Doing nothing with an immense success
You are being boringly good, I complained to my toyboy. He was unmoved. Come on, go out and find a girl to dance with, I chided. He laughed and said he was working, studying even. I sighed. He is turning into a workaholic.
As I rang off, I stopped to consider my situation. What do I do? Nothing. But as Kipling says, doing 'nothing with an immense success' is what I am good at. So I suppose I am thriving. There are many things I am not going to write about.
There's Paul's crossword on Thursday, with a sly twist, where the solutions were anagrams of a one-word clue and an anagram indicator. Wand? (5,4) Disease?(7,6) Acts? (4, 6) Satchmo? (7,5), and so on. False dawn, seaside resort, cast adrift, and stomach upset; but who cares or wants to read about it, eh?
There's Brendan's offering on Friday, of authors and books. I could do a post called 'one for the books' or 'author, author'. It is not an easy thing to compile a puzzle so that each of the twenty-six solutions is an author's name or a title. I won't write about it.
There is the question why I bother with the poetry blog at all, considering I haven't posted a poem in more than two months. Well, it was supposed to be where I published my old stuff, but the old stuff seems pathetic and so on and so forth, alas. So I won't write about it.
I could write a pro bono publico post to educate poor misguided individuals who use multiple exclamation marks about the redundancy of it, or hold forth about ellipses again. Don't use those three dots if you don't know what they stand for, I could say. But I won't.
There's my eternal grouse, that of any blogger, about comments. I would be in a state of panic if some hundred people commented on anything I wrote, to tell you the truth, but it makes a nice dream and an item for a wish list if I ever get silly enough to compile one. There is the wish list post, too. Of all the things I want but can't get my hands on, of all the things I wish I could do and more. I am not going to write that either.
There's the matter of unsent letters, too. Letters I wrote and never mailed, either by snail-mail or the other option. The letter to Tabitha King, for instance, after I read One on One. I really ought to mail her. Or post it on the blog. But I won't.
There's the gnashing of teeth when I read bloggers who talk about their personal lives in excruciating, nauseating detail, too. But I am a nice person, so I exit the blog, never go back and leave it at that. I won't write about it.
There's the choice of writing an open letter to all the people I am playing Scrabble with on facebook. Dear people I play Scrabble on facebook with, I don't mind losing. I lose most of the time, actually. I mind having inactive games. I mind having to nudge you and plead with you to make your word. Just play your turn, will you? But I won't write that either.
I am refraining from writing about any of these things. I am not even going to crow about solving today's weekly Prize puzzle by Araucaria in one go, and online. Like Kim, I am going to revel in doing nothing with an immense success. I am going to bed.