|
The New Realistic Novel
The internet is a wonderful thing.
Slightly less wonderful than running down a beach somewhere warm, with the wind rustling your hair, which you can do online, if a bit, well, less than satisfyingly.
The clicking of keys rarely replaces surf sounds. If it does I'd imagine you'd get rather annoyed after a while with whatever application it was that allowed you to replace the more traditional clicking of a keystroke with the sound of waves (or a wave) crashing against the shore, as it sounds like a nice, soothing idea at the outset (maybe), but after ten minutes of attempting to type seven words (which seven are up to you) and hearing thirty-four kinds of wave crashing tinnily into your hard drive and dragging your machine slowly to it's knees in the hope that if it were just to crash, just to sink into blank digital bliss in which it's not worried about 1's or 0's because it's come to a rollicking halt and can stop spinning about so much and it doesn't have to worry about playing off a so many kilobyte sound file for every single action and even some of the non-actions a user (you) makes.
You'll also note that by running I mean the altogether less literal sense of the word, the sense that people use when they talk about running a software application or running their fingers through their lover's hair (though hopefully this is talked about less than running software applications, for decorum's sake, and for limiting the amount of social awkwardness, let's also hope the instance in which people talk of running software applications also happens less frequently). The one that involves a good deal less use of your legs and accompanying feet, unless, of course, you happen to be the sort of fidgety person that kicks their feet while they're sitting at their computer (or, indeed, while sitting at running your fingers through your lovers hair, a habit which I'm sure has it's own challenges and perks, possibly). You could run if you wanted to (and I know a fair amount of people who might find that sort of thing enjoyable, if not titillating, which is a bit strange, but you shouldn't begrudge anyone their particular form of penance-paying, I suppose), and I might be enticed to run, myself, if it were a sort of moderate run, or the thing you were running after or from particularly worthwhile.
I would also be hard-pressed to decide in a match between the internet and banana sandwiches on the train in a sort of moving, mildly dirty (the way the train gets (erm, and not dirty as in any other sense of the word, think of the subway or tube or a park bench at the end of the week and you'll realise no lascivious thoughts or images were intended there)) picnic. Especially this morning, the train being lovely and with two seats available in the particular carriage I leapt into (tripped and stumbled, barely minding the gap is probably a better, albeit not as athletic a description as my first choice, having nearly scuttled an old lady with a carryall and a plastic hat and a previously gentle demeanour) and the company in the carriage especially wonderful and largely free of people exhibiting untoward interest in cultivating new and challenging odours (and/or ardours, for that matter, ehm, well, except for those people cultivating ardours towards one another and not towards anyone else on the train not desiring to be involved directly in their ardour). And the train ran through relatively sunny country, or maybe it wasn't sunny, you know the sort of occasion I mean. When you're not terribly concerned whether it's sunny or not outside, because, well, you can guess why, really, can't you, what with the clacking of train wheels going by underneath, possibly slick on the tracks with the rain outside (is it falling now or had it fallen last night? Who knows?), the parks flying by with that whoosh trains endow them with, and all the poetry you can write is embodied by the banana sandwich you're managing to smear and crumble all over your coat and the adjoining person's (sorry about that) like heaven in a wildflower and you avoid looking out the window at any rate because right there in your very own carriage, surrounded by the smell of banana and bread and some sort of faint perfume you can see infinity in the palm of your hand (and on the sleeve of your coat).
That beats the internet everytime. But still, that isn't a fault, just insurmountable competition.
disclaimer:
This issue, for the curious, references, yet again (a second for us! Woo!) Samuel Johnson's issue of The Rambler entitled "The New Realistic Novel." Our own original reference can be found at (in our interesting and largely arbitrary numbering scheme) issue number 25.
Which is all very nice and hypertextual, now that I think of it.
Hypertextuality bears no responsibility for the typos you may or may not find in the course of your hypertexting. It also bears no responsibility for the lack of world peace and other sundries, which is a shame, really, as at least then you'd know who to pin the blame on, anyway.
|
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. Word.