Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end.
So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.
I will post... something... akin to your nothing then add to it later in the day. I had to be careful in Thailand due to the 12 hour difference. "Brilliance" happens when my inner light goes on. Somedays I survive in darkness.
I like the way you think. I have the same problem, but it sometimes lasts all day long. And, not only for blogging, but also for commenting. Perhaps I need to develop "The Nothing Comment".
Something like this:
I read what you wrote and commented; you can now read what I wrote.
Well stated. I'm only here because I need to get my blog interaction over with quickly, though I feel bad saying it. Thankfully you're a good humored sort
I don’t think the 1% risk is something we can just ignore. While some may say people are overreacting or merely selling stories, I refuse to just stand by and watch. After all, someone has to protect the world.
A few days ago, Andrea and I had a conversation ending in speculation on what Shakespeare would sound like in Australian (Strine). Just try speaking Hamlet’s famous soliloquy in your best Ozzie impression and you’ll understand why we found the idea amusing. And that’s in spite of admitting that it’s entirely possible that Strine may be pretty close to how the Bard himself would have spoken. Much of the English spoken in former colonies has preserved some of the speech patterns of earlier ages.
But the matter reminded me powerfully of something that was reported during my time in southern Africa. It seems that the play, Hamlet, was translated into Afrikaans and then staged in some posh theatre or other, probably in Johannesburg. All was going along swimmingly until the following line was proclaimed:
“Omlet, Omlet, Ek is jou papa se spook!”
The audience collapsed in uncontrollable laughter.
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