Monday, January 24, 2005

Starting somewhere

Blogging. The name has been jumping out at me for the past few weeks. I'm reading a book now on it, sort off jumped out at me from the library shelves. Blogging, by Biz Stone. Telling me how to get started. So, I thought I would have a look at the blogger.com site, just to see. No commitment, just get in and get out. It's Sunday evening, and I haven't got a lot of time to set things up. Celebrity Big Brother is on (UK version, I don't even know if it's global yet). It will be - there's a fascination with looking at other people, ordinary people, living their lives in a goldfish bowl. I don't even like it, but it's on and I am trying to find other things to do.

There are lots of them. I could polish up some of my novel, send it off (again) to an agent or publisher. Just to see it come back. Recently it doesn't even do that. Are publishers that busy? Is the book that bad? Self doubt never hurt anyone. I could polish up a few poems, make them shine, dazzling so that no-one can ignore them. Browse the Web looking for sports articles, stuff on the Arsenal. Cricket - does anyone remember that? Speaking of Arsenal, we won today, 1-0 against Newcastle.

Which brings me back to the blog. The arsenalmuse set me off I suppose, he's written some stirring stuff about the team, in a distinctive style, almost philosophical in his 'musings'. I've got a web site, and it always seems so static (Biz Stone mentions this as well). Update a page, a few pages, post them up, look at the stats a few weeks later, lose enthusiasm for a couple of weeks, a month. I've removed the date on the home page so that no-one will know how infrequently I update! They know now. Here's a poem.

Feline

You're a cat all right,
don't know anything
but cat things, at the back door
squealing to come in,
looking for scraps, comfort,
the food that no one else brings you.

You're a cat all right,
collar against fleas,
face against mine, just
want some comfort, anything
this time in the morning,
early, and I'm writing.

Is it love? Or is your tongue
just searching for salt. Is it love
that brings you back through the night?
Knowing that if nothing
better comes up, the hope will be
that one day, when the ninth life
has leached away, you will take
some of that affection with you.

May it wash off on me,
because I often need
the crumbs of comfort,
the warmth of a hand,
the fur of delight,
rubbing against me
through me, with me.

The upshot is (I know you'll be glad to sense an ending) I have set up a blog. Later I'll link it to my website, do some advanced things with it. For now, I'm happy to be starting somewhere.
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