079. ...physically tickle yourself...
(morning thinking)
“What are you doing up here on Substack with these nonsense, pointless mind blarts!” my inner critic shouts, trying to give my confidence a kick. “What do you think you’re doing, ramming your chuffa chuffa mind chaff up people’s precious attention holes?”
He is objectionable, coarse and relentless. I wouldn’t stand for it if someone spoke to a friend like this. I used to give it too much attention but I’m getting much better at silencing him. “Oh inner critic” I say, “it’s just fun, I’m not doing any harm. If anyone’s reading they’re doing it entirely of their own volition. You get back in your box. Just sit there quietly please. You can pipe up if I stray toward anything properly harmful”.
I like reading my Substack. I re-read my posts later in the day and I’m often happily surprised by what I’ve written. There's always chunks that I don't remember at all. Is that odd? Does that happen to you? Complete forgettings.
Regardless, reading something that can only really have been written by me (pretty sure) and that I quite enjoy, makes for a pleasant wee surprise treat. That in itself makes this process worthwhile. Proper writers often talk about writing for someone special, a specific friend or a parent or sibling. Maybe I'm writing for Gus, so he can know me better. Maybe I'm just writing for myself. It does make me smile. I make myself smile. You can’t physically tickle yourself but it seems possible with words and ideas.
We’re not supposed to laugh at our own jokes though are we? Seems silly. If we don’t find them funny then why share them? And if they’re funny, well, laugh.
Revisiting the posts is also practically useful, sometimes I'd be caught off guard when a friend would mention something I'd written and I wouldn’t realise they were referencing me. It could get awkward.
The forgetting is, I expect, because I'm writing in that magical interstitial, morning space that doesn't really exist in the universe of the rest of my day. I’m just gayly typing away in a curious world of my own creating: clickity, typity, type. Or maybe it's just because I'm not properly awake. It could be the legacy of all the braincell destroying booze and drugs (ssh, what if the bairn's reading!)
Who knows, but I’m in the habit now of reading back over what I previously wrote, cheerfully revisiting whomever, whatever, or other, it was that I was thinking about.
The end of that sentence is tricksy peculiar. I re-read it three times, the second two out loud, and it’s obviously grammatically awkward but it’s a hoot of a tingue twoster and so I’m leaving it as it is. You could have a go yourself if you like, have a say of it out loud.
At the end of the thing about practice, study and training - actually in the bit after the end - I said "Thanks for reading my mind waffles". When I read it back, I read it as "mind Wombles".
You remember the Wombles right? For those who don’t, they were the titular (or do I mean eponymous?) characters of the 1970s tv show The Wombles. It was an early British response to the first tickle of concerned awareness of the global environmental mess/disaster we were brewing up for ourselves.
Wikipedia describes Wombles as -
"...fictional pointy-nosed, furry creatures" who "...aim to help the environment by collecting and recycling rubbish in creative ways."
I suppose it was a start.
“Recycling rubbish in creative ways” feels like a reasonable description of what I'm doing here on Substack. I mean, I'm not collecting rubbish but I am gathering up ideas from the books I'm reading, bits of conversations overheard on the bus, nuggets from podcasts and the thoughts I have while trying to interpret the weird human performances I see from my window. I take all of that, I tease it all apart, tinker and twist and reconfigure it into these Variables.
Just to stress, none of these inputs are rubbish. It’s all good stuff. I read a lot of good books and listen to wonderful podcasters interviewing incredible and inspiring, sage-like guests. Some of the behaviour I see from my window maybe could be described as a bit rubbish - that’s besides the point - but the everyday stuff is magical. Couples holding hands or leaping bollards, a wee wave from Greame and Kathrine.
I think, nonetheless, that I am a bit Wombly.
The Wombles were repurposing and making good use of the things that they’d find, things that the everyday folks leave behind. I’m gathering all the bits and pieces of knowledge and colour from my experience of the previous day and cobbling it together into something new. Like Wombles do.
I can’t think what it was the Wombles were making. I expect I need to skip off into youtube and watch an episode or two…
One was enough! Just a short five minutes later and I’ve watched Orinoco find and open a discarded brolly then get whooshed up into the air by a gust of wind, only to be dropped back down exactly where he needed to be, delivering the day’s Telegraph newspaper directly to Uncle Bulgaria’s feet. Uncle B promises Orinoco a double helping at mealtime by way of a reward. Winner!
And that seems like a perfect analogy for this Substack. Picking up the pieces and making them into something new. Occasionally someone reads it and enjoys the experience AND I read it and enjoy it. DOUBLE HELPING REWARD!
Thanks as ever for reading. I’m amazed that so many people do!
If you went all in and read the “revisiting whatever, or other, it was” bit out loud I salute you.
If this is the first thing of mine you’ve read I’d urge you to poke about in the accumulating back catalogue of womblings. It’s not all like this. Or is it? It’s not all like anything I expect.
You could subscribe for a while if you like. Test the water. Probably wont do any harm.
Thanks again for reading.
I love you.
Paul.