Nothing to do with Alfie at all.
This morning, like most, almost each and every, even all mornings I wanted to write.
I started a blog some time ago and courtesy of my mac spent more time arranging its’ formatting than its’ actual content.
A little like magazines really. I love magazines because their content varies. I am never stuck with a story or a style of writing that for me is not working.
If for you this is not going anywhere then about now you may turn to something else. Just like a magazine, on to the next story. Mmmm is life like that or is it just mine?
This morning: I decided to write on Facebook. It certainly has more readers than any blog you actually have to do something to find.
Consequently any writer who wants to be read should write for the growing number of freely distributed papers like Metro in the UK?
It might be harsh and a little inaccurate to imply that writers for the Guardian are well respected on the whole yet the Metro possibly has less grammar and spelling errors? This might be influenced by the style of writing?
Anyway who gives a flying tortoise?
So is this about recognition? What is this about? If there can be a resounding theme to the things that I write it is and will be this: “It’s not about me!” really ‘it’ whatever it is is not, about me.
So this morning I wrote:
I can post stories that inspire me, make me smile, remind me of some real value in life, or pictures that do much the same.
What I’d really like to share with you are words. My words. Words that express how I see, feel; perceive. Why?
Are you reading these words? Are they having any effect on you? They aren’t actually ‘saying’ anything as yet are they?
Yet I am told by friends and relative strangers alike that I should write. That I convey my ‘written conjunctions and projections powerfully’. I take that as quite a compliment indeed. And still I’m not actually ‘saying, anything’ as yet.
How much of our spoken word says ‘something’, conveys the actual intended communication?
Ah, that in itself is another element in our communication: ‘intended’?
I’ll go as far to presume that we can extend our meandering with inaccurate direction to our lives as a whole. By we I mean you, me and neither of us but us in general, human kind in todays society.
In my words, saying something, talking about nothings, descriptive, prescriptive or somewhat non-productive: I hope to echo some of your own thoughts. I’d like to find an accord. A place where ‘we’ relate to one another. For no matter how different we are we are more alike than different. You and I? You, I, all of us. Two legs, arms, one head if we start with the obvious.
OK there are many differences once we go beyond the surface physical impression. I hope and trust that my comparisons are not taken too literally yet that you are forced to concede that following these are countless examples that make us ‘all’ more alike than different.
Further to my ‘intentions’:
There are so many opportunities for so many tangents in these two paragraphs. ‘Todays society’? This is when my own (previously written and remaining untouched for some time) blog site (Johnny BollOX’s http://web.me.com/jjbox. No longer available.) comes into play as I can make that a link and write about it elsewhere on the same site. That is great n all (in a Southern United States drawling accent ) but doing so means that the initial blurb does not get finished.
And? That in itself is an indication of life, no? No, not that it exists – E.T!
We are pretty sure and almost universally agreed that it does.
Life’s meaning and values and more importantly, to the message I would like to communicate here, the questions surrounding the routes to those values and meaning; their meaning and all meaning.
Back to conveying the actual intended message. Some people I meet are fixed, compelled to get across their goal in the shortest space of time with the fewest words possible.
To my mind that is a little like driving from one city to the next by auto route, the fastest possible most direct manner.
The stream, the village pond with a willow tree hanging over it shading the swan and her cygnets, the children playing in the park, the birds singing, the sound of a game of tennis; whatever takes your attention, makes you pause and ‘feel’ alive – all of that, missed in the rush to get there directly.
Get where? The place that we are rushing to on route to the next?
Though, the homeless man in his early fifties with the ruby darkened skin I would attribute to a gypsy, smelling homeless and unwashed, crawling behind, pushing along in front of him his wheelchair, crawling as I say, on his knees up the hill of a pedestrianised shopping area.
Oh yes, I haven’t yet mentioned that this guy has no feet, from the shins down, lumps.
Two days ago my girlfriend decided I should leave. I have no job, I am alone in a foreign city and I am rapidly literally nearing the point where I cannot afford to take myself anywhere where I do know anybody.
During this argument that wasn’t an argument but a decision on wether my values met hers and allowed us a future together. I lost and I was leaving and it wasn’t my decision.
Yet she changed her mind and I do not know why she found value in me? And there, ‘for the grace of… go I!’
And I gave this man one swiss franc and know with certainty that she would not condone this.
He took a seat that became available just as I got on and apologised for his crossing my path.
There was no apology necessary and this wasn’t an apology of some exaggerated humility. It was a sincere and interested in every individual apology.
He joked with the young men in front of him. He joked with himself in a most interactive unassuming manner. Not a crazy removed from society manner. A relaxed love of life inspiring manner. Three consecutive sentences using manner.
His stick was to lean on every now and then as his hips hurt he told me. Directly after offering his seat to a lady who got on.
The lady refused and she acknowledged my point when I said to her that this was a ‘mark of an age gone by’, that the young would generally not offer so.
Society strives for equality and the once under represented female elements can now demand so much inequality that I too am unlikely to offer my seat to this lady should I be sitting.