2012 Predictions #273

For­get social net­work­ing. It’s SO 2011. So last year (once this year becomes next year, that is, though it’s quite last year even while we’re still in this year).

Social net­work­ing is OVER. It’s more over than a flipped pancake.*

My pre­dic­tion is that blog­ging is going to be BIG in 2012. Like, REALLY BIG. Big­ger than a moderately-sized fam­ily hatch­back, at least.**

For those who remain unaware of the ‘blog­ging’ phe­nomenon***, a ‘blog’ — or ‘web­log’ (but never ‘web log’) — is a frequently-updated per­sonal web­site where you write ‘posts’ or ‘entries’ (but never ‘blogs’ because that would merely be a plural of the word ‘web­log’) about your life, your thoughts, or about links to inter­est­ing things you’ve found ‘online’ while ‘surf­ing’ the ‘World Wide Web’ (which some people also call ‘the Inter­net’). These are then dis­played in reverse order on your web ‘page’, i.e. with the latest post at the top. In some ways, it’s like a ‘per­sonal homepage’****, but easier to update and thus far more fast-moving. You also don’t need any tech­nical know­ledge of codes or bat­ter­ies or mag­netic tape or whatever.

Blog­ging isn’t just one-way com­mu­nic­a­tion, either. No, your read­ers can COMMENT — using the ‘com­ments’ func­tion — and leave com­ments com­ment­ing on your post. Com­ments can be any­thing that com­menters may wish to com­ment in response, but com­mon com­ments include “u suk”, “ur blog is crap”, “what the fuk is dis shit?”, “buy performance-enhancing drugs to pro­long your love­mak­ing”, “i love you cos you under­stand me”, “have you tried this new twit­ter thing?” and “yay, me too!” Com­ments are great and make blog­ging much more of a con­ver­sa­tion between you, the BLOGGER, and your com­menter, the COMMENTER*****. Or ‘reader’, if you prefer.

Plus, blog­ging is SOCIAL. Just as much, if not more so, than oh-so-passé social net­work­ing. You can email blog­gers, stalk blog­gers, read each other’s blog obsess­ively look­ing for hid­den mean­ings, rifle through a blogger’s waste bins out­side their home, col­lect a blogger’s bod­ily flu­ids in a petri dish, and even send blog­gers nude pho­to­graphs of your fur­niture with a favour­ite pet spread-eagled sala­ciously across them******. Everything, in fact, you can do on the Twit­ter or the Face­book, but with far greater per­sonal, indi­vidual input.

So, there you have it. 2012 is going to be THE YEAR OF THE BLOG*******. Remem­ber where you read it first — on my site, AN UNRELIABLE WITNESS. If you’re new to the ‘World Wide Web’ and want to find this site again for some inex­plic­able reason, remem­ber to type aitch tee tee pee colon for­ward slash for­ward slash double ewe double ewe double ewe dot unre­li­ablewit­ness dot com******** into your com­puter. Also, why not book­mark the site in your FAVORITES (sic) menu? Or even favor­ite (sic) the site in your BOOKMARKS menu?

[Please RT this post on Twit­ter and share a link to it on your Face­book wall. Together we can make The Year Of The Blog a reality.]

* Check for a bet­ter phrase before press­ing Pub­lish.
** Check for a bet­ter phrase for this, too. Or employ a ghost writer.
*** Check whether blog­ging is really a phe­nomenon.
**** Check whether this ref­er­ence is rather too dated.
***** Check whether this com­puter has a built-in thesaurus.
****** Check whether this is indeed nor­mal, rational beha­viour.
******* Check whether BBC News or The Guard­ian will buy this idea.
******** Check whether there’s a short­hand for web addresses.

Three times removed

Find­ing myself sur­roun­ded by index cards con­tain­ing intric­ate data, pock­marked for pos­ter­ity, scratch­ings of mean­ing­less fig­ures totalling a sum I can’t even com­pute, and end­less screeds of inform­a­tion doused in the mois­ture from both lov­ing and unlov­ing sighs, I begin the task of burn­ing the evid­ence they reveal. One hun­dred and twenty index cards every night, cremated bey­ond recog­ni­tion. I inhale the fumes, stick my tongue into the air to catch a dying ember. I com­mit the files to memory, ran­domly accessed. I plug myself in, back myself up to any clouds I can see, know­ing that my fin­gers are not long enough to reach nor flex­ible enough to grip and hold on. I spend vir­tual cash on cheapened lives. I invest irre­spons­ibly. I erase everything because, ulti­mately, I want to be refilled, cor­rup­ted and scrawled upon anew. And yet.

Words is an anagram of Sword

But a sword can cut off your face, whereas words can only be tat­tooed onto it. A sword can be plunged into a stone for a nas­cent king to remove. Words can be writ­ten on the stone to warn the king that what he is doing is impossible to mere flesh, and there­fore he should per­haps won­der about his bones and his mean­ing and his poise. A sword is metal through and through, while words lack any mettle what­so­ever. A sword car­ries with it a his­tory. Words were born yes­ter­day and are already look­ing old bey­ond their years. A sword can be sharpened until merely a brief glimpse of it under bright white light can maim the eyes and blind bind blind­side the body, both the body of water and the body politic. A word (two of a word, three of a word, four, five, six and seven) is blun­ted through any kind of mis­use, or some under or much over. You can­not mis­use a sword. You can­not over­use a sword. Or under­use it. A length of metal, honed to death, is pure in pur­pose. You are also pure in pur­pose. You are sexu­ally honed to death. You are a flex­ing muscle, trapped in spasm. You are a body on ice and elec­tric, gif­ted in scratches. You are a sub­lim­ated flesh wound. You are a sub­lime being. This is medi­cinal punc­tu­ation. Be safe. Open wide so I can see. Swal­low your word without chew­ing, so I can appre­ci­ate the move­ment of your throat. Feel bet­ter and let’s cel­eb­rate by tear­ing at the crust, devour­ing syl­lables, slavering.

Tunnel visions

Some­times I seem too ordin­ary.
I con­sider (too much) how I appear to the cam­eras.
Click and whirr, be free my ima­gin­a­tion, such as.
It is. What little remains. Go.

I can laugh at noth­ing. For hours on end.
With dead end echoes for com­pany. Com­pany.
I’m sure we all want to hear the joke. Joke.
Speak up, we all want to hear it. Hear it.

This isn’t fuck­ing poetry. Verse and averse.
This isn’t poetry about fuck­ing. Averse.
Inhabit the echoes, and I’ll let you
Live a little longer.

Ti Li Yo Li

the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it
the life you live and the les­sons you learn from it

Rethink, return and restart

Blog­ging, then. They — who­ever ‘they’ might be — say it’s dead. They say that no one reads blogs any­more unless they’re writ­ten by news­pa­pers, magazines, per­son­al­ity colum­nists or groups with a par­tic­u­lar niche interest. The art of indi­vidual writ­ten expres­sion has moved to the 140 char­ac­ters of Twit­ter, to the Farmville-playing inan­ity of Face­book, or to Myspace (okay, not Myspace). Why? Because we are so brain-dead that we no longer have the neces­sary atten­tion span to read more than … oh look, KITTENS! Kit­tens play­ing with a ball of wool! Kit­tens chas­ing their tails round and round! Laugh­ing kit­tens! Yay, kit­tens! I love kit­tens! Oh. Oh, sorry. Yes. Sorry. Blogging.

Any­way, I’m here to say that I think this widely held belief is rub­bish. Utter rub­bish. You thought this site was dead, but I’ve brought it back to life for this pur­pose: to prove to you that per­sonal blog­ging is still the future of the inter­net. I am announ­cing, here and now, the end of this humble blog’s slide into barely-updated tor­por. Enough.

Ladies and gen­tle­men, this is the news. I’m return­ing to full-time blog­ging. An Unre­li­able Wit­ness will now fea­ture daily posts, pos­sibly even mul­tiple daily posts sub­mit­ted on the hour, every hour, con­cern­ing everything I am think­ing and doing. And I mean everything. No stone will be left unturned. No embar­rass­ing rev­el­a­tion will be left unspoken. No dis­gust­ing per­sonal habit will be left unex­plored. No corner of my life will remain private to you, my avidly inquis­it­ive readers.

This is it. This is the future of the web. In the words of Prince before he became a squiggle and a nut­case, let’s party like it’s 1999. In the words of, erm, an equally fam­ous blog­ger, let’s blog like it’s 2004. I’m exhil­ar­ated. Aren’t you exhil­ar­ated? I am. I’m so exhil­ar­ated I may spon­tan­eously com­bust. I’m so excited, I just can’t hide it, I’m about to lose con­trol and I think I like it.

Standby for action, every­one. This brave though pos­sibly fool­hardy exper­i­ment starts tomor­row. Click here for more details on how it will work.

Putting the E in Christmas

Click to view the whole image

What are you doing on Christ­mas Day? Avoid­ing Christ­mas, yes, that’s the right answer. But, while it’s unusual of me to sug­gest a dif­fer­ent approach, this year I recom­mend that you embrace the Yuletide fest­iv­it­ies in a small way by wak­ing up on Christ­mas morn­ing and — after you’ve paused to mourn­fully won­der why you’re no longer eight years old and thus excited that the big day has finally arrived — going online to donate a mod­est sum for the pleas­ure of down­load­ing a sea­sonal char­ity e-book, the cover of which you can see to the right (click for a big­ger picture).

Put together by Frank Hin­ton at Metazen, it con­tains a fant­astic selec­tion of Christmas-related fic­tion and poetry by too many excel­lent writers to men­tion here, a num­ber of whom I have openly drooled over in the past. In a lit­er­ary rather than salivary sense, I dis­ap­poin­tedly hasten to add. Oh, and there’s some­thing by me in there, too — though if my pres­ence puts you off and makes you think of that Christ­mas gift you got from your grand­par­ents in 1989 which you didn’t want and found hideously embar­rass­ing to even be seen with, remem­ber that this is all for char­ity and there are plenty of other pieces to read.

So don’t for­get. Christ­mas Day. Bring your mistle­toe, your Santa hat and your Paypal login. I prom­ise it’ll be bet­ter than stand­ing in a corner of the kit­chen and sweat­ing pro­fusely while you’re fist­ing the bird. (Fist­ing? Did I say fist­ing? I meant stuff­ing. Stuff­ing the tur­key. Obvi­ously. And a tur­key is a bird, isn’t it? Oh God, this is all going hor­ribly wrong and very, very polit­ic­ally incor­rect. The baby Jesus is going to fire his laser eyes at me again. No baby Jesus, please no. Not the eyes. I’m hav­ing trau­matic school Nativ­ity play flash­backs now. Why are Billy and Jane mak­ing slurp­ing and groan­ing noises in that don­key cos­tume, Miss? Why is Brian play­ing an angel when he’s got an ASBO, Miss? Miss? WHY CAN’T I BE THE ANGEL GABRIEL, MISS? IT’S NOT FAIR. I MADE MY OWN HALO AND EVERYTHING. I HATE YOU.)

Spliced

Check­ing the answer machine
I find I’m ruled by atomic curi­os­ity
Taste per­ma­frost on my upper lip

Here you are with your legs bent
Knees crooked to your face
Embra­cing your thighs

Blood spots taint the fridge white
Let­ters come with red-marked irrel­ev­ance
Quiet for learn­ing how purple life grows

A screen of darkened street wash down
Your bed is so much single cur­rency
Cornered in a shoe­box under the stairs

You keep your sheets tight knot­ted
Press a leak­ing pil­low to your own face
When all the fig­ures start adding up

I swirl saliva, leave spit on your tongue
So the sol­it­ary plant stays alive
For a quar­tet of dry winters

Writers’ Bloc: embalming the dead

Just a note. In case anyone’s read­ing either this or that. If you ever vis­ited or con­trib­uted to Writers’ Bloc, the site for writ­ing about writ­ing for the sake of writ­ing about writ­ing in the form of writ­ing and then writ­ing some more about writ­ing, you may be vaguely inter­ested to know that at some point the next couple of days, the domain is due to expire and the site will dis­ap­pear forever into the dis­tant fuzzy­ness called Once Upon A Time On The Inter­net. Unusu­ally, for a sad van­ity domain-collecting geek such as myself, I have resolved not to con­tinue pay­ing for this one purely so that approx­im­ately ten people a day can arrive at it via obscure Google searches. I need the money so that I can afford to buy another domain next week (maybe).

Fear not, how­ever, because I have decided to pre­serve it in aspic, as if untouched except by the pure hands of vir­gins. For the fore­see­able future or until the inter­net implodes under the sheer weight of filth, kit­tens and filthy kit­tens (whichever comes sooner), the tomb of Writers’ Bloc will reside at writersblocnet.wordpress.com. Ima­gine it as a kind of white­washed head­stone. Thank you and goodnight.

This is a needlessly lengthy title that says nothing about me, my life, my deep-seated desires or my depraved intentions, but it looks clever on paper, even if it does end up completely breaking the carefully designed template of my site — though, frankly, I am past caring if it does

So words sit under my skin, mak­ing me itch and scratch, mak­ing me shake and puke like some kind of recov­er­ing addict. A junkie who now prefers one sub­stance to another. Sweats and shits and sick­ness and soreness.

The words, they want to stay there because it’s warm. I want them to stay there because they break my flesh and make it flake, make me wish for death when they rise to the sur­face of my skin and ask me where they’re destined to be placed, destined to be wasted, cast aside to be for­got­ten, thrown away to be incin­er­ated, to be bur­ied, to be be be oh I don’t know make up your own fuck­ing ter­min­o­logy you host of sick and slav­er­ing ghouls I’ve lost the will and the train and the and the the the the the the the the the.

“This lan­guage is a chorus of sick­en­ing fucks.”

“This lan­guage is a massed chant of putrid cunts.”

“This lan­guage car­ries the stench of depravity.”

“This lan­guage has con­crete at its core.”

“This lan­guage makes me rip the hearts from dogs.”

“This lan­guage would have me tear the fur from cats.”

“This lan­guage needs my taste in its throat.”

“This lan­guage wants me to taste its saliva.”

“This lan­guage demands satisfaction.”

“This lan­guage demands a breath.”

“This lan­guage rel­ishes hatred.”

“This lan­guage is diseased.”

“This lan­guage is dying.”

“This lan­guage is dead.”

“So? We get a new language.”

“We need a new tongue first.”

“Then we need a new voice.”

“Then we need to kill.”

“And renew.”

“And renew.”

“And renew.”

“And renew.”

I want to tear the lungs out of your chest. I want to rip the soul out of your guts. But my hand is bloody. Will you still let me?

Untitled

Reboot me.

Untitled

Crash me.

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Flash me.

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Script me.

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Click me.