The ineluctable finitude of the verbal economy

Sunday, 29 April 2007 — 5:11pm

I was going to entitle this post “Radio silence something something,” but it sounded terribly familiar – reminiscent, perhaps, of a post I wrote a year ago under nearly identical circumstances.

Now that the hockey season is over (as is, unrelatedly, the examination season), one would think that I would have time aplenty to return to decorating my modest home on the digital range with flighty paper thoughts dangling from the ceiling in precariously threaded mobiles of Idea or Essence or whatever it is that existence precedes. Not so. As is becoming incredibly typical, I have in front of me a plate of noodly grey matter piled higher than a “small” order at Buca di Beppo, waiting the impossible wait to be digested and subsequently inscribed with what one might term a “flushing motion.” There’s simply too much to process.

For instance, after roughly forty hours of play, I had developed a few critical entry points into the connection between Super Paper Mario and the labour theory of value, but there’s just this inescapable feeling that the time spent writing it down would be better spent elsewhere. And there is no shortage of this glutinous, unspecified “elsewhere” ahead of me in the weeks to come – what, with a new Michael Chabon novel arriving on Tuesday, coupled with a second attempt to spin a 50,000-word fiction in the span of a month that will hopefully be a tad more successful than the last short-lived foray.

In short, the dry spell of data here is likely to extend to a full-on drought, one not wholly dissimilar to the sort you can’t easily put away without the assistance of an exiled prophet in a Technicolor dreamcoat. Wriggle, ye writhing wordsmith, wriggle.


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