Old school faces are emerging from the swamp of my past. The female ones wear too much makeup (inch-thick mascara or mad rouged cheeks) and the male ones look like alcoholics. Time is a harsh mistress with teeth marks and iron thighs. We are powerless in her thrall.
Instead of cowering in horror, I look upon this as a fresh start. I never spoke to most of them at school (or at stool), so this time around, I can be erudite and witty and lecture them on the importance of gelatine. Or, alternatively, I can ignore them in a whole new era in a whole new medium. The agony of choice!
I am losing the will to blog. There are only so many spoofs, fakeries, writing posts, rants or reviews one can manage in a lifetime. In the future all informative blog posts will be downloaded from the brain anyway, via the iBrain application, Wordpress compatible too!
Oh—I met a writer the other day whose girlfriend is an inbuilt ego fluffer. He hands his elfin love pup his latest scribble and she heaps praise upon his genius. I ought to get me one of those. Mrs Q is a harsh critic and loves poking holes in my ideas. (Which is great, but it hurts sometimes). Having said that, she offers praise only on ideas that chime with her sensitive outlook. None of this cold postmodern flimflam for her, oh no!
You must read Inish by Bernard Share. This darling book quivered my heart in a special way. (Through formal experimentation and daring originality of language). I can’t explain what it’s about. It defies all explanation and that’s why I love it. Order now.
I would also like comedians to lay off Catholics for a while. I understand you are vexed that the Church has a crooked side and that invisible deities aren’t your bag . . . but shut up now. We get it. Move on.
(Picture: Jan Van Eyck self-portrait, 1433?)