Enter the grid style blog.
The advantage here is the reader can quickly scan the front page until something catches their eyes, then they read a little bit and if the opening is compelling enough, they’ll click through and read the rest. Disadvantage is the title and opening paragraph is all they read, they never click onto the read more to discover what else you have to say.
I also think I need to assemble my web self together in one spot or at least to have this site to act as journal/portal.
Ok, so with that I mind, be aware that I’ll be tinkering around with the design over the next fews days, possibly into next week as I am about to go into heavy consulting mode over the next couple of days and then I’m off camping for a few days.
Confession. I’ve been feeling a little existential angst over the past few days, which tends to happen some times when I’ve been reading heavy stuff. I finished Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell and his Illuminations. Season in Hell in particular made me question my own existence. What really made Rimbaud walk away from a promising literary career? A Season in Hell seems to suggest Rimbaud, having produced his greatest work, realised it was all a shame – art, poetry and the like, and so walked away from it all to be a trader and an arms dealer in Africa. After A Season in Hell he never wrote another word again.
The stuff going down in Charlottesville didn’t help either. It’s like we’re going backwards. Our chief leader, not immediately taking a stance against such behaviour, made it worse. 48 hours and much media pressure finally got Trump to call out the evil by name. I know he’s a massive showman, but this isn’t a television series. We don’t want to be entertained, we want to be led.
What little faith I had in the system is now gone.
Sorry I digress. We were talking about portals and poetry.
I worked on this today:
I’m not used to fear, it messes up my day. I was taught
to be fear-some and fear-less, never let them see you
sweat, I was told.
I was a blind fanatic at best. My nerves, tempered steel.
Then I tasted fear for the first time, it was bitter and
not at all pleasant.
The sensation – knots in the stomach, anxiety and dread –
came all at once, the moment I felt I had something to lose.
Where once I treated life as a casual affair,
I now hang on in earnest, a slave to my own excesses.
Dull are my senses, factory numb. Only morphine,
masturbation and rum can revive me.
Barricaded behind the four corners of my house,
I pray for Saint Peter to lift me up. Or maybe
the Buddha can unbind me.
I must eliminate myself from this monastic place.
Let go without giving up.
And now off to watch some Thrones. The buzz on the Internet today tells me it’s a great episode!