Nothing (much) To Report

I've regularly pondered to myself as to exactly why I do this, blog that is. I could have kept my waffle confined to a diary, but the likelihood of never being able to read back my own handwriting is rather high. Also it would mean that I wouldn't try to make it readable, for myself, let alone anyone else. I just wouldn't bother using words I couldn't spell, or spell them how I think they should be spelt - thus increasing the unreadable factor by 10. What's the point in digging out a dictionary when a best guess will do when the only eyes ever likely to glance at the scrawl will be mine? The entries would also shrink. I'd probably stop using proper grammar altogether and resort to some strange form of notation.

So, scrawled words, badly spelt and probably in a shorthand of my own invention would result in a notebook of unintelligible nonsense.

I know this would be true because I've tried to keep a diary. I bought a page-a-day blue hardback to start last year, with the full intention of writing in it everyday. I lasted about 4 months. As well as the above mentioned trouble, I had nothing to write about. My life is remarkably empty and dull. People can easily say that nothing happened today, but I think I've probably got the monopoly on the dreary, humdrum existence.

That was partly why I bought the laptop, to record some of the slightly more interesting moments and thoughts, instead of those thoughts swirling around my brain for the night, keeping me awake, when I really wanted to sleep. And because the dreams, thoughts, views don’t make frequent visits, I’d never be able to the regular daily entry.

When I read other people’s blogs I’m overwhelming sad that I can’t write about something of interest, or at least write.

I can sympathise those women who are stuck at home with small children to care for. Having no half decent human conversation is a real killer to proper thought. I do have reasonably intelligent thoughts occasionally, but they are often completely lost on those around me. I’m on my own throughout the daytime, alone with mother. I’d love to be able to converse with her, but any attempts to dig away at the past results in a one-sided questioning, with the only answers being “Yes, No”; “No, Yes” (the second answer is the one to take); “this one”; “that one”; some slightly tuneless tune that I have no way of guessing and lots and lots of ummms. All the thoughts and memories are in there, there’s just no way of getting to them, locked up because her speech and language capabilities were stolen.

I once had a brain. It was wonderful being able to think; to work the grey matter; to solve puzzles and problems, to spell, to do more complicated maths than just long multiplication. Now it's mostly an empty void. I do think up very strange stuff, and I could probably convert it into a readable mass, but I think what's the point? I know should keep this blog for my own amusement; it shouldn't be work, except perhaps to exercise my underused brain.

Don't use it, lose it - sadly far too true. Be it brain power, handwriting skills or your washing.

I am going to create an “I am” post page. I could have created a 100 things list, but I'd never reach 50. Plus, everyone does that, so I'm doing something different. Ha ha! brain usage in operation. The I am post has been maturing in the drafts section for almost 6 months now, so I thought it about time it got an airing. This very post has been fermenting in a dark spot of my head for far too long as well.

I'm off to read this week's edition of NewScientist, as in-between doing all of my boring chores.