Wednesday, 9 September 2009

I have many small unconnected things to say.

Which begs the question, why am I doing this if I don't feel like I have anything to write? Well, writing is a pig. Sometimes you stand in front of a closed door wondering why you don't see any action outside it. You need to force something forwards before things start rushing in towards you. So that is why I'm writing on here, and it's also (one of) the reasons I've boycotted facebook. Because I have one of those switches in my head that, once it's on, is happy for me to sit and click - click - click - click - through. Through anything. For no reason. Obsessions are born through tedium and mindless repetition. If it's mindless, it means nothing, including no harm.

It's the most dangerous form of semi-involuntary action there is. I was going to say apart from sneezing while driving, but I don't think that's voluntary at all, unless someone's cleverer than me and has figured out how to do it for fun.

Another reason : I sit and think of one-liners in the third person, arbitrarily. "Natalie just saw a Dalek in Hathersage" was one, the other day, that I caught myself composing. (For the record, I usually put full stops at the end of my status updates because not doing so would equate to shredding the last of my dignity for the online community to see. Not that they'd notice, or particularly care.)

Another reason: I find myself lying and saying I read something on a blog or that someone sent me a message, so that I don't have to say "I was on facebook and my brother's friend said..." particularly to my other half, who thinks I'm a loser internet addict charity shop addict nincompoop anyway. I just googled nincompoop and I now want to watch the nincompoop championships on metacafe. See? SEE? He's right.

Nik is right, too. I was most offended when she called me a loser that spends her whole life on facebook. In my defense, at the time, I was starving and it was a distraction from eating all the food I'd made for friends that were late coming over... it calms the waves of my brain. It's that dull repetition thing again. It's better than tetris, absolutely. But it had to come out some time. Better that there was a valid excuse (not that Nik had any of it) and I could bow out gracefully before it was too late. HAH.

Natalie has not been on Facebook since Nik called her a loser that spends her life on facebook.

I think this is an achievement.

I've also been meaning to write on here again for ages... and I met a girl yesterday who told me she writes. "I used to do that." Yeah, she carries a notebook everywhere with her. "I did that, too." Add to that the fact that she was overweight but didn't care, that day at least (look, I'm a woman, I know, it's knowable, visible, OK?), pretty but wasn't flaunting, and had moved to Sheffield because she was sick of home, with no job, during a recession and just got on with it... I know she didn't realise how much of a happy heroine she was for me yesterday. When I think, actually, back to how much I actually wrote, I remembered that my mam did my washing and I didn't have a dog (or rent to pay, actually, never mind a mortgage). I didn't even wash up. I was just driven insane by constant dialogue, with no mundane tasks to distract me. Mainly through laziness, not because my mother was stupid. Anyway, threads of thought that I couldn't ignore. So you can see how that could be re-shaped to fit the facebook mire. The trick is, to sit down with one and catch it. Follow it. Move it around, force it to stretch, link it up. Do that with the rest, too. It's a mini miracle. It's taking little fragments, and making them multiply and morph. Not very exciting words to describe such a subtle chancy process, I know. But I could definitely feed five thou' or so with my words. Nourish some people. I've heard a similar story somewhere.
Some of the things I've written in the right frame of mind, that have been lost because they were sent in emails or messages to people, have occasionally been quoted back to me (thanks, Robbo) and I'm a fucking awesome word machine! I'd give a specific example, but I'd have to log onto facebook to pick up the quote and I'm still too sensitive. It's too soon. And anyway, I'm stubborn. Even if I have a reason, I'm not going to go back there.

This still hasn't explained why writing is a pig.

I used to call my brother a pig when we were little. I would whisper it in his ear. He would tell my dad, and I'd say I didn't call him a pig, I said he was pink. Writing is pink. No, writing is a pig. My brother was very sweet. Now he's covered in tattoos, but he's still very sweet. And better at drumming than me (but only because I haven't played for 7 years and he has his own drum kit).

Writing is a pig because as much as it clamours, it also stuffs you up. It fills all the gaps like water. Makes you heavy. Sluggish. And it's all there, but you're not making it move, so you don't really know it's there. It is a stubborn pig. And sometimes, it's all come out, and you've not managed to make it bend to your will, so it just looks like you threw some water on the page.
Or something.

Hey, I tried.

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