I've spent more time alone recently than I have in a few years. Practically living alone. Passing weekends without talking / meeting anyone. Not feeling like blogging. And when I try to write anything, the sentences are short, terse.
Hardly the flowing, ornate words I used to love spilling out. Suddenly I don't feel like I want to record or share the details about my life. Not because its private or anything, but more because I feel more and more self-conscious. Why would anyone care to read about what I did or saw or thought or am thinking?
Can't remember the last time I wrote a long email either. The rare ones I do write, seem like they've been written by someone else -- almost soulless and void of any sentiment. Strange, haggard.
Anyhow, but I do feel like writing a wee bit today.
Recently went to Bali -- nice weekend, nice beaches, and lots of sculpture on the streets and everywhere. Including penis shaped bottle openers in almost every 'touristy' shop. Pretty scandalous. I bought a bamboo xylophone, about 50 awesome DVDs and a dragon kite.
Today I was in a bookshop (Landmark is easily 20 times the size and collection of any Crossword) and I saw a book called Twitterature. About 50 or so of the world's classics told in 'twitter' style. I was slightly aghast, but what can I say. Penguin had published the book. I guess we're in the age where practically anyone can be a published author.
But what cheered me instantly was when I caught glimpse of a book, which I remember reading about on the authors blog. This blog called Waiter Rant (award-winning blog) is a collection of stories from this guy's experiences as a waiter in New York. I read his post about writing a book and then when it was published I remember thinking I would buy it someday, but I certainly didn't think I would see it staring out at me from a bookshelf in Hyderabad. Nice.
Happy New Year in advance. I doubt I'll post again before Jan, though I do intent to publish a new and with renewed determination -- New Year's Resolution list.
