Get On, Clip In, Fall Off

Nothing on but repeats

After the heaviness and rantiness of that last entry here, I thought I'd wheel out something a little more light-hearted and start an experiment I thought of a while ago - repeats! These are repostings of stuff I wrote loooong ago (in Internet time anyway, which means that some of them might date back as far as 1992 or thereabouts, which as anyone will tell you is before the Internet was invented. They also make for almost no mental effort on my part other than that needed to pick them out of the archive and paste them into a box. Most of them have been languishing in archives for a long time, and reading some of them back I get the feeling they deserve another outing. There's also a lot of total garbage in the archives, but I won't be reposting that.

Today's entry is from the heady days of 1999, and was written as a response to a Usenet article which seemed to meander off the point a bit - it's a stream of consciousness, and is partially explained by the fact that I was reading Ulysses at the time.

In article <7eitv9$obi$1@nclient5-gui.server.virgin.net>,
Robin May  wrote:
>Does anyone actually like the music of meatloaf? Also, whenever he appears
>on TV he makes an arse of himself. Why is this? Oh and also before I forget,
>I saw him on TV chatting to Toyah Wilcox (which reminds me, did you see
>Stars in their eyes? Though I hate it, I was watching it and this Toyah
>Wilcox impersonator did a really good impression but lost to an awful Ronan
>from boyzone impersonator. it was a trafesty of justice) and he said "one of
>my daughters is really clever. She is so clever it's scary". What about his
>other daughter. Poor girl/woman ( I don't know how old she is), meatloaf
>insulting her intelligence.

The stream, the consciousness, the filter-crystalful stream of
clariful blue consciousness - isn't it weird the way it's impossible
(of course, I say impossible, do I mean impossible? possibility is not
a matter of simple legiful comprehension, I saw the news today, oh
boy..) to comprehend exactly what's going on with such garbled,
farbled, dally-down-darbled textual ambling meandering! Ah, clarity!
Pure clear words, easy meaning, that elemental partickling of the
soul, laid out in long straight even spirit-levelled linear lines of
level even spirits of sense, lines in which those roamful romandering
Romans built their roads (roads of stones, stones of destiny, ah,
Scuttleland the bave, the paved, thy crown and gown and glens and bens
subdumed under the himperialist fisticuffs of Messrs. Bull and
Macadam) make for all a simpletask, a simpletontask, to read with the
eyes (or the eye singular, it need not need two of I to read though
two heads may be better than one) and find understunding theretounder!
Write with one point in mind, rather than mining the mind and turning
again and again (again Whittington, Archer, the living rocks, mare
lord of Lundum) onto by-streets and side-ways of thoughts, and the
audience (previously a boredience, you understand) will applaud
laudfully and long!

Something like that, anyway.

Mike

Posted by mpk at April 22, 2004 4:21 PM | TrackBack