Thursday, December 23, 2010

Ho ho hum

The difficulty I have when it comes to writing is as follows: I can't do it.

I can actually, if you can call it that, but I tend not to write the things that I really want to write. This may be because I have no precisely no idea what those things are. Do you follow? Anything I commit to paper or screen typically turns all stream of consciousness absurdist surrealism in a can which quickly becomes tiresome. Something character driven would be ideal wouldn't it?

Gathering ideas as fodder is not something I do as a rule, but poor is the man who remembers nothing, or something. Whatever. Making a note of that which I routinely observe for later use will become my new battleground, largely because it'll be a desperate fucking struggle to commit to anything that does not involve remaining quite still and ocularly occupied, or 'occupied'.

This impassioned plea to my brain will not go unheeded. Nay, shall the fruits of my advancing temporal state not be harvested? as I descend into spiralling, fruity madness, craving a gooseberry or similar. Lest the overripe mindfruit grow too fat and fall, I will dock at the base of this vast wooden edifice and arrange my hands thusly to envelop the fallen as they ripple through air and motes and then some more air. See, every damn time.