The way (of the eternal optimist).

CAPS Lock, NUMBER Lock. Lockdown. Freaky shit down here. Prison gates have nothing on this. Slide Smash, slide smash. We are in lockdown!!

It was another late start for me today, 1.14pm. Still wearing pyjamas. Ate Shepherds Pie. Put on music. Set up mini laptop (netbook) and set about trying to write something original (again). Hello! This approach does not yield results Hello! Trying to ignore the voice of doom (experience?) Got this far and on reread still happy with results. Herman Melville. He wrote a story or was he the character in the story? Wikipedia pause. I was thinking, in a rather abstract way, of the short story Bartelby, the Scrivener by Herman Melville which from some reason, most likely vanity, sat upon some sort of mental plinth ready for an occasion just like this. What occasion? Writing? Being at home in my flat with the music playing just waiting to be interrupted again? I am not sure. Perhaps I am just neurotic. Is this even a story?

A Story must have a beginning, middle and an end.  You try to write a story like that, something that can hold someone’s attention.  I think that this is more of a journal type piece of writing. I have no thoughts of plot except for my own spiraling demise. There are no other characters except for the voices in my head and my neighbours who make odd noises – and me, the central character or literary protagonist. Har! What a fine word. Protagonist. So journal. I am not female, not particularly literary, nor in possession of many social mores or thoughts so I couldn’t possibly write a journal worthy of publishing on my blog. Wrong! I have a blog. I am an artist, poet and writer. I am almost worldly wise! I have opinions. I am a voter. I am a lover. I am past forty. So why can’t I think of anything to write? Search me!

Let me try.

Search me. That’s the sort of thing you might say if you for example wished to be arrested to escape a fate worst than that. You might be carrying an offensive weapon and approach a police officer (if you can find one) and insist that you be searched. If the copper isn’t too half-baked you should soon be telling your story of how you absolutely have to be arrested or end up facing a terror filled fate worst than that- that is why you are carrying an offensive weapon – so you can guarantee being arrested and escaping a fate worst than that. What are you escaping from? A Lover, enemy? Debt collectors? The press? Your children? Yourself? A wild bear? What makes a night in the cells and a mandatory custodial sentence seem more appealing? I guess the unknown with its billion possibilities is worst than say war to some people although it’s pretty hard to fathom. Perhaps tentacles are involved. They are pretty scary, even when on a plate of food. I just imagined the much bigger brother of my curried squid lifting the top off the restaurant and slavering over everyone he was shortly to eat with his evil beak. Well I imagined I imagined it. Really my mind isn’t so psychedelic.

Just put another album on. Felling like I need to poo. Feeling like perhaps I should get dressed. Quite happy with the 594 words I have done up the end of the past paragraph, thinking about publishing to my blog. Thinking about how to end. A rope. No! That should do it. Now I expect follows and likes and plaudits. But isn’t that always the way (of the eternal optimist).

Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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