Ten years ago today I woke up early to the sound of birds – typical of a Johannesburg spring morning. It hadn’t been the most restful or peaceful of slumbers. When I’d initially dropped off to sleep the night before my brother came and woke me up because there was a moth in his room. Thirteen months of living in deepest, darkest Africa had prepared me for such events and so I swiftly stepped forward and twatted it with a flip flop (the moth rather than my dear brother although I was tempted…).
After that I lay awake for quite a while contemplating the universe as one does in the small hours leading up to your wedding.
According to the wonderfulness of the world wide interweb, blog etiquette – and by etiquette I mean tricks you can perform to get more readers engaged – dictates that a blog post should end with a question.
There was probably a point to that opening paragraph but then I got distracted by two things.
Firstly, the idea of a blog dictating something conjured up images of a whole bunch of words clustering together to form a likeness of Hitler strutting rage-filled and jack-booted across my perfect word-free (undoubtedly white, possibly blond-haired and blue-eyed) page spouting propaganda.
Secondly, I got to wondering if it would be simpler to just read the last line of every post in a cliched Australian accent so that a question would be implied? Thereby obviating the need to pose an actual question.
Going home or, more accurately, travelling from your home to a place you used to call home years ago drowns you in familiar dislocation. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep or the fact that these journeys so often start in the soft hours before dawn that heightens our sensitivity to the weird. Either way, you feel like an interloper in a land where time, unlike your memories, has ticked on.
Bypasses plough their economically booming furrow through the land. New buildings thrive in the displaced earth on either side. That’s what it said on the slideware so it must be true, right? I wonder what happens when there’s nothing left to bypass.
Didn’t so and so used to live there? Next to the roundabout? Wait…was there a roundabout there before?
In the end everything will ignite.
Books. Skin. Pre-apocalyptic utopian puppies.
All of it.
My second novel will smoulder alongside the incinerated remains of my first while I stab at my molten keyboard, desperate to smash out a story idea before my fingertips fuse to the metal.
I got bored earlier and did a quick search for top tips for a successful blog. Based on the results it’s clear to me that no-one else knows what the fuck they’re doing so I feel strangely comforted. Given that the internet is a place where you can probably confirm and/or deny that the collective noun for opening gambits is indeed a pentagram it’s best to set your expectation-phasers to stun(ningly low).
There were a couple of pearlers in there – perhaps the best of which was, “Be Awesome!”
Here I was settling for a consistent dose of mediocrity where all along what I should have been striving for was a hunka-chunka-burning-awesome.
Our breaking story at the top of the hour…ruling party in turmoil as slush fund revealed to be “slightly frozen water”
Senior politicians are tonight distancing themselves from fresh allegations of corruption after two prominent Indian businessmen are seen leaving a Saxonwold shebeen with what eye-witnesses have described as a “leaky black holdall”. Moments later the pair were seen in a heated exchange where the taller of the two proclaimed “this is not the fifteen and twelfty million Msholozi promised us”.
Want to see what happens when a fully paid up procrastinator gets bored of editing a piece and gives himself three minutes to write a drabble?
Read on my friends…read on…
…and I would jog five hundred more
Just to be the man who jogged a thousand miles for no particular reason whatsoever and then kicked off your new year by blathering on about it*
*last line requires work and possible kickbacks to The Proclaimers
Sitting in front of the Mac eating biscuits and drinking tea in an effort to bleed out the excesses of New Year’s Eve seems like the perfect time to review my year of running.
At this point a normal, upbeat person would insert a line like And What A Year It Was! I shall spare you such vomit-inducing positivity but I will go so far as to say, It Wasn’t Bad.
After a whole month of going cold turkey I find myself two days short of a day that will probably contain warm turkey. Then there’ll be cold turkey again. At least for a couple of days.
“Maybe we should have pizza on Boxing Day this year love.”
“Yeah, I want to try that new place Contrivios on that big circular junction. Apparently it’s better to go for their thicker crust offering as it’s perfectly cooked.”
“The Snowlay Roundabout. Deep pan. Crisp and even.”
Look, I never promised that having a break from blogging would mean an end to dreadful puns…
Forgive me father (and indeed mother) for I have waffled. It’s been eight years, six months and one week since my first blog post and despite my best intentions I have used foul and blasphemous language on several occasions…
Eight and a half years, that’s a fuckload of time!
…furthermore I have rarely had much of any substance to say and have mostly relied on word prompts, tricks and a bunch of other stuff to get by.
Sad but true…but it perhaps needs a little more context and explanation around why it matters.