I received an excited email the other night from yet another close friend who I’d neglected to inform of the existence of this sump yet who had, despite my best efforts, finally mastered Google. Naturally, paranoia and self-doubt were soon working their fingers at the nape of my neck and I found myself reading through the archives for a half hour in order to get a clear, well-rounded grasp on how lame I am and how everything I write is crap.
One thing I did notice while perusing pieces I barely remember writing is how much of it used to come directly out of my head. And how lately it has become more a collection of stopgaps and weak trackbacks.
I’m pretty sure I haven’t stopped thinking. I used to compose stuff while walking around the city; working sentences over and over in my head until I had the guts of the thing memorised before ever setting pen to paper. I’m still walking, I’m still thinking. I guess during the summer months one becomes distracted by other things. Sexy things.
So, in order to address the recent imbalance, here is something that comes right out of my daily though-process:
On the train the other day I was sitting near a petite, sophisticated-looking blonde who has been a regular feature on my daily commute for the best part of a year.
At one point she took her mobile out of her neat suit-pocket and began a conversation, speaking loudly and animatedly in the guttural whine of man born somewhere between Prosperous and Edenderry around 1950. I was horrified.
I hope that this anecdote is enough to convince you that, despite your fears, things are on the up-and-up around here. You have nothing to worry your pretty little heads about.