slacking

I am so cross with myself, in a very British fashion of course, because lack of discipline has meant I have broken my resolve, Dear Blog, to make regular entries into you (take that as you like). No excuses apart from idleness and endless Scramble/Solitaire/Word Challenge games on Facebook, in fact anything rather than concentrate on the task in hand.
Except I don't want you to be a task, I want you to be a galvanising force that opens up some disused synapses and gets my once fertile imagination flowing again.
I used to be capable of enormous imaginary clarity,full of vivid imagery and a group of characters who lived out their lives in independent, glorious living technicolour. They played their scenes across the screen in the frontal lobe of my brain and I simply recorded what I saw, heard, felt as fast as my little fingers could wield the pencil.
Then, as life became increasing complicated and other peoples' needs took precedence, I made the fatal mistake of thinking I could defer recording to a later date. I let other matters deflect my focus.
Fool that I am!
The scenes paled, the characters lost their clarity and now I struggle to maintain any sort of focus and depth. I read my drafts and shudder at their inanity and shallowness. Eyes open or closed, the screen is clouded at best and, at worst,blank.
Perhaps it's age or the combined effects of years of various chemicals meant to calm my fractured emotions, that have not only taken the edge off but blunted my fantasy-life so effectively it gives me no solace,escape or artistic release.
My latest fictional embryo lurches from frenzied scribblings to a slack few lines penned with lethargy. My advice to my daughter to keep her literary efforts honed through regular exercise, independent of a fickle muse, smack me between the eyes.
Take your own advice woman!
And also decide what it is you are trying to achieve - an ego trip based on personal fantasy or something that has a message, something useful. The conundrum is deciding what useful is. Am I deluding myself by believing I might have something to say or even whether anyone could possibly want to listen/read my ramblings. I have some good ideas - I don't thing it's too egotistical to say that - but unfortunately I struggle to make them cohere or maintain a consistent power. They seem like random strands, each interesting in their own right but I am failing to make the connections that would give them substance and staying power.
Someone once told me I was on the cusp of either being effective artistically or falling into the pit of the dilettante - perish the thought - and the terror is I have seen so much wither away through neglect and lack of perseverance that I may have done irreparable damage. I know I have lost some of my physical, tactile agility and so producing a picture or design is an enormous challenge but I have to believe that with "brain training" I can re- connect with an organ that dashes hither and thither and channel it again into acuteness and passion.
Andrew Thorpe and his three sirens may still have a future if I can shake off a few inhibitions and maintain enough anonymity to free myself from the constrictions of the person other people think I am ( or should be).
Perhaps I have the right to indulge myself and my own personal fantasies and at the same time create something other people might enjoy.
Watch this space.

venting

So the man has finally appeared to put in the blessed extractor fan.
It's never a simple job with a man is it?
Just replace the old one for goodness sake, same place for goodness sake!
No, there has to be chin scratching, head wagging and a lot of pacing around and staring at the
roof outside. There has to be serious, almost presidential, mobile phone discussions about where
the external grill might be and where the moisture might go. After all if it just goes into the loft it will
make it wet!
I tentatively try to suggest that the other two homes have had theirs done and they were put in the same
space as the old one - no, this guy has to find the external opening or he can't do the job. Is he hoping against hope?
Right, I'll ring my neighbour - after all, this is the same company even if it's a different workman. Mr Neighbour confirms what I've already told Mr Workman. Infuriatingly enough he recites everything I say back to me. More pacing and discussions. This is a flipping extractor fan installation not a heart operation.

Thankfully, at last, and after a further grovel around the loft, he finds what he's looking for and work can commence.
I got up at the crack of dawn on my day off for this so it had better be worth it!!

TheCrie de Coeur of Age

Our value is not defined by the efficiency (or otherwise) of
Our sphincters.

playing scramble, feelings

My mind meanders through lists of words. I view the grid and while I try to string letters together as time ticks by. How do these people have time to pass messages as the clock slices away at each three minute slot? My eyes turn somersaults finding words longer than three letters.
At zero the graphics change - a revised list of scorers pops up plus the list of all the possible words in the grid, many of which are incomprehensible. Are they plucked from some world dictionary? I wonder who searches them out. Are we being duped? Are we victims of a huge joke? Someone on another part of the planet sniggers as they make up words, the weirder the better.
Even so, when the clock starts the count down the pulse quickens and one hopes one's eyes can pick up the sequences of letters. The fingers slide over the keys, illuminating the developing words and registering their points rapidly enough to lift a player's position and thereby each players word I.Q.
My fingers and brain/hand/eye co-ordination seem so sluggish in comparison, then the laptop freezes and exasperation seethes as seconds melt away. I resent the phone ringing with a minute to go - it equals words/points missed.
There is little give and take. Anyone exceeding the maximum room I.Q. rating is ordered off to higher places. The great grail is the "greenie" - the highlighted word (in green as opposed to blue) scored by only one player. What exultation!

Eventually reason surfaces and I take myself in hand. I return the game to its rightful place and remind myself that in the great scheme of things it is inconsequential and still second to the Great Solitaire - the ultimate panacea when stress levels rise.