when

And so once again dear reader I turn from something to almost nothing as I consider this, my address to you, and in doing so realise that in addition to not knowing the 'what' and the 'why' of writing, the thing that now plays heavily upon my thoughts is its 'when'. I don't know 'when' to write. I don't know when you are ready, you don't say, because of course you don't ask me to write. It is my choice to decide upon the right time, the time that you are ready to read. I don't want to display an over zealous adolescence, an ever ready urge to provide a relentless prattling discourse upon nothing-in-particular, pumping out the words with scant disregard to their piquancy, to the 'spice' of their meaning, the delicacy of their impact upon you, casual reader. But, like others I imagine, I want to seem spontaneous; I wish to avoid the laboured delivery of one merely performing a scheduled function, obliging his diary with pedestrian punctuality.

I know a little of these fecundities, as I am myself a reader and I glean a certain pleasure from observing the anticipated and rhythmic 'clocking' of my newsreader, the invigorating bubbling-up to the surface of fresh feeds, like oxygen, as they are polled and logged. I measure my reading list and hence my favorite writers by this reassuring pulse of publication. The palpitations of the site which suddenly, after slumbering silence, throws up six new feeds, clocking up unread entries arrhythmically, engenders a kind of neurosis of reading - what is the author trying to say in this hiccupping publication, what literary suspension needs to be applied to his or her bumpy off-piste course? I look at the list of my favourite sites and take delight in the ping-ponging of names from unreliable to beautiful from cheerful to scandal from pandemian to humdrum from six words to ... as feeds flicker and flash, fizz and futz, one here, one there, like the half-broken neons flickering above the neo-decrepit streets of 2019 Los Angeles in Bladerunner. And in observing this flickering, this rhythmical blossoming, I recognise the flicker of meaning contained in these texts. That not only do my favourite writers deliver their messages, craft from language - credibly, politely, poetically, drearily, intolerably, uncertainly - like potters at the wheel forming an elegant vase from a soggy spinning mass of clay, not only do they 'handle' language, but their writing oscillates and trembles with a meaning not conjured up by the author at the writing stage, but which is bound up in the frequency it's publication.

As I gloss over this text or that, I consider the story told by this 'when' of writing. Is the writer deploying a kind of suave authorial nonchalance by measuring and staggering the release of his babblings, and does this apply a certain sexy sheen to their reading, like the final addition of butter to a sauce? Or, does the author not care-a-less about such scheduling, throwing out his texts at random, unhindered by punctiliousness, like burps and farts released at will. And like the unhindered expulsion of these burps and farts, what are we to learn of his avoidance of good manners? Like an automatic golf trainer, firing balls at a predetermined interval, does measured publication remove the flamboyance to be found in unpredictability, remove the skill exercised in reading? Is the newsreader then no different to the lover - always listening for the phone (he has not called because he is stuck on the tube, his battery is low), always alert for the postman's footsteps (he has not replied perhaps because he did not receive my letter), like the lover who checks his mobile because he did not hear an alert (perhaps it is MY battery that's flat, perhaps I did not here the tone because I was in the loo, perhaps I inadvertently set it to silent, perhaps he did not receive my text - perhaps I should resend, perhaps I missed his call because I was talking with another). Like the writer of an earlier post who does not know his reader, this lover does not know his loved, guesses at his movements, tries to trace upon his eyelids the shadows of his dreams, tries to outwit his next and every move, anticipating and seeking out every sign of that love. And like our lover, the writer seeks the same response. Like our lover - ever questioning, ever demanding, too often building the verbal discourse of his plight, trying to earn sympathies, and in doing so, alienating himself from the loved object - so the writer, begs the sympathies of his reader.

How often is too much, what is not enough, and when will we learn?
And in anticipation, how soon is now?