Well who’d have thought, I’m actually writing.
Sorry for the delay and even greater apologies for the delay ending and writing resuming.
I know I don’t write articles for everyone’s tastes – that’s why (as well as a distinct lack of writing talent), they’re not overly-well received.
For example, I was walking down the street the other day (it doesn’t matter which street or which day because this is fiction) and I noticed I wasn’t a millionaire.
And to think; I was really in the mood for a Rolex…
Still, no pounds equals one impetus. Lack of millions of pounds gives one glorious idea, to become a millionaire.
Not even a millionaire – that comes across as ideal hostage material – but instead ‘comfortable’. Such as having a house and no concerns about it.
I would like a house, all mine, my walls and my windows, preferably my own ceiling, I don’t give a fuck who the potted plants belong to, so long as I get my necessary verticals and horizontals.
And I’ve a good job, with a good wife enjoying a good pregnancy, a good future filled with good prospects, and a good urge to write, as well as a good thesaurus filled with good synonyms and I can apply anytime I like (but I’m comfortable now and the book is just out of bother’s reach).
So, aside from the typical life of typical pleasantries, I might just indulge in this writing habit I’ve tried my best to give-up and start actually writing.
So, now, I’m actually writing.
I tried writing as a practise for this yesterday.
I thought I’d try writing about my hair.
It went so well I burnt the first draft, not realising I only had one good (thesaurus still out of reach) draft in me and I’d put too much effort into burning my laptop to sit down with remaining stoker (pen) and surviving kindling (note-pad) to let loose another masterpiece in one evening.
Thus we’re here, writing about writing and progressing just as I’d hoped.
I’d like to write for my supper, though I think writing for my breakfast would be greater inspiration.
Sure, at supper time one has a day’s worth of worth to pen down with a fire-stoker, but in the morning you’ve got a wonderfully blank piece of paper to ruin perfectly with just the kind of prose that can set a day right. This is a metaphor.
What a metaphor!
However, I’ve missed breakfast and have moved onto a mid-evening port, in the glow of a newly borrowed laptop and the warmth of a reason to write.
Or rather being a home-owner/house-holder/property-possessor/abode-abider.
Since I’ve moved onto alliteration, I might burn this laptop too, but I don’t think my pen could last to stoke another fire.
Still, this is breakfast writing, and perhaps since this is now a great (wife passed me thesaurus) post-port time in the evening, I can write about that which has happened across the planet as of late.
I was reading the other morning that we’re all fucked.
Whilst I enjoyed Al Gore’s somewhat more bar-chart method of translating the complex data, I do prefer an image of inferno and the prose that practically smell with the sheer excitement of the author.
Sensationalist writing is like fascism. It gets things done when they’re ready to be done.
If I hadn’t been in the mood to like-totally freak out, then it wouldn’t have been successfully sensationalism. If 1930’s Germany hadn’t been in the mood for a snappier uniform and literally snappier mode of marching, they wouldn’t have done what 1930’s Germany did (lose).
With another reference to writing about writing, we have now arrived at the point at which the author has drawn parallels to the Nazis, with very little reason to. And whilst that’s fine in these-and-thus days, if you’d have tried that in 1930’s Germany, you’d have been writing as a contemporary.
I’ve realised I’m feeling silly, and here we thus-hence-and-therefore are (this thesaurus might now be deemed too-near. That’s writing, I’m “deeming” things).
Besides, upon the news of the planet being universally fucked, I’m more inclined to take things a tad more jovially.
For this reason, I’m mixing tales of hair, being a millionaire, Nazis, and Al Gore.
BBC News has a ‘Top Ten Most Read’ section, and the number one point for a recent single day was the end of the world being very much so ‘nigh’. The following day, perhaps even the afternoon of the day prior, the nation’s focus was on Taylor Swift at long last revealing how she feels about US politics.
I don’t want to say that how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US is not important. But the lack of verbalised opinion in regard to the viewpoint of “FUCK how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US” gives rise to the righteousness of the previous day’s number one story.
We’re fucked, and the following day we were slightly more fucked, and slightly more deserving.
With a baby on the way, I’ve impetus to de-fuck the world, but Taylor Swift doesn’t listen to me and she’s the one with millions of many things.
I’ve very few things totalling in the millions.
I’ve millions of atoms of course, but I tend not to count them (it’d take ages).
I do have a son on the way though. And whilst he’s not a million things either, he is one thing that could be more than a million things and it up to people like me (the fellow that caused him into being about, along with his culpable mother) to take action.
Unfortunately for my son, the particular action I’ll be taking is writing about my hair.
Who knows? It might pay for a house for him to grow up into a fucked-up world.
I’ll keep typing, tomorrow.
It’s good to be back
All the best,
I hate the saxophone.
Especially when someone is blowing one, indeed – blowing any wind/brass instrument, whilst maintaining eye-contact with me.
Looking deep into my eyes and blowing (not going to call it ‘playing’) the saxophone is the one thing that creeps me out in the whole orchestra; even the wind-chimes don’t elicit such a response from me.
That aside, I also feel that the saxophone simply sounds terrible and has no place in my ear or on planet Earth. There’s just no need for it and I want it gone.
I hate the saxophone deeply, but not as deeply as the blowers of them looking into my eyes whilst they’re going at it.
It looks like a creepy thing to do, like when my dog holds eye contact whilst farting – not betraying the slightest hint of fart-awareness which I feel is ever-so-slightly what he is going for.
He doesn’t even wag his tail to aid in relocating the whiff.
I hate the saxophone. It tries too hard.
They also look stupid, like an alien willy that some megalomaniac elected to emboss with gold and make glint. Too many valves and too many fiddly-bits. This is not an alien willy I feel I can get behind, whilst also certainly not wanting it behind me.
Then there’s the sound.
Another passion of mine is hatred for a general consensus that I didn’t have a say in.
For example, Olympians being seen as heroes. They’re not doing it for me, are they?
They’re devastating their childhood in the hope of some on-camera human-interest moment that might hopefully lead to presence in a biscuit advertisement and a life-long career as a pundit. Olympians are not heroes; they’re admirable capitalists.
Now I’m grumpy.
My reason for mentioning this is that I also reject the notion that the saxophone is the sound of cool.
It’s not cool. It is the pantomime joke of cool.
It is the overly-archetypal noise that is penciled in as representative of moonlit rendezvous with the limp-via-emotion dame being held firmly in the five firm fingers of the cool guy in his American car that speeds out of town from behind this pool-club and into the next town wanky enough to be represented by the saxophone.
Pass me…the trombone.
Now THAT is an alien penis I can get behind (still don’t want it behind me though – I guess no one wants to be snuck up on by brass and jazz instruments).
The trombone is mighty; comical and hellishly resonating, requiring guts, pomp and proud forearms (essential) to play. It is a sound that represents “Uh-Oh!” and “Oh Dear!” and is quite simply the most hilariously erotic noise an orchestra can summon.
I love the trombone.
It is silly, funny (with a capital F, U, N, N, and Y; making it simply a loud-to-read “FUNNY”), jolly, erotic, proud, strong, bold, awkward and wholly unnatural a noise outside of our heads. It’s like a some surreal cow that knows you’re engaging in intercourse and wants the whole meadow to be aware.
Again, it also looks tremendous, requiring the forearm strength and depth of puff that makes a man a good one. It can be gold and shiny, but also looks tremendous when dulled; like it was carried into battle and has been found in an old veteran’s foot-looker.
Think of all the jolly and noble generic jazz you can conjure in your head. It’s not a saxophone – it’s a trombone that saves the day.
And I’ve been considering publication names; what do you think of this:
I figured it a great name for a publication, in the spirit of the famed ‘bugle’, and would be the daily trombone. Power, purity, dirt and hilarity, it is an instrument that requires meat-pipes and a good arm to commit to; plus it is the key to the classically comedic ear-filler of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GRnNzIvbh8, or simply the good-old https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKdcjJoXeEY .
Whilst I feel ‘The Trombone’ would be a smashing name for a publication, I’ve begun to engage in another activity that sees me through the day.
Fortunately, I’ve begun to slap myself each and every day in the spirit of reality, atonement for unfulfilled ambition and having a palm-full of face.
The Daily Slap, another positive name for a publication, snaps you out of the bitter funk of boredom (the only bad kind – even a funky smell is a positive thing to have in your kitchen, wallet and wife) that will will you down, keep you blue and unsexy, and fuzz your head with as much unoriginality as a saxophone.
However, beware brain cells prior to engaging in The Daily Slap.
There’s always the issue that you may become good at this, and in doing so elevate your palms to the rush-impact standard of deducting yourself the crucial brain cells that enable reading and fucking.
If you can’t read and you can’t fuck; you’d better have a damn fine hairstyle otherwise you’ll never be popular.
Unless mothers and wide-eyed mummy-wannabies will gather you up in their arms and insist you cannot read and fuck to such a hopeless degree that the only real solution to the unpleasant future ahead is a blanket and the instruction to bury one’s head in it and suck whatever you can find to suck within.
And even throughout such a distant and roaming thought process as the above, I still find my hatred of the saxophone to be a prevalent part of my being.
The Daily Slap, I recommend, as it is a real means of engaging with oneself and shudders off the dust of lethargy and is a real kick in the trousers (in the form of a slap in the face).
So, ‘The Trombone’ or ‘The Daily Slap’ – either way; have a good day.