Running out of reason...

No! Not reason to blog. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you with my latest title. I thought it was titularly titillating, that's all.

How do you titillate an ocelot?

...

Why, you oscillate its tit a lot, of course.

But, really, the reason that I'm running out of reason is all on account of Twitter. Now, I signed up to Twitter with a purpose. I use to trawl through my daily websites that I'd bookmarked, trying to keep up with the news, the gigs, the comment, et al...

But, I now find myself trawling through the last 24 hours events searching for something to read but being stymied by the fact that, in actual fact, the facts can be emitted through these two line headlines which still manage to fit in an incomprehensible link icon. There's no need to read on, mostly.

Good news for the busy woman. Bad news for anyone else. Surely a normal person wants to read an article? A "normal person". This isn't a rant blog. James hosts a rant blog. Read editingtheherald@blogspot.com. Or, if you've been following closely enough, you can go to the "Rest and Rant". They'll have you. Someone is bound to be ranting there.

I passed it again on the bus today. I pass it everyday, but today I found myself taking closer inspection. I should have been a detective. The place is an Ethiopian Restaurant or at least it appears to be for all intents and purposes, until you realise that the place has no windows. No - it has little to no windows. As in, the windows are little. They creep up the wall and they are spindly. What's happening in the Ethiopian Restaurant? I should try to obtain a meal from them in order to find out. Something terribly illicit. Something desperately illegal. Perhaps I'm missing out on the best Ethiopian in London. But, I doubt it because the best Ethiopian food has already apparently been acclaimed by Timeout magazine and it's on the other side of Camden. Do you disagree? What's the best Ethiopian you've had? I'm dying to know. Reading the Timeout makes me such a pseud, no?

Incidentally, and back to an idea I had at the top of the page, we already know that I started the blog without reason. I embrace the irrational every time I strike the keyboard. There was never a reason to start. There is equally no reason to stop. Have you ever seen The Holy Mountain? It's a film. Don't bother. Once shocking - once when it was made(Sorry Jon)- now, I'd argue vehemently that it's very closed-minded. Attacking something (organised religion) that should never exist for someone who was "open-minded" enough to bother sitting through the film. Artistic endeavour here is fraught with the limitations of the human condition. Here, the human condition is evidenced in the fact that the writer is so angry at humans. Oh, come now. If you're bigger than humans, be bigger than humans. The film takes us nowhere. You're lost? Perhaps you should see the film and then revisit this paragraph. Or better yet, see it and then give me a call. But first consider this: The argument propounded by the film is, to me, almost as closed-minded as positivism, I dare say. And we all know how vehemently I would argue that point. And if I was completely honest (because usually, I'm a flagrant liar), the argument bores me...

I forgot to mention. Something extraordinary happened on Saturday morning. I've lost the will to straighten my hair! What a surprise! I never thought it would happen. It's like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. Another set of burdens begins though. My hair is disfigured and wiry and never had any charm and now I have to consider it whenever I pass a mirror. I forced charm into it with the straighteners everyday until I realised that straightening had actually waned in fashion and insouciant and wild locks were on the wax. Waxing insouciance! I've embraced it but there is a lingering feeling of loss. Loss of a time when straight hair was acceptable and even demanded. I've also noticed the wedge heel return to fashion. If you knew me ten years ago, you'll remember that I would sport the wedge. I'd sport the platform. Oh, the days... The days!

I follow the fashion by purchasing a Vogue every now and again. I read a brilliant short story in the magazine whilst at the hair dressers one time... or perhaps I was at home on the couch... it doesn't matter. The story ends in two rather rich wives of old money sitting at an extremely expensive restaurant where a large bowl of chocolate mousse is placed in front of them in the centre of their table, once they've finished their salads, and they take a small bowl each of the mousse, then take another, then throw away the bowls and take large spoonfuls straight from the source. That cruel waiter! Oh, remember the days when you could order a torte with your tea and never see it on your hips the next day?! If life insists on ageing us, where is the reason to go forth into it... life wanes in the same way that straight hair does... Consider this: Penny used to straighten my hair on the ironing board before we went to a party. We were sixteen. My goodness, life wanes.

I should spout a verse. Goodness knows, it's been I while since I've written one - even a limerick! I've been working rather avidly at my screenplay, so in order to satiate your desire to read some poetry - as we all know, it should be consumed at regular intervals so as to remind ourselves of progress and hope in a despairing climate - I'll just cut and paste a little that I wrote last year after I went to see Waiting for Godot. Some fools, of course, walked out at half time, which reminds us of how despairing the climate truly is. It's just a trick to see the play in the flesh and, boy, did they do it by the book! Flailing on the ground and so forth. Here goes...

When I said goodbye
And went to the Beckett,
I exited to the right but
Returned later on the left
And you were still there
Drinking, but you’d switched
From vodka to gin and
I knew something was awry, but
I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Yada, yada... You don't want more from me tonight, do you? I've never reflected on my absent audience overtly. Until now, perhaps. It's a sad wonder that I can go on like this, and nothing ... ever ... comes ... back.