A bit.
Indeed there is one simplest time immemorial test of the human.
If at this age - fifty summit
One feels that just a year ago was so so long ago, because so so much happened.
That is indeed winning his 'wars' and 'battles' too.
But what style?
How to make the point?
Not that with a life so full when it was not so, full.
I could fill a hundred pages with five hundred line Thomas Bernhard paragraphs. They don't even have a break for a breath. And rattle them off before breakfast too. And love it all.
But even reigning oneself in the last summer to speak only in perfectly formed paragraphs of just a few lines. And all the right full stops in the right places. If communicating with some educated persona, throwing in some semi's for effect.
To quote Mr Rockefeller's aide, and close friend. Disgusted me - a virtual monogomaniac. But no accounting for the lack of education. "All his playing away from home...He didn't go for bimbos you know.... only the educated and thoughtful.....whom worked under him.." Which in my book redefines the non 'bimbo' in a not so thoughtful way. Which incidentally is not a Miss Oh Jenny word nor offensive as it was indeed first coined for the male dandies of Liz's court some time back...
Anyway to write in one line careful simple sentences, not really poetical. But art. Nevertheless. Because all art is indeed at least small p political. Even if superscript p pain in the arse political. And if so many supposedly educated correspondents quite obviously can no longer read or take any written words in. As artistic response. Even if they would consider it "attack". Indeed, let's make it very very very simple to read. No ambiguity. No thinking for themselves. No reading between the
lines....
because even if one left a gaping abyss with a thing about what is really in this hole, a sign hammered into their ...
oops can't get personal,
my heart, my corpse left rotting aside the abyss, nope.....impossible.
But it is so dull writing a line at a time.
Them goddesses need to express themselves fully, that I do know....
I shall try for a while, but will likely forget. And revert to type.... (oh my how they assume ones type - indeed that is the summary of the last lovely long long time: breaking through that one.... but that is a footnote a long time away from where we are now, in this I mean).
Indeed 'gently'. That's the key word.
But starting with the doing....
And being...
And just a little placing...
To copy and paste to save time:
journalism, the “Five ‘W’s” are “Who,” “What,” “When,” “Where,” and “Why.”
But what is 'journalism' itself? And as for the why - there is no point. That I do know. Have discovered. Even if I can. For real.
And thus just stay with "where". In sketch. Because I cannot say. Cannot paint all the colours for you.
That's a point, as for the "who" not on your Nellie. Except for a little maybe. And it would take a book, or indeed three..... volumes akin to Michel de Montaigne's complete works, to describe any truth. Lets just say "balanced". She liked that.
One aspect of who: for ethical and correct reasons - meaning considerable service to ones fellow human for no obvious reward often despite them, leaving one often brassic; despite a scrofulous earlier life, of even excess and occasional riches, meaner than Scrooge.
And thus i never spend a penny with so called big tech. Even a tenner for a domain. As I did last autumn. Every cent hurts. I resent every click to buy it.
But I have had the odd one over the decades for one reason and another. And I know that when a site is purchased and set into the interweb of lies and deceit, that blogger.com stats page - I never look at, may show one or other lost soul turning up, but generally zero views. By accident i Nozed the stats page of this page and bugger me it said plenty of folk nozing around before i even had time to stop living, and start to jot.
Nowt as queer as folk...... as they say my neck of the woods. Or did until the woods were overrun by lost fake bohemians from Berks., setting up fake Woodland Schools. And thus pushed out the local yokels; whom could no longer afford the rents.
Anyway that is another long and glorious story - ehh rather journalistic perusal, well and truly under my belt. Please not 'journalist' does not mean tittle tattle name and shame or absurd younger generation BBC presenter type of supposed journalism which basically is what they read off Facebook and they should pay for it. When journalism even serious journalism so called became largely 'reporting' what 'special interest groups', in other words a lonely bloke (of either gender, or is it sex? i forget) has set up a Facebook page to promote himself, and his agenda, he wants to be reported on and thus doesn't require a taxi fare to the studio, nor appearance fee, and always answers his emails.... i.e. they use him because they are too addicted to their phones to go out and look for real stories. People with real stories do not tell others of them... or not often.
Anyway that is all a one day maybe thing.
For now, all I wish, is to allow, "license" as many seem to have understood face-to-face, some truths.
But there is nothing "glib". I am the most hurt person in the universe. Genuine torture last April. Deep rent. No one would deny: licensed to moan.
But officially very very 'sane' so fuck the doodly off with assumption.
But indeed, having studied at times, briefly, between wasting time trying to assist propper one or two scroffulites over the year, and years afore.... The Sublime....I do know what the official intellectual definition is. In several languages, too. Another far far more propper than this mere Lingua Franca...
And more apt, I care. About how it should be expressed. Described. Translated. Whatever the right word may be.
So, the "where": nowhere
hahh hahhh.... Middle of 'it'. Which is offensive and discriminatory towards places that are nowhere, I know. I live a fair way from 'somewhere'. Not so far away that those living somewhere - albeit a small somewhere of 3000 odd souls, may occasionally get my way for a healthy walk. Which only 3 of them ever did.
But ignore there and them. Three miles yonder. Otherwise little else for miles except another similar sized so called 'community' ....and we shall certainly forget about them.
Was it only eleven months ago that i started daily to walk out of my cave's back door, as i had so oft done in the past, to head up to the hills, nearby, to hide......
From her....
and have loadsa nice picnics alone all them hills just for me....
