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Get On Your Bike, Dear
This Sterneian approach to writing (the one in which you starve yourself, not the one in which you're seventy and you chase young women all over France, and you say you're going to do it all across Italy as well, but given either constraints by the publisher or time or age or something or other, you leave off Italy altogether, though you leave it in the title for all ages, as a teaser in a wholly inappropriate fashion, and I'm sure to the consternation of all Italians for all time, as well, since we're talking (briefly) of time, Time, in fact, and it's probably not a good idea to have anyone at all consternated with yourself, least of all the Italians, who make a decent bowl of pasta - no, I'm neither seventy, nor have I left the keyboard for some time, which brings me back to the hunger thing. I am. Hungry. Very Sterneian-like. Which is the main point of this sentence we're now bunkered somewhere down in, in the middle of a few parentheses, and having established the hunger, the keyboard, and my age (or non-age), though the age requires you having been one of those types of people that follow the literary equivalent of a detour sign and have trundled on past this little discourse which is starting to strike me as a bit of a one tree clapping in the forest when you buy it a Willie Nelson album for Christmas type of philosophical question/koan to meditate upon, perhaps a koan for those that have had a little too much to drink, studied philosophy or literature, and own a Willie Nelson record or two. Or perhaps not, that was just a series of words that blipped through my head and happened to come in pretty much that general order. So forget that bit. And forget the bit where you stride into the supermarket with an acoustic guitar strapped on and flares, that was also something that just blipped across, something perhaps better left unsaid. Or written, anyway. Right so, back to it.) is surely going to be the death of me one of these days, a hollow figure, perched on a chair in front of a keyboard, plinking away at the keys (as you'd expect, if you're an extrapolating sort of person)
(also, retro-fitted note, so the keyboard mention in the detour but one prior was possibly a wee bit premature, as it wasn't mentioned until afterwards, but then maybe it, too, is a Sterneian approach to things, in addition to the starving ourselves whilst we attempt to write the issue - apologies for consternation caused to Italians and non-Italians alike - which is apparently taking it's toll, causing all sorts of linear problems for us) until my fingers crumble for lack of food replenishing the things that it does to keep your fingers from crumbling when you hit the keys in normal, non-starved typing sessions.
It's all a little bit of a sentimental journey, isn't it?
disclaimer:
Shona Nollaig daoibh, a chairde.
Agus tusa féin, a bhabe.
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Doo doo dee doobey.