But my brain is thoroughly usual. As is my face.
I'm in a cottage in the Cotswolds. There are beams and everything.
I'm pointing at my eye. I tend to do that every now and then. There's no particular reason for it - it's not a special eye. In fact, I have two. The other one is in the corresponding area of the Western hemisphere of my face.
I might review this region of the country in a future blog entry. Or I might not. I'm notoriously unreliable.
That's not true. I'm not notorious in any way. I'm not-notorious. Or nottorious.
Or torious.
I wanted to write a blog post to keep my hand in. Or my oar. Or keep my end up. But I think I'd rather be reading.
I have a book of Kurt Vonnegut short stories that is very good.
I am reading, I suppose. I'm reading these words as I write them. But - and I don't think this is underselling myself - I'm not quite as good as Vonnegut.
Then again, I'm sure he went through a long editing procedure.
It may surprise you to know that these posts don't go through a long editing procedure. Or an editing procedure of any length. The words plop right out of my brain, through my fingers, onto the keys, into the computer, onto the screen and into your eyes through photons or something.
At no stage is thought involved.
If you read my previous entry, seeds of suspicion that this is the case might well have been sewn.
That was a clumsy sentence. But, as discussed, it can't be edited.
Anyway, I don't think the Vonnegut stories were as fresh and organic as this. Which is why (though they are technically "better"), they don't provoke the same visceral thrill as reading these words.
What will I write next? Even I don't know. It might be something about a turnip wearing a pork-pie hat. But it could just as easily not be.
I think I'll go for the more cerebral and "well-written" Vonnegut-reading, rather than the exciting, ramshackle, "not well-written" words of my own thinking, fingers, keys, screen, photons and eyes.
Or I might watch The Man With The Golden Gun.
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