It has not escaped my attention that a number of one’s fellow peeps in the fields of Blog have gone very quiet. Although there has been a gradual falling off, it suddenly feels as though the sound I most consistently hear is my own voice cheeping away. All things must pass, and this is the way of the world, both Virtual and Real. But in Real Life one is more constrained. What person has not fantasised about reinventing themselves, discarding the life they are living and replacing it with a shiny new one? By all accounts, it seldom works out the way it should and the result is usually depressing; shiny new life is quickly tarnished and the self that one thought to escape comes and takes up residence, or one wakes up on the cold hill side where “no birds sing,” in faery lands forlorn. But never mind, the fantasy persists. In Virtual Life, though, chucking in one identity for another is relatively painless. I know of one blogger, at any rate, who has done this – died and reincarnated, as it were, and there appear to be no ill effects. I am not particularly drawn to the idea of reinventing, being a sign-reader pure and simple. But. There is always a But, oh creative ones (as any fule know), or there should be; a get-out clause, a divine flaw in the immaculate pattern. For it is the playfulness of this endeavour that appeals to me, in the land of no fixed signposts and obscure boundaries. So it may be that I change my colours and clothing - or disappear in a puff of smoke (Camel, I wish).
I have been steadily, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say unsteadily, plodding on with the onerous Lenten task of poetry-making. Strange that an activity of such central importance in my life should feel heavy. It isn’t, of course. It is pure delight, when I do it. It is only the not getting down to it that is difficult, the coming up against lack of strength, physical and psychic, and the Issues around self-discipline. But, you know, this is why I set myself the task in the first place, and it is bearing fruit. I have a cluster of poems I am pleased with. Not many, for there is an awful lot of chipping about one does before the thing is done. But still, a cluster. And more to come.