As befits a man of my advancing years, this will be a quickie.
My week is off to a flier, thanks mostly to the ever wondrous and wonderful people over at Literally Stories who have seen fit to publish another one of my new pieces.
For those of you who’ve read a lot of my stories and blog posts I’m sure you’ll agree that Car Crash Television is a real departure for me. I’ve tried really hard to step away from my usual comfort zone of using flowery prose to expand on weighty and topical themes and challenged myself to write a mostly dialogue-based piece focusing on a bloke moaning about what’s on the TV.
Out of necessity for the protection of the few remaining shreds of sanity I have left my brain has adapted and can now filter out almost anything that exists in the background world of television. I imagine it must be how a heavily sedated caged tiger feels. I still want to destroy every last remnant of Kardashianism that plagues our planet but it’s a distant, slippery feeling and I can’t quite get a handle on it and oh look a new chapter to read in my book let’s get back to that.
However. On occasion a certain level of what-the-fuckness bypasses the filter and all bets are off.
When I get to the hindsight stage of this post I will no doubt reflect that I should have stuck to my original text which was moaning and complaining about the creative embers* in my head.
(* for reference these are created when the brain goes into a bit of a panic about an unused or unnoticed creative spark and pours creative juices over it leaving a smoldering, confused ember in its stead. The brain is an amazing organ but it’s a stickler for health and safety when there’s the chance of a naked flame.)
Too late now. I’m going in another direction.
Somewhere in between the cooking channels on satellite television there is a vacuum.
I know because I just saw it.