Breakage

Perhaps that "ticking over" assertion was over-optimistic. I seem to have lost the will to blog.

What have you missed?

I did go dancing, that week, and it was fun. I was reminded of some things I'd forgotten.

I planted these freesias a little late last year. A few bloomed, most didn't. When the laggards, confused by some random temperature shock, poked up shoots in November, I thought they were doomed, but they've grown steadily since then, biding their time, waiting to announce the arrival of Spring with pretty flowers and an intoxicating scent.

I've been enjoying the new Doctor Who, and (thanks to my favourite patron of the arts) catching up on Alias. All very silly, but I need that. There's not enough silliness in my life.

Also silly was Practice Paradise, the third and by far best piece in the current touring show by Welsh dance company Diversions, choreographed by Belgian Stijn Celis; I don't know what it is about Belgium, but it seems to spawn more than its fair share of brilliant dancemakers. Drawing heavily on images from silent film comedy -- of which I'm not a fan -- Paradise was a riotous, hysterical delight. If you get the chance -- it seems unlikely, but you never know -- go.

I had, belatedly, my six-month review at work. It was very flattering. I got a pay rise. For the next 24 hours I felt empty and stupid and worthless, demonstrating once again that there's nothing like compliments to bring out my self-loathing and insecurity.

Promethea ended.

I taught classes I've never taught before, and seemed to get away with it. Got flamed by Tom Coates. Saw Daniel Barenboim and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra play Bartok. Finally got around to booking tickets for Laurie Anderson on May 18, the perfect birthday outing.

I got my hair cut:

I had a very bizarre dream last night, revolving around an anachronistic oral history of the AIDS crisis. Blogging featured, and someone having their PhD viva in a London Eye capsule (for reasons of security), and a giant Larry Niven book flying over the Thames. Which sounds comical, but it was one of those dreams I've mentioned before, full to overflowing with sorrow and weeping, so much fucking weeping.

It's not as if I have nothing to blog about, but somehow I just don't feel much desire -- or ability -- to do it at the moment. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, it feels like something is broken in me. Stuttering and hollow and empty. The thoughts buzz around, things to say, stories to tell, but they never quite reach the point of expression. The page remains blank.

So. Let's make official what's been happening unremarked in any case. I'm taking a short break. Walky Talky is on hiatus.

Perhaps it will only be for a day. I may be back tomorrow, or next week, or next month. I don't imagine it will be long; I usually can't keep away, and it's not my intention to shut myself off. It could very easily be a shorter gap than between this entry and the last.

I'm not going anywhere.

But -- because I would have had to quote it anyway, regardless of the circumstances -- let's let Mr Alan Moore have the last word, for a little while:

Posted by matt at April 10, 2005 06:34 PM