The future is dark, the present burdensome. Only the past, dead and buried, bears contemplation.
- G. R. Elton
Or
It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
- Anne Sexton
I'm listening to the first Grinderman album and waiting for payday. It's not the first time. Everything crossed it won't be the last. November's been an odd month. Odder than usual.
This blog's not really about Doctor Who, y'know. It just looks like it is. Well, most of the time anyway. In much the same way that every picture is a self-portrait, every one of the two-hundred and thirty-summat posts me and him've posted're closer to amber-fixed (and permanently petrified) prehistoric insects than 'reviews' of a TV show. (Not that Doctor Who's really a TV show - but that's a chat for another day.)
I've written elsewhere about how the Him cajoled me into submitting typing toward a book. Things escalated in the way a handclap in a ski resort'll bring down the mountain. I'm going to add some links to the things I've written since as a direct result of his initial encouragement in a moment, but only after I get the next three paragraphs out of my system.
I'm a lucky fellow, which is why I'm getting the chance to type this. You, lady and gentleman, are equally lucky to be reading it. Not lucky because I'm typing something worth reading, but because we're only occupying this particular moment as a result of chance occurrences that, currently, have totally failed to kill us. They will eventually, but we've somehow blundered this far without terminal mishap, so let's pretend we're special for a moment. Because we are. We're shaping the future.
Annoyingly, there's no guarantee I'm as lucky as you. Y'see, you have to be alive to be reading this. My existence isn't guaranteed after I 'publish' it. I'm here now, but I might not be when you're reading this.1 Just in case I'm not, there're a couple of things I'd like to say/type here.
Mostly, I had a blast. Yeah, a lot of it was uphill, smelled a bit funny and seemed to consist of Fate kicking me in the face with big old boots, but... I met some incredible people on the climb. Wonderful, fierce, sparking and sparkling friends I'd give anything to hug in person/analogue rather than binary, but any connection is good. We're a glorious species, chums. All of us. Let's get off this rock, eh? Reignite the pioneer flame.
Thanks for your indulgences. Now, I'm going to ruin the mood by trying to flog stuff.
These're things I've written nearly-essays for as a direct result of the Him's encouragement. The royalties all go to charity and the books're composed of insights into many different lives and voices. No pressure at all. Personally, I'm glad you're even reading this. Have a hug.
This blog's not really about Doctor Who, y'know. It just looks like it is. Well, most of the time anyway. In much the same way that every picture is a self-portrait, every one of the two-hundred and thirty-summat posts me and him've posted're closer to amber-fixed (and permanently petrified) prehistoric insects than 'reviews' of a TV show. (Not that Doctor Who's really a TV show - but that's a chat for another day.)
I've written elsewhere about how the Him cajoled me into submitting typing toward a book. Things escalated in the way a handclap in a ski resort'll bring down the mountain. I'm going to add some links to the things I've written since as a direct result of his initial encouragement in a moment, but only after I get the next three paragraphs out of my system.
I'm a lucky fellow, which is why I'm getting the chance to type this. You, lady and gentleman, are equally lucky to be reading it. Not lucky because I'm typing something worth reading, but because we're only occupying this particular moment as a result of chance occurrences that, currently, have totally failed to kill us. They will eventually, but we've somehow blundered this far without terminal mishap, so let's pretend we're special for a moment. Because we are. We're shaping the future.
Annoyingly, there's no guarantee I'm as lucky as you. Y'see, you have to be alive to be reading this. My existence isn't guaranteed after I 'publish' it. I'm here now, but I might not be when you're reading this.1 Just in case I'm not, there're a couple of things I'd like to say/type here.
Mostly, I had a blast. Yeah, a lot of it was uphill, smelled a bit funny and seemed to consist of Fate kicking me in the face with big old boots, but... I met some incredible people on the climb. Wonderful, fierce, sparking and sparkling friends I'd give anything to hug in person/analogue rather than binary, but any connection is good. We're a glorious species, chums. All of us. Let's get off this rock, eh? Reignite the pioneer flame.
Thanks for your indulgences. Now, I'm going to ruin the mood by trying to flog stuff.
These're things I've written nearly-essays for as a direct result of the Him's encouragement. The royalties all go to charity and the books're composed of insights into many different lives and voices. No pressure at all. Personally, I'm glad you're even reading this. Have a hug.
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| The set can be collected here. I'm in both, but don't let that and so on and so forth. All royalties to Children in Need. |
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| Worth it for the logo and introduction alone. I managed to 'hide' all fifty-two story titles in my piece, but if I don't say that you won't notice. Again, all royalties to Children in Need. |
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| This went live today. (My essay explains what The Prisoner was all about, finally and indisputably.) All proceeds to the Terrence Higgins Trust. |
1. I'm still hoping to get a short story out of this idea, so I hope I am. But bears drop out of the sky every day, so who knows?
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