I can't think in the traditional way. My mind-tubes are blocked and think-ink is pooling in the synapse-junctions. Concepts and language are limp as sodden moths. If anyone tried to talk to me, they'd find me unable to decipher their coded tongues.
I've been back at work for two days.
Just like the old days. Meet the old days, the same as the old boss, the same as the new daze, the same as the old ways.
Meaning is a party to which I'm not invited. I peer in through the windows but can only see twitching silhouettes and hear a song which keeps changing its tune and has a forged time signature.
But, you know how it is. You know how it has been. Back in the day (the same as the new boss), I was like this all the time: stupefied afternoons, middle-of-the-night profound flouncy fancy bullshit sentence pretence words sausage string theory verbal furballs coughed into no-one's bored face. Old kids on the block have read it all before. I could link to similar posts, but don't know how to find them - they'd have misleading titles and non-specific content.
A change is as good as a rest, as they say in snooker. If the change is to longer arms.
I can't stop writing now, or the spell would be broken. So I'll just plough on and hope people will forgive me later, or accuse me (the cruellest trick) of conducting an experiment, when the only thing I'm conducting is the opposite of lightning.
Heavyning, I suppose it would be. Or darkning. Either way, Benjamin Franklin's key will be of little use (I'm not Googling that to check I'm not barking up the wrong historical tree).
This is nice, though. A change of pace. I like to mix things up: a review of a book one week, a hilarious joke the next. This lies in between those poles. It's an exercise in brain preservation, but my stubbornness and arrogance will prevent me from deleting it.
I'm edgy.
Not an actual edge, but edgy.
Edgish, really. Borderline edge.
I really couldn't say one way or the other. Because I have trouble pronouncing my Os.
Or O's (I'm reluctant to use an apostrophe unless absolutely necessary).
Or Oes. I can't pronounce my Oes.
This isn't a real blog post. It's a draft. It shows up as a draft until I choose to publish it.
At the moment, it's a draft. But that moment is only the moment of me writing 'moment'. By the time you read 'moment' it will be a different moment, and it won't be a draft anymore, but a living, breathing entity, out in the world, speaking, learning, exploring , meeting people, getting into adventures, falling in love, finding a lost wallet on the street and judging its owner from the items therein, looking through some binoculars on the observation deck of a monument, but unwilling to pay the money to use them properly, and so staring into nothing but blackness - inferior to in content to normal vision, but superior in terms of depth.
I'll probably post this later. When it's more acceptable.
No-one wants to consider I might be writing it at 15:32 on a Wednesday afternoon. And I might be. For all you know.
But if it appears on my Twitter feed or Facebook page at 00:58 tomorrow morning, the night will have granted this gibberish some legitimacy - things are less embarrassing in the dark; that's why theatre works.
I suppose I should have has a proper lunch. That explains it. I didn't have a proper lunch.
I ate a baguette in front of my computer, and then did a monotonous data entry task for two hours. That would make anyone like this. You need to take regular breaks. HR would be having a field day with this.
I don't know what a field day is. Presumably, if you work in agriculture a field day is nothing out of the ordinary. But then farmers disdain flamboyance in all its forms. That's why farms are filled with sheep and horses, but never with flamingos and Marc Bolan.
Or flamingo's. Or flamingoes.
I have trouble pronouncing my noes. Which is why, when I ask myself: "Should you/I/we publish this post?" I'll have no choice but to say "Yes".
You need a special grammar to process ideas. You may have noticed I have an odd approach to the comma, the semi-colon, the colon, the speech-mark. I'm sometimes inconsistent, but that's because the sparks of mental creation don't follow a designated path. They weave like a river, and you need to use whatever tools necessary to divert its flow.
Sometimes I'll just throw in a 9. If it's called for.
I seem to be slowing. I'd better come up with something worthwhile before I go, or this will all be for nought (and I have no trouble pronouncing that).
What conclusions can we reach from the argument so far? (And it has been an argument - I learned how to construct them at University: tight as a drum)
1) Take regular breaks when working with a computer
2) Sheep are farmed
3) Never check for typos/grammatical errors
4) I have significant problems
9
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