But sometimes the posts simply do not.
I know we've talked about this before, but I think it bears repeating, especially because I have nothing else to write on. I know of at least two other serious (read: published) bloggers who have their posts written or at least drafted out a week or more in advance. The posts always seem current and lively, which I'm sure can be done in a matter of minutes by simply going through and editing bits and pieces of syntax, but it seems somehow artificial to me. And I know that's rather silly of me, because any piece of writing has to be able to stand the test of time and still appear fresh and new, but when I serve up this morning plate of goodness, it's FRESH, because when I post it it's at the end of forty-five minutes to an hour of writing, sweating, and bleeding, and is guaranteed not pre-prepared, frozen, nor leftovers from another day.
Casting the brilliant light of my mind back across the weeks and months, it's feeble glow illuminates an article I read a while ago, about the Etiquette of Blogging or something to that effect. The author mentioned something I have read before, that the blogger should phrase their writing so that it appears they are speaking to the reader, rather than 'talking at' them. I think my stream-of-consciousness style of writing has always done that, ever since the first days of my typewriting. I've always been a sort of off-the-cuff type, someone who is ill-suited for a lot of extensive planning and formulation.
And naturally there are times when this gets me in mental trouble, being a ruthless self-examiner. There are times when I wonder what sort of work I could turn out if I were one of those artists or writers who can and will sit and plan and struggle with something for months and years, working and striving and wrestling with a painting or a book or a poem until it's, in my opinion, had all it's life wrung out of it.
I was bad that way in high school. Always top of the class in English, particularly Literature, I found that I genuinely hated the painstaking dismemberment of stories and themes. It seemed that every time we picked up a book it was not to enjoy it as a living, breathing thing unto itself, but because we were going to clumsily pin it's covers to a tray, take the dull scalpels of our minds and render it into it's requisite bits, so we could nearsightedly study it's inner workings, turning it from a butterfly into so much green filth. Then what made it all worse is that they told us to put it back together after it's gruesome vivisection and make it fly again, casting us as junior Doctor Frankensteins high in our watchtowers, desperately listening for a pulse from our creature that will never come.
That sort of behaviour without fail seemed to be very crass to me. If you cannot discern a pattern in a bird's flight does it mean that you can't enjoy seeing it fly? If the ants moving to and fro their mound cannot be enjoyed for it's natural flow then how are you going to enjoy tearing the mound open to see the queen hard at work? Is it impossible for someone to enjoy the end result without knowing that it's all done with stewmeat and puppets, or a clever collection of mirrors and smoke?
I know, it's very rich, this coming from a self-confessed analyser to destruction. Let's face it, I've always been a study in duality, a schism waiting for a place to happen. If nothing else it makes life interesting, if by interesting you mean jagged emotional peaks and valleys. And even that of late is settling down. Granted it has taken almost 40 years for the peaks to have their lofty tops scrubbed off, and for the valleys to be filled with the detritus of years, but happening slowly it is. And talking like Yoda I am.
So what am I getting at? Not much. One of the joys of being me is that I don't have to make sense, and don't have to have a moral lesson or a sensible ending. Heck, I barely manage endings as it is. I actually kind of prefer an ending-less flow from one post to the next, with only minor jumps and jolts if possible, so that we sound as though we are talking to each other down a long room, and only have to wait a bit for the words to carry one to the other.