I haven't forgotten.
As I did with my previous post, today I intended to mine content from the two years I've spent off the radar.
The trouble is, there isn't any. My best content has always been from my time on the radar.
I had copious beeps and boops to use as inspiration. It was on the radar that I came up with the characters of the Roadrunner and Betty Boop. I also detected aircraft, which was some of my most rewarding work.
But since I climbed down off the radar, I haven't been so prolific.
Maybe I should mount some other kind of detector or sensing technology, such as a Geiger counter or a sheaf of litmus paper.
I might recapture some of my glory days and see how acidic they were.
***
I'm glad I wrote 'sheaf' just then. I'd forgotten how pleasurable it is to write 'sheaf'.
But only if it's pronounced properly. It should rhyme with reef, not with chef.
The only time the latter pronunciation is acceptable is when using a contraction for "sheep-deaf" (which is what happens when you have wool in your ears).
"The entire flock was lost to wolves because the shepherd was sheaf. A crook does not a Q-tip make."
***
I tried "cotton bud" in place of "Q-tip" there, but it didn't flow as nicely. I've abandoned my country and my culture, and spat on the queen's hat. All for the sake of - what I think we all agree is - the PERFECT SENTENCE.
This hasn't been the longest of blog posts, but it has contained a high concentration of ideas.
To make it a bit longer, I'm going to try and embed a Tumblr post. I hope it works.
I've watched quite a few films over the past couple of years. One of them is the John Cassavetes film A Woman Under The Influence.
It features a fantastic performance by Gena Rowlands. It's great, but it's pretty hard to watch. Apparently, Richard Dreyfuss said, to sum up his glowing review of the film, "I went crazy. I went home and vomited". I'm totally on board with that.
Instead of watching it, you can just scroll through this picture set. It tells its own story.
See you next time, fans!
***
(Hey, it did work! All Hail Tumblr. Ger ready for many future posts of animal gifs and feminist propaganda.)
Monday 20 February 2017
Saturday 18 February 2017
One Toe
I've started this blog post fifty times in the past - Jesus - two years.
Sometimes just in my head. Sometimes on screen. One time in the condensation on a perspex riot shield.
What can I say? How do I explain?
I could sum everything up in a glib manner. I could just start afresh, and pretend I'd never been away. I could give a long explanation of everything I've been through, with photos and a YouTube montage.
But instead, I'm doing this. Which is none of those things.
How have you been?
If you've been reloading this blog page daily for the past two years, hoping for an update: it's your fucking birthday.
Here's your cake.
***
A couple of months ago, I tested the waters.
I was trying to ease my way back into online life. But I'd forgotten how. It seemed so alien. It was like using... a... simile. I couldn't believe this used to be my bread and butter. I didn't even remember what shape a loaf was, or what instrument that Lurpak dude used to play.
So I went for the basics. First, I posted a photo of a sunset on Facebook:
Then I took part in a popular meme on Twitter:
Neither of these things generated much response. But they weren't meant to.
I was just learning to walk again after years in a non-perambulatory coma. Or gingerly attempting a post-stroke symmetrical gurn.
It's hard. You can feel the rust. You know you're forcing it. Your metaphors are strained and cumbersome. When you were writing every day, your metaphors had snap and bite. They always made sense, and never went on for too long. You never used unusual vocabulary as a substitute for good writing. You never shifted suddenly from the past to the present tense, and then back again.
But then I didn't post anything for two months. It didn't take. It never takes. And it still might not take. This might be my last post until 2019.
I might not even post this at all.
So after dipping a toe into Facebook and a toe into Twitter (and continuing to dip my slotted spoon into Google+), I've decided to launch myself back into bloggy waters, right up to the calf.
(And I know those are Old Man Social Networks. Instagram or Snapchat are still too much of a novelty for me. Maybe I'll get there one day.)
It might not take - I'm aware of that. And then what? I might post a link to this post on the aforementioned social networks and then retreat into my shell. It will be a false dawn. And the dozens of people who have waited for me to re-emerge will be crushed, like when Harper Lee came out of retirement to write that David Brent movie.
Isn't it be better to be thought of fondly as an artist who vanished at the peak of his powers? I'm sure that's how I'm thought of.
I'm sure I'm thought of.
Belated, curtailed resurrections are most annoying kind.
But I can't let that stop me. This isn't about my public image. It's about my mental state. I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.
Read that again.
I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.
That's the terrifying situation in which we find ourselves, friends.
And what a time to do it!
World events are.. well, you know. Everything's falling apart. And everyone is, justifiably, spending all of their time talking about it.
If I raise my voice now, do I have to talk about it too? I don't think I can. I don't think I can even continue this train of thought now.
So I won't.
***
I've already got further than I have in the last two years. I'm proud of myself.
Hey, I know. I can do a tweet compendium. I used to do those all the time. I used to be crazily prolific. I don't think that's going to happen again. But how many good tweets have I done in the past two years? I haven't checked, but I'm going to guess: maybe double figures.
Let's find out together in another instalment of:
Remember How This Used To Work? (Except I'll Embed Them Now)
Three.
And they're all basically part of the same thing.
That's less than I was expecting.
So I haven't been tweeting.
I also used to write about jokes or ideas that I'd dreamt about. Do I still dream about things?
Yes. I emailed two of them to Lucy.
1)
2)
Last night I dreamt the expression “that’s about as much use as a chocolate wife”.
Three tweets, two dreams.
***
My confidence in this post is wavering.
But I have to post it now, don't I?
Searching for Twitter embed codes ain't free. Ain't trouble free anyway.
Oh, man. I can tell I'm not going to post another one of these for ages. And then the pressure will build, and I'll just feel bad about it.
Maybe I'll just do a quick one tomorrow. I'll just post a photo of a rusk or something.
Anyway, it's been nice to speak to you again.
This has been weird.
Sometimes just in my head. Sometimes on screen. One time in the condensation on a perspex riot shield.
What can I say? How do I explain?
I could sum everything up in a glib manner. I could just start afresh, and pretend I'd never been away. I could give a long explanation of everything I've been through, with photos and a YouTube montage.
But instead, I'm doing this. Which is none of those things.
How have you been?
If you've been reloading this blog page daily for the past two years, hoping for an update: it's your fucking birthday.
Here's your cake.
***
A couple of months ago, I tested the waters.
I was trying to ease my way back into online life. But I'd forgotten how. It seemed so alien. It was like using... a... simile. I couldn't believe this used to be my bread and butter. I didn't even remember what shape a loaf was, or what instrument that Lurpak dude used to play.
So I went for the basics. First, I posted a photo of a sunset on Facebook:
Posted by Paul Fung on Sunday, December 18, 2016
Then I took part in a popular meme on Twitter:
Me at the start of 2016 vs me at the end of 2016. pic.twitter.com/wujCY00flJ— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) December 10, 2016
Neither of these things generated much response. But they weren't meant to.
I was just learning to walk again after years in a non-perambulatory coma. Or gingerly attempting a post-stroke symmetrical gurn.
It's hard. You can feel the rust. You know you're forcing it. Your metaphors are strained and cumbersome. When you were writing every day, your metaphors had snap and bite. They always made sense, and never went on for too long. You never used unusual vocabulary as a substitute for good writing. You never shifted suddenly from the past to the present tense, and then back again.
But then I didn't post anything for two months. It didn't take. It never takes. And it still might not take. This might be my last post until 2019.
I might not even post this at all.
So after dipping a toe into Facebook and a toe into Twitter (and continuing to dip my slotted spoon into Google+), I've decided to launch myself back into bloggy waters, right up to the calf.
(And I know those are Old Man Social Networks. Instagram or Snapchat are still too much of a novelty for me. Maybe I'll get there one day.)
It might not take - I'm aware of that. And then what? I might post a link to this post on the aforementioned social networks and then retreat into my shell. It will be a false dawn. And the dozens of people who have waited for me to re-emerge will be crushed, like when Harper Lee came out of retirement to write that David Brent movie.
Isn't it be better to be thought of fondly as an artist who vanished at the peak of his powers? I'm sure that's how I'm thought of.
I'm sure I'm thought of.
Belated, curtailed resurrections are most annoying kind.
But I can't let that stop me. This isn't about my public image. It's about my mental state. I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.
Read that again.
I need to get back on the internet to stay sane.
That's the terrifying situation in which we find ourselves, friends.
And what a time to do it!
World events are.. well, you know. Everything's falling apart. And everyone is, justifiably, spending all of their time talking about it.
If I raise my voice now, do I have to talk about it too? I don't think I can. I don't think I can even continue this train of thought now.
So I won't.
***
I've already got further than I have in the last two years. I'm proud of myself.
Hey, I know. I can do a tweet compendium. I used to do those all the time. I used to be crazily prolific. I don't think that's going to happen again. But how many good tweets have I done in the past two years? I haven't checked, but I'm going to guess: maybe double figures.
Let's find out together in another instalment of:
Remember How This Used To Work? (Except I'll Embed Them Now)
Just thought of a good tweet for when Liam Gallagher dies. If I post it now and just RT it when the news breaks, I won't seem so callous.— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016
MAUSOLEUM GALLAGHER— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016
(Could work for any famous dead Liam, I suppose)— Paul Fung (@diamondbadger) June 22, 2016
Three.
And they're all basically part of the same thing.
That's less than I was expecting.
So I haven't been tweeting.
I also used to write about jokes or ideas that I'd dreamt about. Do I still dream about things?
Yes. I emailed two of them to Lucy.
1)
It’s a bit too fully formed for a dream joke, so maybe it’s an old tweet of mine or someone else’s:
Person 1: A big-billed bird was talking to me about a John Grisham novel the other day.
Person 2: The Pelican Brief?
Person 1: No, actually it was quite loquacious.
2)
Last night I dreamt the expression “that’s about as much use as a chocolate wife”.
Three tweets, two dreams.
***
My confidence in this post is wavering.
But I have to post it now, don't I?
Searching for Twitter embed codes ain't free. Ain't trouble free anyway.
Oh, man. I can tell I'm not going to post another one of these for ages. And then the pressure will build, and I'll just feel bad about it.
Maybe I'll just do a quick one tomorrow. I'll just post a photo of a rusk or something.
Anyway, it's been nice to speak to you again.
This has been weird.
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