Tag: blogging

New Year Resolution (Late Entrant)

After a spell away from home with limited internet access, I’ve been catching up on other WordPress posts like crazy.

I follow more sites than follow me – a legacy of my early and perhaps cheeky efforts to gain readers by sending people links to my posts – although the gap has narrowed with time. But keeping up with them all means less time spent on my own posts, not to mention my own family! (They’d rather I didn’t, anyway … mention them, I mean!)

Visiting a large number of sites in a short time is like keeping a whole bunch of plates spinning on poles. It’s very easy to lapse into skim-reading, looking for hooks on which to hang witty, wise and pertinent replies … although if I have ever sent you a witty, wise and pertinent reply – or even an impertinent one – you have my solemn word that I read every single one of yours!

This time, with jet-lag threatening my concentration, I decided only to view posts from bloggers who have replied to my posts in the recent past. And I’m very glad I did. They were without exception witty, wise and pertinent to my current concerns. On my wavelength, you might say, tuned into the way I was feeling. My only question is, why the hell haven’t I done this before?

My days of chasing new readers are done. And anyway, too many of my more recent followers are concerned with self-promotion rather than self-examination. Ha, you may say, he can talk after confessing to shameless marketing of himself as a new blogger! But from now on I intend to develop more two-way correspondences with fellow seekers after the truth. In a fun way. Blogging is fun, right?

 

Image result for Too Many Spinning Plates

 

Image: http://iquitagain.com/a-year-on-purpose/283-too-many-spinning-plates

Blow Back

P eople say that writer’s block is when you
R un out of ideas. Don’t believe them. It’s when a thousand thoughts
O verflow and jam
T he
E xcessively narrow
S traw they’ve stuck in the
T urbulent milkshake of your mind.

I wrote this acrostic poem in response to yesterday’s Daily Prompt Protest but didn’t post it because it seemed, well, just too damn odd! Looking at it again, though, it does seem to summarise the way I feel at the moment about broadcasting my viewpoint to the world. So I thought I’d try to work out what’s happened. I don’t feel up to stringing a logical argument together, so here are a few random bullet-points in no particular order:

  • the political situation in post-Brexit Britain and pre-Trump America is an airless vacuum as if everyone has taken a deep breath at the same moment
  • facts are stranger than fiction, as always, but in shorter supply than usual
  • any attempt to be satirical is bound to fall short of the weirdness that calls itself reality
  • writing about yourself feels like changing the subject
  • anything you say about what’s going on in the world could become irrelevant before you finish the sentence
  • being controversial may alienate some and frighten off others
  • trying to be funny feels like whistling in a graveyard
  • whistling in a graveyard makes you look stupid
  • every word you utter reveals how you voted, which defeats the object of a secret ballot
  • when did words ever change anything anyway?

Is this just me, I wonder, or is any one else struggling with this stuff too?Image result for whistling in a graveyard

 

 

Image: freerepublic.com

Whaassup?

OK, this isn’t like Houston, we have a problem … the bravery behind those words puts my little hiccup into perspective.

My little hiccup? Well, my comments are not appearing in other people’s blogs. Or rather, mostly not appearing because for some reason the occasional one shows up. One person said they had received a message from me in a foreign language with an unfamiliar script, which suggests I’ve been hijacked or whatever the word is.

I like to comment on other people’s posts. Blogging is a community activity and any support I get is contingent on any support I can give. But my side isn’t working so please bear with me until I can get to the bottom of the problem.

I’ve posted my problem on the WordPress public forum and asked Akismet to look into the possibility that I’m being treated as spam. I don’t know what more I can do, as I’m not a paying customer. Has this happened to anyone else, I wonder? I would be grateful for any advice about what may have happened and what to do next.

Life and death it ain’t, but it sure feels uncomfortable …

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Don’t Just Say No

When I was a child my friends had a nickname for me. They called me The Preacher because I would turn every situation into a moral lesson.

Where did this finger-wagging tendency come from? My dad had a somewhat sententious manner arising from his rather straight-laced Methodist upbringing. And my mum had an unusually heightened sense of social justice which spilled out whenever anything made her angry. Climbing on a soap-box just came naturally to me, I suppose.

I can only pity my poor friends, having their ears bent like that! And now it’s your turn, WordPress people, because looking back over my posts I can’t find one that isn’t a sermon in disguise. Poems, satires, opinions – each of them a little homily to a happier future where prejudice, ignorance and cruelty are unknown.

A world without evil is impossible if you believe in Original Sin – the idea that we are all born bad and must be redeemed. I happen to believe the opposite – that we are born good but corrupted by social conditioning into bad habits. I’m reading a biography of children’s writer Lewis Carroll which explains how he was influenced by the poets Blake, Coleridge and Wordsworth towards an idealised yet honest view of childhood – his Alice books show their feisty little hero more than holding her own against the nonsensical gibberish emanating from so-called adult authority.

Carroll works through parody, a skill he honed as a child producing countless magazines for his younger brothers and sisters to read. He was just thirteen when he wrote the spirited poem My Fairy which spoofed the solemn rubrics and prim & proper prudishness of conventional Victorian society.

I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said “You must not weep.”

If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says “You must not laugh”;
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said “You must not quaff.”

When once a meal I wished to taste
It said “You must not bite”;
When to the wars I went in haste
It said “You must not fight.”

“What may I do?” at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said “You must not ask.”

          Moral: “You mustn’t.”

So finger-wagging isn’t the way to go. Who knew?

And how easy it is to glimpse, in this barely teenage prodigy with his natural genius for companionable hilarity, the witty man who transformed children’s literature by giving children a stronger voice in the bewildering world we grown-ups create for them.

 

Image result for lewis carroll

 
Image: ottmag.com

The Time Has Come

I have a confession to make. I am guilty of terrible crimes. My public face – decent, caring, compassionate – is a sham, a hollow mask which conceals a crawling, squirming, grotesque monstrosity you would hate to hallucinate in your deepest and darkest nightmares.

Image result for snakes crawling from mask eyeholes

  • I have voted for people who have betrayed humanity.
  • I have worked for employers who refuse to contribute to the well-being of the wider society to which they belong.
  • I have quietly pocketed my share of the spoils.
  • I have bought products from organisations who lie and cheat their way through the world.
  • I look forward to a pension bloated by financial investments in dubious, amoral and even illegal activities.
  • I have turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to countless sins and abuses committed in my name.

Thank you for listening. Just by bearing silent and non-judgmental witness, you have managed to lift my burden of shame.

As a matter of fact, I feel much better now. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, they say, or else quartered or maybe eighthed or perhaps sixteenthed …

It may even be that my sense of culpability has been spread so microscopically thinly that there is actually no vestige left of personal responsibility for anything at all … anywhere … ever …

                                                                            Did I just say that out loud?

Image result for keep it under your hat

 

 

Images: www.tumblr.com and www.comicartcollective.com and www.zazzle.com

 

All Chilled Out

Below is the final poem in my little acrostic series, which has been an enjoyable and relatively easy way to keep my hand in while I’ve been away from home. Now the holiday is over, I guess it’s back to thinking up rather more substantial ideas for posts. Hmm, time for a team meeting …

 

  • Right then, what do you need to say?
  • Er …
  • Well, what do you think the world needs to hear?
  • Erm …

 

That went well, didn’t it? Bear with me, I’ll have to go in there and bang a few heads together …

 

 

Never mind, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible … as the bishop said to the actress. In the meantime, here is that acrostic poem I promised you. Bet you can’t wait to read it. It’s in response to the Daily Prompt Shiver

 

So cold, this old
House, full of
Invisible fingers plucking
Violin strings
Everywhere and nowhere –
Rallentando of dry bones.

 

 

 

 

Procrastination

Editor’s Comment        This blogger has failed to submit a new post in time for publication. According to his sick note he has retired to bed with a chronic attack of indecision in the face of too many possibilities. He claims to have begun several drafts but none of them are anywhere near completion. I have allowed him to publish the following poem on the strict understanding that his next post will be all his own work. Thank you.

 

The Old Sailor  by  AA Milne

There was once an old sailor my grandfather knew
Who had so many things which he wanted to do
That, whenever he thought it was time to begin,
He couldn’t because of the state he was in.

He was shipwrecked, and lived on an island for weeks,
And he wanted a hat, and he wanted some breeks;
And he wanted some nets, or a line and some hooks
For the turtles and things which you read of in books.

And, thinking of this, he remembered a thing
Which he wanted (for water) and that was a spring;
And he thought that to talk to he’d look for, and keep
(If he found it) a goat, or some chickens and sheep.

Then, because of the weather, he wanted a hut
With a door (to come in by) which opened and shut
(With a jerk, which was useful if snakes were about),
And a very strong lock to keep savages out.

So he thought of his hut … and he thought of his boat,
And his hat and his breeks, and his chickens and goat,
And the hooks (for his food) and the spring (for his thirst) …
But he never could think which he ought to do first.

And so in the end he did nothing at all,
But basked on the shingle wrapped up in a shawl.
And I think it was dreadful the way he behaved –
He did nothing but basking until he was saved.