Boss Nightclub - BangkokI've been following a blog for a couple of months now that sliced right through me as I realised I what I was getting into. I never know when I'm reading the last post and I will only realise its demise at some unexpectedly triggered point after. Today he writes something that I've seen elsewhere but I think in this instance carries more weight. Creatives are often conditioned to be far more cautious than the writer below has shared with us.
" I'll give you a free gift. As a writer - albeit in a very small way - people always ask you where you get your ideas and they're always dumbfounded when I tell them that getting the ideas is the easy part, knocking them into shape is the hard bit."
Surely reading that is going to get more and more depressing over the coming months? Not sure I need that kind of anguish, especially when he starts linking to family shots...
ReplyDeletePossibly charlie. But then life isn't about Paris Hilton and Eastenders for me. As the writer is anonymous I don't think he'll be putting up pictures. But you can always drop by and ask.
ReplyDeleteWestern culture tends to avoid death. Hide it under the carpet, pretend the elephant in the room isn't really there. Often it's not possible to really understand it because many are too unwell to record it. Here its being recorded and makes me appreciate life a little more. Its not cheerful but then as Buddhism teaches us. Life is suffering.
I discovered two blogs today. Yours and the one you're mentioning.
ReplyDeleteAll that because of a tamagotchi.
I'm glad someone thought of it too...
JFB
Charles,
ReplyDeleteI never create a new category of blogs in my reader anymore. I'm so overwhelmed with folders and feeds that it seems a wasted task, at worst and an insane amount of work at best. To have to reorganize and re-evaluate every blog by a new criteria...
But I just did. You are right. What an amazing blog.
And your comment is even more true. That we hide from death. I hope all of this makes it:
"All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all."
I read two blogs like this one and it's taught me so much.
ReplyDeleteHey Sean. That's the best poem I've read in a very longer time. Thanks for that.
ReplyDeleteWelcome aboard Kirsty.