how I felt while listening to them. I am sad because I like to listen to some music that nobody would want to read about, only to listen to.
I am sad because although I can be disdainful of my partner and her daughters and use them as foils to my acerbic wit, I do not hate them enough to wish that they should put paper bags over their heads while I am with them, or thinking about them, or writing of them, and I realise that *that* is why I can never be a writer, I cannot manage my misogynistic side. I cannot be cruel enough to torture, maim, and kill my creations for my own amusement, let alone my readers'.
I am sad, because I do not have it in me to be offhandedly cruel, and I do not have it in me to be intentionally cruel, I can only be accidentally cruel. And I am worried about that, because I feel that I am only half a man because of it.
I am worried that I am sad, and nobody will ever be able to help me, not ever, and things will always be like this and never change, and I am going to be sad for ever.
But I am mostly worried that I am not sad enough and can never be a proper writer.
Heh, as if I am. Bollocks to you dualistic witterers and duelistic witticists. Kiss my lying arse, on one cheek, or on the other cheek, or right between the cheeks. Yin and yang, I call the cheeks, and the Tao, I call the whole between the extremes. Kiss my Tao.
* how come all
* your poets fall
* into despondencies?
* And write it down
* for us to read
* every indignity?
* Not such worthy specimens,
* these creatures,
* hardly fit for
* what you call
* the good life
* And it seems
* the thinkers you call
* greatest,
* are the ones
* who fall ill young
* and pine away.
* How can they help
* but drag the species down?
I am sad because I try to play with my Pookahs, but every time I think I am getting the hang of it they run around me laughing and I have to stand here like the piggy in the middle with my trousers round my ankles. Why can I not learn how to use belts properly? It is the fundamental thing to Pookah games, belting up and not being caught by an unexpected flop.
I am sad because I want to read the things other people are saying about the world and think "yes, I know, this is right, or this is wrong", but I cannot. I read and think, "I have seen this before, it is dressed up in a clever new fashion, but it is an old game". And I curse myself for having analysed so many things so deeply that I cannot watch the conjurers do their tricks any more.
I am sad because I would like to listen to rare and recherche music and tell everybody that I am listening to something that only 1024,768,640,480 other people in the world will have bought, instead of the 2^64 unthinking listeners, but I do not know how to find such things. And when I have bought some of them, they have sounded so strange to me that I did not want to tell people about how I felt while listening to them. I am sad because I like to listen to some music that nobody would want to read about, only to listen to.
I am sad because although I can be disdainful of my partner and her daughters and use them as foils to my acerbic wit, I do not hate them enough to wish that they should put paper bags over their heads while I am with them, or thinking about them, or writing of them, and I realise that *that* is why I can never be a writer, I cannot manage my misogynistic side. I cannot be cruel enough to torture, maim, and kill my creations for my own amusement, let alone my readers'.
I am sad, because I do not have it in me to be offhandedly cruel, and I do not have it in me to be intentionally cruel, I can only be accidentally cruel. And I am worried about that, because I feel that I am only half a man because of it.
I am worried that I am sad, and nobody will ever be able to help me, not ever, and things will always be like this and never change, and I am going to be sad for ever.
But I am mostly worried that I am not sad enough and can never be a proper writer.
Heh, as if I am. Bollocks to you dualistic witterers and duelistic witticists. Kiss my lying arse, on one cheek, or on the other cheek, or right between the cheeks. Yin and yang, I call the cheeks, and the Tao, I call the whole between the extremes. Kiss my Tao.
* how come all
* your poets fall
* into despondencies?
* And write it down
* for us to read
* every indignity?
* Not such worthy specimens,
* these creatures,
* hardly fit for
* what you call
* the good life
* And it seems
* the thinkers you call
* greatest,
* are the ones
* who fall ill young
* and pine away.
* How can they help
* but drag the species down?
posted by Sopwith-Camel | 9:52 am
10 Comments:
Not only that, I expect that you walk like a camel straight to the rack with the snack cakes having the highest sugar content and damn the monosodium glutamate.
I was recently burned for a witch by a coven of Christians, and I am thankful that they were not using the same strike-on-box stick matches that start my woodstove, because if they were I'd still be tied on the pyre listening to the hateful bitches curse the matches.
Those gaggles of writerly folk who grasp a gerund with an eye toward wringing its writer's neck have only that to fall back upon so forgive them, they know not what can be done.
You know do you not the principles of sequential logic, and that words are read in the order written, and assigned the denotative and connotative meanings common to them, firing the reader's single synapse accordingly. What then could you possibly need in order to pursue your programming duties with vigor?
If you wish your Pookahs to play as do nice people, you must first tie them down and force into their veins the nicepeople drug which can only be found in Room 101 on the third shelf from the left; instead you might be glad they show you to be the cosmic clown you are and learn to walk to the bus with your ankles panted together, the gaggling bitches will laugh and point at you and in that way they deepen the chasm between themselves and all that needs be.
And by the way I particularly fancy this latest post of yours, not because of its parodic sarcasm but because you've used sentences plain enough for this moron to understand, devoid of meanings known only to some few geese.
For myself I am resurrected once again from the latest burning so it seems time to curse the matches again and warm the hovel.
Stay warm friend, it's cold in company with cunts.
Boots tramped out : "I particularly fancy this latest post of yours, not because of its parodic sarcasm but because you've used sentences plain enough for this moron to understand"
Ah, well, you have to admire his style and form, they are both models for us all.
"My girlfriend's a model. She's an Airfix kit of a Stuka dive-bomber." (Alexei Sayle)
"Boots tramped out..."
I fear poor boots is dead, burned by a coven of bitches, and nobody remains.
"Ah, well, you have to admire his style and form, they are both models for us all."
Are you feeling a bit pissy this morning, have I offended you with some accidental cruelty, or need I sign up (once again) for remedial reading?
And speaking of models, did you see the bit on bbc news about Barbie reaching the rotting old age of 50 and what she'd look like in real life? The reason I ask is that it included a photo of... well, hell, now I can't recall her name, Italian actress from decades past. But I'd never seen that photo before and I find it quite an erotic image, made it clear that I'd never quite grasped the magnitude of her babeness. Ah yes, here is the article and the babe is Brigette Bardot.
Pissy, about you? You are not the he (is not a moron), whom I parodied, I hope? Or am I, yet again, as thick as I look? One's a fool, always a fool.
I do hope you have realised that one thing which globalisation offers is the chance to move up from being a village idiot to a world-class fool in a single leap.
Yes, BB is old. When you said Italian, I instantly thought of Sophia, who is wearing well. BB has been doing work for cats, I believe.
Don't worry about the witches and the burning things, phoenixes can and must only rise from the ashes. The witches never quite work out why their old adversaries always seem to come around again as soon as the fire's cooled.
S-C wrote,
"Pissy, about you? You are not the he (is not a moron), whom I parodied, I hope? Or am I, yet again, as thick as I look?"
Thick? From what I've seen you're too inverted for me to determine whether pudginess is involved, perhaps that's a trick of the picture's lighting or simply my eyes failing to invert the image which in actuality is right-side-up, but I'm half again past guessing.
Those of us who have in the past been pilloried tend to see pillories everywhere, even though they be pillows intended for another head. Especially those of us who have never been the societally sharpest of knives.
I recently saw a current image of Tina Turner, the woman is near 70 now and makes me wonder what BB looks like these days (assuming she is still alive) and what's she's doing next Saturday. <g>
Some seem not to age, perhaps there's a secret formula after all, do you think?
Jeremy Clarkson is a "good" writer, in that he makes an excellent living from it.
His secret, write about things that you don't actually care about in the least, for an audience that you care about even less, and stay just this side of "your majesty is like a stream of bat's piss"
GF
Nobody: (LOL), the secret to certain womens' longevity is simple: gism, massaged into the skin. Did you really think that all those sperm banks were for artificial insemination? There must be enough white stuff in their stores to inseminate the entire world thrice over. No, they mix it up with monkey gland extracts and sell it to personal beauty consultants who then rub it into the skin of the rich and ageing. Which means that for some sad and lonely males, their fantasy of wanking over Tina's naked tits and belly is far closer to the truth than they will ever know.
GF: (we're no worthy, we're not worthy), I have decided that I would rather be a *bad* writer than to do what Clarkson, Archer, et al are doing. I shall press on with doubt and uncertainty as my supporters.
I have suffered for years to learn what I now realise I do not know, but now, Oh world, it's *your* turn.
Well, not everybody can be good at it, dude. Maybe you could take up knitting and excel at that?
I can do the perl bit, Dr, but the rest of it is just a muddle and I end up dropping the lot.
No, I shall persevere.
You see, S-C? Strange things do indeed happen.
Now get back to persevering good fellow, it's been days and eons since you've posted! <g>
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