Photo by Ann Savchenko on Unsplash, 23 April 2020
Photo by Ann Savchenko on Unsplash, 23 April 2020

Good morning.

As they say: here we go again.

But, this morning, there's nothing on my mind or, certainly, I've not had that flash of inspiration, delivering a title and the words.

I think (for both of us) that's a good thing, given that over the past few weeks I've regaled you with more than enough of the landscape of my life.

It's not like I regret what I've written — I could delete the post(s) after all — but I wonder if any of it matters?

Notwithstanding this, I do have a few things to say.


I'm not really a writer, even though online I use that label. A blogger, perhaps, but not a writer. 

A writer writes and keeps on writing. Most of all they want to (or at least I'd want to) write something to be remembered by. I don't mean they all want to crash through the sound barrier of sales — whatever that looks like — but they'd want to write something that would stand the test of time.

I've had a go at writing my memoir, given up, started again and finally put it down. I've scratched out a few other pages for other books and I've written reams and reams of notes about books I want to write but nothing is sufficiently of interest to keep me pinned down doing the hard graft of writing. The thought that always keeps circling back is: this has been written about a thousand times before and isn't remotely interesting. And, sadly, it's mostly about my crappy experience of work which has imbued in me a strong sense of 'this isn't how it's supposed to be'. 

No, if I'm going to write my timeless piece then each word, each line, each chapter has to be filled up with juice — see this wonderful interview with Charles Bukowski. It has to keep the reader so engrossed that they read the whole darn thing cover to cover in a single day. (Let's face it, no one's going to do that particuarly when my experience of work is no worse, better of different to zillions of others across the world.)

The only other area that floats my boat is how we've single-handedly messed up the world. I did have a few ideas that might have allowed me to write an end-of-the-world-is-nigh type book but I couldn't get past, and still can't, the fact that every story I've come up with has been done a million times before — think Waterworld.

That leaves poetry. I used to write a lot. These days. Nothing. Not a bean. I know it's there but in my current melancholic state it always comes out so angry and that's not really where I'm at or want to be.

Where does that leave me?

That's a good question. A very good one. And not one I've even begun to try and answer.

I know the well-meaning amongst you will invite me to write and be dammed with it — or words to that effect — but, as much as I respect you and your kind advice, I don't feel like doing so. For starters, I already feel I spend too much time in front of this damn computer and committing to three or four hours more doesn't motivate me anywhere near as much as a long walk in nature, meditating or reading. 

There. Said it. 

I feel better now.

of course
if the situation
i'll dial in the gods
and lay waste
to Resistance
and hopefully
something more meaningful
than an empty bag
of feelings
will show up.

Blessings as always.

Take care,



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