Yes Tommy, Proper Fucked.

After a while, you just abandon yourself to a state of grot. And, in fact, having done so, you realise that it was only really grot when you fought it, and having embraced it, you basically feel fine. Let’s face it anyway, in the 35°- 40° Celsius range, there’s fuck all you can do to get away from being moist in all the most pleasant of places, so you might as well learn to like it. Personally, I’ve decided it’s all about abandoning underwear, footwear, shirts, pretty much everything, apart from a sarong. I’d lose that too, but I do retain a modicum of modesty and self-consciousness when it comes to being naked. And it is marginally cooler with the front door open, and I don’t think  anyone wants me to be giving the new neighbourhood that personal a greeting.

Even the embrace of perspiration and scant clothing, however, doesn’t really make it any easier to think in all this heat and blazing sunshine. I feel compelled to recall at this point, how much time during the deathly cold and dark of all those Edinburgh winters (and springs, and autumns as well) I spent ranting about how I’d take the blistering heat of a “real” summer over all that fucking miserable weather anytime. I eat my words now, and find them none too palatable. I should learn to curb my cranks.

Which brings me back to the difficulty in thinking in this weather, and subsequently of coming up with something to say here, now that I am making some attempt to turn this here periodical, into much more of one. (see …Hell is paved with…).

As is blatantly obvious to anyone fool enough to look at the thing regularly, this has always been an avenue for the expulsion of vitriol, and a random, infrequent, spur-of-the-moment one at that. Though hopefully it has released enough of my bilious internal pressure to avoid the onset of gallbladder cancer. The fact is, that while I might come across and a dastardly* cynic, more wont to libel than to get off my arse and do something about the ills of the world, I actually don’t have that frequent a need to rant about something… ok, well, truth be told, I do, I just do it verbally, and don’t really feel that I am often enough eloquent enough to commit more of it to print. Or, at least, that most of my rants are not going to be of any interest to anyone other than the person I have cornered at the party and, even then, the interest is no doubt more concerned with watching me make an arse of myself, while I work my way inexorably toward a stroke, than it is with the (perhaps not so) insightful and poignant content of my oration.

Ok, so that being the case, I find myself wondering what the fuck to say. I mean, the frequency of my ranting is probably bordering on getting very stale as it is, so who the fuck wants more of them, unless, as I intimated, I actually have something to talk about. Otherwise, I might as well just leave off and go and join Warren Ellis spouting short-winded inanities into the Twitterverse.

You know, perhaps I am more eloquent than I tend to give myself credit for, but I am not convinced that I have a great deal of interest to say to the world – at least not within the bound of the blogosphere. Fictionally I have plenty to say, but that’s a whole different kettle of fish, as they say, and I am no great analyst of events, no great conversationalist or debater, and I am not even really much of a talented observer either (much, I am told, to the detriment of my fiction).

No really, I am quite concerned about this last point. I have been having a wee read of Jerome Stern’s Making Shapely Fiction recently, a book that I was given nearly a decade ago, and have not until now read a word of. Anyway, the point was, that at some point, the man is discussing the whole “write what you know” debate, and making the claim that what we know actually encompasses a hell of a lot more than we think, but that in order to know things that will enrich our writing, we need to pay attention. And I assure you, this is far from the first time that I have come across this assertion. In fact, paying attention to the world around you is (apparently, according to quite a number of far more prolific and lauded writers than I) one of the absolute musts for a writer to then be able to render a believable and detailed world within the pages of their stories.

Ok, well that’s no big deal right? Unless of course one has an unshakeable tendency toward being unmindful, a tendency that even manifests itself in a willingness to pay $2.29 for a single zucchini, because I have no idea what a reasonable price should be**… because I pay no bloody attention. Or, even more so, paying $2.50 for an avocado, when there is a huge fuck off sign above the display that says if you buy 2, you get them for $1.50 each.

And, even apart from the price of groceries, my lack of attention to detail is quite astounding, just ask the wifey, she’ll tell you all about it.

Anyway, that’s a bit beside the point. Even if, and I emphasise the if, I do manage to regularly come up with some interesting topic about which to wax vitriolic, does that really make for an interesting periodical? Even over at Cats and Pigeons (speaking of which, you should all read The Pigeon, by Patrick Suskind – not quite Perfume, but very interesting nonetheless), the man makes some attempt at cohesion amongst his posts, albeit in that unreferenced-political-opinion-piece fashion.

I suppose when it all comes down to it, this whole dilemma is merely another reflection of that delightful, writerly self-doubt, the same bloody thing I come up against when it takes me too long to finish a piece of fiction, and I sit there and think and think about the thing, until I become unsure of what I even started out writing. Of course, sometimes it benefits a person to put a bit of thought into something, rather than just sitting down and spouting these long-winded, incoherent rants that serve no other purpose than to avoid the afore mentioned cancer of the gallbladder, but the danger is in over-analysing a thing until it becomes a soulless, expositional puddle of regurgitation – and as I have said, I am not much of a talent when it comes to analysis anyway, so in either case I’m pretty sure I’m fucked.

* It’s amazing how much good writing does for one’s vocabulary. I admit to having no idea what the actual definition of dastardly was until I used it here, and subsequently decided I better bloody well find out, before I make even more of an arse out of myself than I usually do.

** Apparently (as I discovered after leaving Coles***, and heading to the little suburban green grocer) $0.69 is a much more reasonable price.

*** I find it absolutely outrageous that a retail giant the likes of Coles, with all its attendant buying power and influence over wholesale pricing, not to mention it’s ability and wont to squeeze out the little (suburban green grocer) man – which is another level of outrageous in itself –  will go about charging 330% more for a fucking zucchini than said little man will. They are about as bloody ethical and respectable as the West Australian Suckers of Satan’s Cock Association.

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~ by Gethin A. Lynes on January 31st, 2011.

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