Re-start Rambling

I spent the afternoon yesterday reading the writings that I did in 2000, just after the big millennium comedown. I re read them some time ago, and was somewhat disappointed, because I was hoping they’d show more signs of shifty thinking, and they didn’t.  Yesterday I read them and found then to be spontaneous and very amusing.  Like as if there’s a certain kind of humour in judgement and bitchy victim thinking that you just don’t get when you’re being shift correct.  Like the flow is interrupted when I start trying to couch what I want to write impulsively in terms that are shift correct, alter the stream of words so that I make sure I include such things as I know I created it, which isn’t very funny! No where near as funny as a sarcastic unleashing of vitriol.  I laughed out loud at some of the outrageously rude stuff I wrote about people.  If I wanted to do that now, I would keep pausing in consternation, wondering what I was reflecting back to myself, wondering why I created it.  No where near as funny!
I’d been perusing the few lists I still look at, and found them boring.  Then the computer crashed, followed by a series of power dips.  Now once upon a time I’d have said that was because of the wind, but now I would say I created the power cuts purposefully, to try and unglue myself from the computer.  I was looking for the thing I wrote about my grandparents kitchen, reminded of it because mother is writing her memoirs and emailing them to me a bit at a time to make a print to order book, just a copy or two for the family.  I wrote some pages about their kitchen while I could still remember the details.  I never knew another grandparents kitchen, they lived there for over 60 years. Imagine that!  So I wanted to find it to send to mother, then decided not to send it, because there was so much more detail in it than what mother has been writing and then I started to worry that it would send her into one of those moods, as if it was a criticism.
I found lots of funny writing, and lots of depressed victim menatlity stuff, some of that I couldn’t even read because the energy was so horrid.  Since none of it was meant for anyone else to read, I didn’t waste time with (un)necesary explantions, because I know who I’m on about and I can say what I want. I wrote poems full of sarcasm and hate, which had a wonderful flow.  I even noted at the time that poetry seemed to come easier and flow better when it was full of pain and anger and judgment.  But even in amongst all that come-down depression paranoia, there was so many sparks of humour and enthusiasm and life.
So, during those dramas circa 2000, after we lost the club (note I didn’t say I created the club closing, even though I knew I did, even back then), and when we fell out with so many people over it, and in that dreadful long depression after the Milenium party when we finally gave up class A drugs, I decided to start writing.  I didn’t know how to start though for some reason.  I was putting the books up on the book shelf one day and a book literally flew out of my hands, landing some distance away, face up.  “Becoming A Writer” with a pink marbled cover.  One of those moments!  Obviously they used to happen all the time, even before I was aware of the workings of so called coincidences.  I didn’t even remember buying the book for ages, it was as if it just appeared.  Later I recalled that years previously I’d wanted to write a book, and had bought the book at the car boot sale.  I’d always wanted to write a book, but always seemed to want to write autobiographical stuff, not fiction.  I didn’t think I could write autobiographical stuff though because most of it was illegal, and I was worried about ramifications and incriminations.  So I didn’t write anything.  Of course I also worried alot about who on earth would want to read my autobiography, thinking in terms of books requiring readers, and popular genres and so on.  Looking back over my writings yesterday, was well worth it for the entertainment value for myself reading them at a later date, let alone all the therapeutic value that I mentioned in them several times at the time of writing.  Wish they were typed up though because now I want to put them all online somewhere but can’t see the time spent typing them all up as well spent time.  It would be a bit like the photo filing saga ~ would love to see them all filed and saved, but time spent filing isn’t time spent creatively.
So the “Becoming A Writer” book stressed that it was important to write first thing in the morning, while the subconcious was closer to the surface.  I had all kinds of difficulties with that because of D getting up early for work, and all the dogs and cats.  I mentioned numerous times that Rosie would be screeching as the shop steward for the other dogs wanting to go out, but then all the cats would come in. (I wrote that I left my porage on the table to go to the loo and came back and all the cats had eaten it all up, like Goldilocks)  Well, one good thing (and I can make that judgement that it’s good, because I don’t have to be shift correct) is that these days the so called subconscious just after waking state can pretty much be connected to any time, so I don’t have the rigid structure to try to stick to.  Makes me wonder if I haven’t made another kind of rigid structure to stick to trying to be noticing all the time that everything’s my fault.  (I can say fault too if I want to)
So then I was wracking my brains for where to do this rambling I wanted to resume.  I want to be spontaeous and not thinking about anyone reading it, not that I necesarily mind if they do, but I want to be writing to myself, not someone else.  So for once I didn’t want blog traffic.  Not all and sundry anyway. (Had a momentary twinge then of thinking of the potential few readers and wondering if they would think they were sundry) Remind myself I’m not writing for readers! Not sure what sundry means anyway. Dry and sunny perhaps.  If I ramble for long enough nobody will want to wade through it all anyway.
I decided, but not very decisvely, to start some new googlepages, having been labouring under the misconception that google pages were safe.  Slightly horrifed, but not as horrified as might have been expected, I found that googlepages are changing to google sites and with ominous echos of 360, assured me that they would make the transition as easy as possible.  pfft.  (transition as easy as possible eh, been thinking about transition rather alot lately, especially since J said I was transitioning strongly.  Yikes! Can’t help but associate that with dementia, but not quite as much as I used to.  Maybe the more demented you get the less it bothers you. If it doesn’t bother you I suppose it doesn’t matter.)
I started a new google site, without really knowing what I was doing, because now I suddenly had to think about saving all the other googlepage stuff as well as starting a new place for rambling.  I didn’t even know if I wanted them all in the same place.  I already had a place for random writing which I started when Gina’s list closed, I got half way through copying stuff I’d written, then get bored with copying old stuff.  But I didn’t want to put it there, in case Multiply decided to ‘make some transition as easy as possible’ at some later date.  Made me nostalgic for paper and books, wondering about the elusive effervescence of stuff online, like it could all poof out at any time, not matter how well you thought you’d made it safe and permanent.  I bet old books are around in the future.  Dunno about online stuff though.
I got in an instant muddle with the new google site, getting my subject columns all in the wrong place, then started randomly copying old googlepages stuff to it, then signed out, feeling scattered and indecisive. Kept recalling Dan’s article about writing on paper, and sitting somehwere nice to do it, maybe out in the sun.  I prefer to read typing than my handwriting though. Do I really want a laptop? Anyway, so I started to ramble to Jib about the old writing, the rambling and the websites and lo and behold, as if by magic, Eric reminded me of the perfect place that was right under my nose the whole time.  I can’t help worrying a bit about how safe is it there, I mean Eric may close down the whole thing, and then what.  So I’m going to ramble in my new email address, send it to my other email address, then copy and paste it on Erics website. Meanwhile wondering why on earth I feel such a need to save it all safely.  It’s only rambling after all ~ but has the potential to amuse me at a later date. Not that there’s any pressure to be amusing! ahah.  I wondered about what to do if I felt like being outrageously rude about any of the few people who might read my ramblings on the new low traffic arrangement, and decided to cross that bridge when and if it comes.  I want to be free to be rude, judgmental and unshifty if I want to.  I want to write about past stuff too if I want to and not give a hoot about being in the present.